letter to nathan sunday july 31 2016

I had a touch of my old complaint, kidney stