Art Raymond -- A Reporter's Reporter, Man's Man, and Bee's Knees.

 Nobody can say that reporter Art Raymond minces words or beats around the bush. That's because no one dares use any such flatulent cliches around him -- he is dedicated to the resuscitation of the English language, ridding it of all the stale flotsam and jetsam that have accumulated, especially in newspaper stories, over the past century. 

Don't tell him something is 'trending.' He'll beat you over the head with a spud wrench and demand you use the word 'ubiquitous.' Avoid using exclamations like 'Wow!' and 'Booyah!' within earshot of him; he insists that the only proper interjection in English is "by the great horn spoon!"

"It has a robust ring to it" he says, as he polishes his stainless steel alpenstock in preparation for the arduous ascent of Mount Pisgah. Mr. Raymond dotes on rambling about the fallen arches and swollen arroyos of Utah. He has the largest geode collection west of the Kissimmee River. 

How did such a stickler for the King's English ever get into the newspaper racket?

He was shanghaied. 

As a young boy he developed the unfortunate habit of checking out library books and never returning them. When he was brought up on charges of booknapping before the Third District Court of Appeals, the judge gave him a choice:  Either join the Merchant Marines or get a job as a newspaper reporter.

He chose the latter, and has proven to be a stellar scribbler. His recent report on the lime jello embargo won him the prestigious Heinie Manush Medallion. 

His advice to those just starting out in journalism is to heed the philosophy of Lewis Carol's Humpty Dumpty: "Words mean just what I mean them to say."

His favorite food is marshmallow soup.

Jennifer Brooks -- A Working Reporter from Ohio University.

 Jennifer Brooks always knew she wanted to be a reporter.

Even though her earliest memory of words is when she spilled a bowl of alphabet soup onto her lap as a child. Despite this traumatic incident, she was a remarkably handy child with adjectives and obscure grammatical rules. At the age of seven she invented the word "hampup" -- to indicate a pork chop that curled too much upon frying. By the time she reached puberty she was instructing her teachers at school on the difference between an en-dash and an em-dash. Her Master's thesis at Ohio University was on "I before E, except for months with an R in it."

Upon graduation Ms. Brooks was offered a position with the Laramie Boomerang -- but it was a position not sanctioned in the Twister rule book, so instead she signed on with the Detroit News. And there she began her meteoric rise to anonymity. Her co-workers remember her fondly.  Belinda Bellwether, the current whiteboard monitor at the Detroit News, recalls: "Jenny was just a ball of fire! She got more scoops than Ben & Jerry's. Of course, she wrote everything in Latvian, her native tongue, and we had to translate it into English. But considering the scope and depth of her work, it was well worth it."

Tom Sneffle, who worked with her on the Nashville Tennessean, is convinced she's twins. "No one person could do all that work, eat all those hard boiled eggs, and crochet a life-size Statue of Liberty with steel wool in a matter of months, unless there were two of them. I think the other twin has been pensioned off and is now living comfortably on a chinampa in the Xochimilco."

She was invited to work for the Minneapolis Star Tribune ten years ago, during a period of controversy and turmoil at the newspaper caused by the Canadian Pulp Wars (1994 - 2019.) Her quick intelligence and disdain for wiffle ball led to a brokered ceasefire that is still in place today. She also ended the practice of sending cub reporters out to find brass magnets. 

Her advice to new journalists includes this profound thought:  "Anyone can write a news story, but not everyone can read it."

She is very fond of Ding Ding Tongs.   

Jason Horowitz -- A Journalist Who Was Born Thinking the World is Ham on Rye.

Jason Horowitz was born with the sense that the world is ham on rye.

During a tempestuous career that has spanned everything from Chautauqua to chinquapin-collector, Mr. Horowitz remains true to his personal mantra: "Slice it thick and pile it high!"  Such a man is not to be trifled with.

He was born and raised. Of this we are certain. He went to college. This, too, has been ascertained to be true. He collects antique Horlicks containers. That is completely made up, but it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

An expat in Italy for many years, Mr. Horowitz has filed reports on the Pope's Nose; the Lean Tower of Pisa now on a keto diet; pizza bagels; and the Lucretia Borgia Cooking School for Disgruntled Spouses. His work has garnered him standing invitations to Sicilian salt mines and Venetian blinds. He is a frequent guest of the Italian Prime Minister, provided he gets to the party before a new Prime Minister is installed.

Prior to working in Italy, Mr. Horowitz wrote about politics and how to milk a cumulus cloud via blockchain. He holds the record for the number of egg creams consumed in one day at Coney Island.

His last known residence was a phone booth in the Bronx. And he never files his nails, preferring to donate them to charity instead. 

His advice to new journalists is simple and direct: "Never talk through your hat or pay through the nose."

He plays the gramophone in the Charles Ives Town Band, in Danbury, Connecticut.

   

 

Peter Coy -- To this mysterious journalist, "Everything is Economics."

 Some writers seek the limelight, craving its warming glow. Some writers are indifferent to the plaudits of the world, quietly going about their craft without any hoopla. Then there are those mysterious scribblers who actively shun center stage, living as recluses and hermits. 

Such a journalist is Peter Coy, who toils for the New York Times, writing a newsletter on economics.

And there you have all that is actually known of the man!

Where he was born; where he grew up; who his parents were; what schools he attended; what his hobbies and ambitions are; even his current city of residence -- all information on him is as a rebus, with nothing but obscure hints and clues to guide the erstwhile biographer.

In twenty-five years of journalism, his only personal revelation has been three simple words: "Everything is economics."

Some have speculated that Peter Coy is not a professional journalist at all, but merely an algorithm developed by M.I.T. to predict economic patterns. These algorithms are fleshed out by an A.I. program to read like prose.

Others speculate that Mr. Coy withdrew from society after a torrid love affair went wrong. And that when he goes out in public he veils his face with black crepe, while dolefully whispering "Excelsior!" Such a figure has been sighted at Barney Greengrass, noshing on smoked whitefish.

Still others claim the man known as Peter Coy is a Cold War spy emeritus, who has been allowed to slip into the quiet grayness of an economics maven -- impersonating a harmless drudge and pencil pusher to throw his old Iron Curtain adversaries off the scent.

But no one can say for certain just what this mystery man is all about - what moves him, scares him, delights him, or puts him to sleep.

Recently, a cult named "Discover Peter Coy" has developed in midtown Manhattan. Members wear cowls and ring cow bells in a vain attempt to summon Mr. Coy, in the belief that he will then grant them debt relief from student loans and Mastercard charges. Federal authorities believe these zealots are also involved in the recent FTX debacle, and are using Peter Coy's name as a smokescreen for their nefarious economic depredations.

 Whatever the truth may be about Peter Coy, there is no doubt his newsletter is real. And very popular. It is followed avidly by the Chief Usher and his underlings at the White House. At the Minnesota Nice Cafe in Bemidji, Minnesota, Coy's newsletter is served as a lagniappe, along with the coleslaw.

 

John Reinan -- A Reporter Who is Never off His Trolley.

 If you happen to be riding the retro Lake Harriet Trolley some beamish day, you may notice your driver has that skulking, dyspeptic look that newspaper journalists develop after 20 years of peeking through keyholes and eating too many White Castle sliders in haste.

Your driver, in fact, is that distinguished member of the Fourth Estate, John Bestertester Reinan. In his spare time he enjoys driving the trolley around scenic Lake Harriet -- clanging the bell and collecting wooden nickels. 

Reinan comes from a long line of nickel-hoppers. His maternal great-grandfather, Oscar Lumbago Orca, had a mania for collecting Buffalo nickels. His hoard grew so large that it fell through the floor of his home in Embarrass, Minnesota, destroying several prime barrels of applejack. 

Mr. Reinan was born in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, in 1955, and has never looked back. His father worked as a highbinder for Ottertail Power Company for fifty years -- before being permanently sidelined by static electricity. His mother was a homemaker and Edna May Oliver look-alike, who supplemented the family budget by appearing at movie halls throughout the area. Young John helped out by selling bibs to theater patrons who asked for too much butter on their popcorn.

Mr. Reinan excelled in penmanship and woolgathering in high school, and thus won a literary scholarship to Saint Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. While just a sophomore he was awarded a lifetime supply of Green Stamps for his constantly chanting "Fram! Fram! Krismenn, Krossmen" until all his teeth fell out.

After college Mr. Reinan went to work for the Nome Nugget in Alaska as an inkwell cleaner. He was soon promoted to dust mop wrangler. Having angered the Chilblain Cartel with a scorching expose on their manufacture of counterfeit ChapStick, Mr. Reinan was forced to flee the state and find refuge in Florida, working at the Longboat Key Observer. But the call of the eel pout and a long standing addiction to lefse finally drove the young reporter to relocate in Minnesota, where he has successfully parlayed a career as reporter for the Star Tribune into an urban legend. 

Many strange tales are told of his work in bringing to light what really happened in Nye's Polonaise Room on the night of January 15th, 1993. The wig he wore during his undercover stint is on display at the Pavek Museum.

An avid angler, Mr. Reinan is at home on any body of water -- frequently threading his way through the bayous of Lake Minnetonka in search of the elusive lutefisk. 

His advice to nascent journalists just beginning their ink-stained pilgrimage is:

"Keep your nose clean and your thoughts pure so you'll die of boredom before senility sets in."

 

turtle memories

amy is knitting a cap for mary, a lady down the hall. we're watching Colombo, waiting to go to the senior center in an hour for their thanksgiving dinner. i'm at loose ends, not wanting to write any more poetry to post on twitter until i know whether or not the whole thing is going under or not. that's the scuttlebutt right now on the media, that elon musk has murdered the company with his unrealistic demands. oh well  . . .  when we run out of columbos to watch i guess we'll start watching murder, she wrote with angela lansbury. that's a show my mom watched when i was a kid -- i thought it was for geriatric ninnyhammers. but now unfortunately i know what the appeal was -- something that requires little mental engagement, has familiar actors, isn't full of sex and swearing, and allows us to fall asleep while watching.

so today i'm reminiscing about turtles. to pass the time before dinner.

there's been a lot of turtles in my life.

when i was a kid you could go into any dime store (the same as today's dollar store) and buy a little green turtle, a red eared slider, for ten cents. the clear plastic bowl, with a green palm tree in the middle, and a bag of colored gravel, cost another fifty cents, and voila! I had myself a delightful little pet. which i usually kept for about four months before it either went belly up in its bowl, or i took it out to let it walk around on the living room carpet, and then forgot about it. it would eventually turn up, completely mummified, at the bottom of the hot air vent behind the couch.  i suppose i ran through a good dozen of them as a child. 

for some reason i no longer remember, i was once allowed to get two newts, instead of a little green turtle, which i kept in a clear plastic bowl with colored gravel. they were much more lively than the turtles. and their bowl needed to be cleaned out much more often than the turtles. i kept them on the fireplace mantel in the living room. (the fireplace didn't work. it was brick, but it had no chimney. it was just for looks.) well, one night my dad came home late from Aarone's Bar & Grill, where he tended bar, and didn't like the smell coming from my newts. so he put the bowl out on the front porch and went to bed. unfortunately, this was in the middle of january. next morning i discovered i owned a bowl of newtsicles.

one glorious summer day when i was about ten the family all went down to the Aarone farm on the Minnesota River for an employee picnic.  i brought along my bamboo pole and a can of worms, spending most of my time on the river bank angling for catfish.  imagine my delighted surprise when i snagged a snapping turtle on my wormy hook! the huge ugly creature reared its ugly head to engulf my hook and a yard or two of line.  i battled him for a good ten minutes, as a crowd gathered on the bank to cheer me on. the brute finally snapped the line and disappeared under the churning muddy water.  i was the hero of the picnic for the rest of the day. each time i retold the tale to the other kids that day the snapper got bigger and our struggle lasted longer and became more fantastic, until as the sun began to set i had convinced myself that the turtle had pulled a knife on me so I had to shoot it with my colt 45. 

pet turtles were not the only turtles i had at home.  

a mile or so from our house on 19th avenue  southeast, in minneapolis, was a swampy waste that was part of a railyard/warehouse industrial park.  the roads were unpaved, there were no sidewalks, and dirty channels of water crisscrossed the area. in which lived a passel of frogs and herds of false map turtles, about as big as dinner plates.  i tried forever to catch the frogs, with no luck, but i was able to capture a nice big turtle, which i brought home. not finding a suitable place to put it, i appropriated by dad's aluminum beer cooler and turned it into an improvised turtle pond, filled with sand, water, and little dots of speckled green duckweed -- which is what i assumed my new capture ate. when my dad finally missed his cooler (which didn't take very long, since he drank enough beer each summer to float a battleship) i was duly punished for my vandalism by being sent to bed without supper. my turtle was dropped off at Como Lake to start a new life. 

ah, como lake!  where the como zoo was, and still is, located. we went to como zoo every summer to visit the fragrant monkey house, watch Sparky the Seal perform, and ride the giant tortoise. yes, in those environmentally unfriendly days they kept big ol' land tortoises at the zoo for little boys & girls to ride upon. 

my last turtle memory was 30 years ago, when i was in the habit of taking long walks around como lake. one spring day as i was walking along the macadam path i spied up ahead a large nasty-looking snapping turtle, traveling away from the lake up into the tall grass to lay her eggs. joggers were casually passing by her, apparently unaware that a female snapping turtle about to lay her eggs is a pretty ornery critter and apt to snap off any ankle that came too close. so i got me a branch to wave in front of the snapper's nose. she bit into it with a vengeance and i was able to pull the tenacious snapper off the macadam path and into the cattails so she could lay her eggs in peach and quiet. they had to close the lake path down for a few days that spring so the mother snappers could cross over to the tall weeds to deposit their eggs in the tall weeds. 

i wonder if amy would let me have a little green turtle? i wonder if they still sell them anywhere like Petsmart?

maybe i better try for some more newts, instead.

what can i remember in a half hour

 there's a half hour before amy and i go to the temple this afternoon, so i'm challenging myself to write out a complete story from my past in 30 minutes.

about the circus maybe? my mission in thailand? growing up in mpls? my friends. family. school. what?

writing under the gun is no fun. i'm trying to think of a memory i shared with amy recently. let's see -- i told her about the time wayne matsuura and i as teenagers worked all summer to save up enough money to drive up to canada to camp on a lake and go fishing and how the day before we left wayne crushed his thumb and i put my back out, and how we still went on the trip, despite the fact that waynes thumb had a cartoon-sized bandage on it and i was bent over double,hobbling around like an old man.  no, i don't wanna tell that one again.

something pleasant and uplifting. let's see . . . 

oh sure.  the last day we were in the MTC at byu in hawaii before leaving for thailand. i don't remember much about that day except we had a lot of pep talks from the mtc president and counselors and got the last of our shots done and packing, etc. 

what i recall with a great deal of pleasure is that as we lined up to get on the bus that was to take us to the airport for the trip to bangkok, many of the mtc staff lined up to put a lei around each one of our necks.  but for me they planned something special -- instead of just one lei, each staff member put one on me, so that when i got to the door of the bus i was literally smothered with leis -- i couldn't see anything. i played it for laughs, of course, staggering around and bumping into the bus door, etc.  that is a very happy and fragrant memory that has stayed with me all these years.  i like it when people pay special attention to me.  that's part of the reason i became a clown, and something i have really missed in all the years since i've had to give up doing physical comedy.

i have nothing but happy memories of the mtc. of course, the long long hours of memorizing the discussions in thai by rote were tedious -- but when you're young you can put up with that kind of nonsense easily. at the end of the day i always felt great. i still remember that they translated the imaginary 'Mr. Brown' of the discussions as 'Khun Praphan, khrab."  i enjoyed the speakers that gave firesides each night, mostly faculty from byu-hawaii. and i relished the food at the cafeteria -- not that it was all that great, but because, number one, i could drink all the chocolate milk i wanted, and, number two, there was unlimited coconut syrup for pancakes in the morning. boy, i thought that was the greatest thing since sliced cucumbers!

i slept good back in those days, so even though we were crammed into sweaty humid rooms with bunks, i always was able to fall straight asleep and be ready to get up at 6 without a problem. boy, those were the days -- never having to get up in the middle of the night to pee!

i guess the reason they put all those leis on me is because the mtc prez asked me to do a clown show for everyone, which i was happy to do.  back then i had a large repertoire of  pantomimes I could do  -- giving the dog a bath, the sleepy man in sacrament meeting, fishing, and i even made up a special pantomime just for the mtc show -- all about me trying to memorize the discussions in thai and failing miserably. that one got huge laughs. i only ever did it that one time in the mtc, and quite frankly i've forgotten what it was all about.  anyway, everyone from the mtc, and a lot of byu students came to see my one man show.  it went over big. 

so that's why i got all the leis, i guess.

time to put on my white neck tie.   Heinie Manush.

What's in the Wall Street Journal Today. Tuesday. November 15. 2022.

 I just got off the horn with customer service at the Wall Street Journal.

I canceled my digital subscription. So the last day I can read it is December 3.

So I decided to read it thoroughly each day until December 3, and copy highlights and comment on them. Because I'm a kibbitzer and a buttinsky. 

Their lead story today is all about FTX and this Bankman-Fried guy. Never trust someone with a hyphenated last name, I always say. They have identity issues.

from the story:

--FTX filed for bankruptcy last week, but the cryptocurrency exchange’s founder still thinks that he can raise enough money to make users whole, according to people familiar with the matter.

Mr. Bankman-Fried, alongside a few remaining employees, spent the past weekend calling around in search of commitments from investors to plug a shortfall of up to $8 billion in the hopes of repaying FTX’s customers, the people said. The Wall Street Journal couldn’t determine what Mr. Bankman-Fried is offering in return for any potential cash infusion, or whether any investors have committed. --

 

Lemme ask you something -- if some apple-knocker who had just run his billion dollar company into the ground came to you asking for a loan to tide him over, what would you do? I'd throw him out on his ear. Wouldn't you? But the world of high finance is another planet, like Jupiter, so maybe B-F will be able to line up the suckers. It just makes me want to stay away from cryptocurrency all the more. 

 

--KHERSON, Ukraine—Russian forces unleashed a volley of missiles across Ukraine on Tuesday, striking the country’s already beleaguered energy infrastructure and residential buildings in Kyiv days after Moscow suffered a major battlefield setback, government officials said.

“There’s an attack on the capital,” Kyiv Mayor Vitali Klitschko said on Telegram, adding that at least one person had been killed. “Medics and rescue workers are at the scene of the strikes.”--

 Putin is responsible for this whole mess. I hope the minute he steps outside Russia he's arrested and brought up on charges of war mongering. He'd look good behind bars. 

Here is a nutty piece by Mike Kerrigan, who, the paper says, is a lawyer from Charlotte, North Carolina. I guess I shouldn't call him nutty . . . maybe a sweaty Christian:

--While my physical health has held up over five decades, some years ago I discerned a certain spiritual flabbiness. I wasn’t praying much, and when I did, my petition-to-thanksgiving ratio—forget contrition or adoration—was about 10 to 1. 

This was a spiritual problem easily diagnosed in athletic terms: My form was bad, and my repetitions insufficient. Where better to address this than during the morning exercise I already do? I determined to use running to jump-start my prayer life.

When pain introduced itself on lengthy loops with faster friends, I trained myself to stop thinking in distances. The hilltop that marked the end of a footrace wasn’t 100 meters off; it was one “Hail Mary” away. This took my mind off the burning in my lungs, and initially that was enough. Before long, though, something changed.

At some point I stopped ignoring the pain through prayer and started using it. I gave my fleeting aches to God as a small sacrifice to serve his redemptive purposes in the world. In the vernacular of my Irish-Catholic childhood, I offered it up. And then I flew.--

I know I'm supposed to be all praising this guy up and down for his spiritual take on exercise, but hey, I'm a fat old lazy man. I think he has a screw loose. And he's a lawyer. Anything a lawyer writes is subject to extreme prejudice in my jaundiced view.

 

--Yosemite National Park won’t use a reservation system in 2023 after using one the previous three summers, officials from the California destination announced on Twitter on Tuesday. 

The social-media posts said the park has been dealing with an overflow of people and cars for decades. It had previously required reservations because of the pandemic, and to facilitate repairs.

This decision represents a move away from the recent trend of the most popular U.S. national parks instituting reservation systems to combat overcrowding. Colorado’s Rocky Mountain National Park and Arches National Park in Utah are among the others to have adopted their own systems.--

 The great thing about the United States is all the room there is in which to ramble without appointment, reservation, or regulation. Maybe the national parks are getting the right idea.

Letter to my Children: Tuesday, November 15th. 2022.

 dear kiddies;

 

on the bright side, the chicken livers were not spoiled. i just threw them away in a fit of rage when i couldn't open the container. but i reconsidered, fished them out of the trash, pried the lid off without too much cursing, and now they are marinating in the fridge. i will serve them this afternoon, sauteed with toast points, to anyone who wants 'em. i never know how many are coming to the door for our free meals. yesterday there were just 2 people at the door, but sunday evening we had nearly a dozen come for a piece of apricot cobbler. go figure.

we've been asked to feed the sister missionaries this coming sunday, so i put out the call on social media for the makings of a spaghetti dinner, which we'll serve in the community room for everyone and anyone who wants to come 'meet the missionaries.'  donations have been good so far:  4 lbs of spaghetti pasta, six cans of sauce, 2 lbs of hamburger, and a jar of Kraft parmesan cheese. now all we need is bread and a green salad -- i'm hoping if i keep harping at it on facebook and twitter that someone will step up with those items. for the sad sad truth is that because of some large & unexpected bills, and lack of paid writing work, we are dead broke. we can pay rent and put gas in the car, and that's about all. i've canceled my subscription to the wall street journal and your mother took her horn back to the music store to save on the rental fee. i'm going to cancel my accidental death & dismemberment insurance today to save a few more kopeks. thank goodness for the free lunches we get at the senior center during the week!

i told your mother that the next time we go out i'll find a nearby temp agency to stop in at to apply for part-time customer service work. there should be plenty of that this time of year, i'm thinking.

you can stop laughing now, children. i just may actually do it! not that there's much hope of a fat old man who has to use the bathroom every hour will get any kind of outside work. but it pays 15 bucks an hour if you can get it. 

truth be told, neither your mother nor i really want to work anymore.  i believe amy would be happy if she could spend all her time doing family history and watching JAG and deana durbin movies, and i would be completely content to just cook and write poetry.

which brings us to my poetical musings this week. i've culled out the most rotten pieces, and now copy the rest for youse guys. as i've said before, I believe my poems tell more about me than anything else i can write.

this one i just wrote, while your mother was upstairs ministering to a lady who's had knee surgery and can't get around much:

When you have the Savior's bliss

it is never hit or miss.

Give your whole heart to his cause

and reject the world's applause;

joy will then be yours always --

peaceful nights and fruitful days.

 

 

 

 

(i can't get the damn italics to turn off now. the following is not a poem.)

o, did i tell you that i am doing cartoons again? not really cartoons -- i have an old book from 1899 full of so-called humorous sketches by artists from punch magazine. so i cut those out and put new captions to 'em. you can find examples on my facebook page. some of them are rather fine, i fancy. most are dreck.

o, and i'm doing a daily 30 second video with your mother -- i just sit and repeat a word or someone's name over and over again for 30 seconds. we get at least 100 views each day. maybe it'll go viral . . .? (don't hold your breath.)

okay, another poem:

There's revelation all around --

It's in the atmosphere.

And if we d not heed it well

it just might disappear.

So when the spirit speaks to you,

please act upon it quick;

otherwise the Lord may use

a large and painful stick!

 

i wrote the above during elder's quorum meeting on sunday on a piece of scratch paper, and then raised my hand to a question and recited it. i do that a lot. 

 

here's a haiku:

 

the cold morning rain

turns to snow on the bushes,

then stars in my eyes.

 

i don't know what it means either, but it got about a dozen likes on twitter from journalists. i find that if i write haiku with an upbeat ending it goes over better than if i end in ambiguity or melancholy. 

 

Who'll control the Congress isn't clear as yet to me.

The Democrats, Republicans, or Africanized bee?

All I know for certain is that when the fracas ceases

us taxpayers will be the ones who pick up all the pieces!

 

i hope you got out to vote. your mother and i get our ballots in the mail, so we fill them out and drop 'em in the mail box. 

 

just one more, i promise . . . 

 

The mighty Musk is holding sway,

and all of us must now obey!

IF he doesn't like your tweet

he'll banish you to far Papeete.

Do not try his will to baulk --

cuz next he's gonna buy TikTok!

 

i actually wrote a series of verses on musk and posted them on twitter, just to see if i could get banned.  no such luck.  it might have made a good publicity stunt.

 

well, i've got chicken enchiladas in the oven to serve for brunch at 11 this morning, so I'd best go attend to them.  

o, and your mother and i have started to binge watch the blacklist on netflix.  that james spader plays a fascinating villain. we just finished the first season. it's not for the kids, but once you get into spader's character it's like potato chips -- you can't stop wanting more!

 

 

don't take any wooden nickels,  dad.

insomnia

 well, it's 430 in the morning. I've already been up since 3. i tried to fall back asleep in my leather recliner but it was no-go. so i turned on the lamp to write a haiku, thus:

shopping mall Santa

arrives in a blizzard of

artificial snow.

i thought after that maybe I could drift off to sleep, having accomplished an amazing artistic feat. but no, my spirit was still restless and my legs twitchy, so i turned on the lamp again and went into the kitchen to make a casserole.  we made spaghetti yesterday evening at 5, but only one measly person showed up for it, so i used the leftover spaghetti pasta in a tinfoil casserole dish with canned chicken and canned peas, covered with cream of chicken soup and sprinkled with lots of garlic powder -- it's cooking in the oven right now, and I hope . . . i hope . . .  that when it is done my troubled spirit will be at peace, knowing i can offer it to our neighbors and friends at noon, and that then maybe i can get another hour or two of rest before church.

our church starts at 830, and sometimes amy and i are hard put to make it on time. because we have gotten into the habit of staying up until midnight most nights. watching JAG on DVD. we're on season seven right now. i started out not much caring for the series, but now i'm invested in the characters, especially the cranky admiral.  and when you go to bed at midnight it's hard to be up at 7 to get ready for church.  luckily, they still have Sacrament Meeting here in the apartment building in the afternoon, so if we do miss morning services we can always go in the afternoon.

the casserole needs another 20 minutes, so that's how much longer i'm going to write this insomnia memorandum/memoir.

Amy has been busy with her H&R Block studies for the past several weeks.  she's learning how to do small business taxes. this requires her to read reams of boring detailed studies on small business tax cases and then get tested on them. sometimes she aces the test, and sometimes she has to take them several times before passing. it means a significant pay raise for her, so she's determined to get qualified, even though she gets a bad headache at the end of the day from looking at the computer screen all day.  she is also practicing on her euphonium most every day. she's renting it to buy from a local music store downtown. 50 bucks a month for a year and a half. 

right now we manage to get to the temple each Thursday for an initiatory session. that's about all i can do nowadays, since i need to use the bathroom about once an hour.

i occupy my time with poetry, when there is no paid writing work to do. we have been lucky for the past several weeks -- after a two month drought we are now rewriting 3 or 4 articles each day. the extra income is very helpful in paying down my credit card and buying organic food for amy.  i am craving fried or baked chicken all the time now, and there is a mexican market down the street that sells chicken quarters for 69 cents a pound, so i want to stop there on monday when we get paid and buy about ten pounds of cheap chicken to roast up each day, a little at a time.  with a bag of yellow yukon potatoes, which i like to roast by the dozen in the oven and then eat them cold or diced and reheated all week long.  we still get lunches at the senior center, or rather we will be doing so in November.  i stopped getting the free lunches this month because they just tasted lousy, being mass produced cafeteria food. but november's menu looks pretty toothsome, with lots of swedish meatballs and meatloaf.

my health remains about the same.  i had a flare up of ankle trouble a few weeks back, and had to just sit around the house doing nothing, waiting for the swelling to subside.  i got new eyeglasses a while back, and went cheap so they're not bifocals -- i have to take them off when i read or even sing the hymns in church.

getting back to my poetry.  i've stopped emailing it to anyone and instead tweet it out to about 25 journalists each day.  the ones that either like it or retweet it.  don't tell anyone, but i can usually knock out a set of rhymed verses or a haiku in about ten minutes -- but i'm afraid if my fans find out how quickly i can usually do it they'll think it is facile and of no depth (which it probably is) and will stop liking & retweeting my work.

i still daydream about getting an offer from the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal to write a daily poem for their newspaper. i like to imagine my byline in such an important newspaper and how good that would make me feel -- a circus tramp without a college degree who winds up a world-famous writer for a big newspaper.  ah well, what's wrong with dreaming?  without it, where would santa claus be or the easter bunny?

i'm beginning to plan what i'll eat for breakfast in a few hours. if there's time for it.  my stomach is always finicky in the afternoon and evening, so breakfast is the only meal i can really enjoy. we've got lots of buttermilk pancake mix, but i never seem to find the time to make 'em.  amy will make them anytime i ask her to, but she is so busy right now i feel shy about asking her to do it for me.

maybe i'll put on a pot of rice . . . no, no, i think instead i'll just have scrambled eggs with buttered toast. we've got some nice liver sausage from the farm up in Idaho, which i can put into the scrambled eggs.  but i'm going to take some aspirin right now and that will probably mean i'll be too groggy to cook anything before church.

the old clock on the wall tells me it's ten to five, so i'll turn off the oven and let the casserole cool off until noon. and try to close my eyes and close down my mind for some more rest.  amy always sleeps soundly right through the night. how i envy her!

take care, my little chaffinches, and be good -- and if you can't be good at least be Republican!   love, dad.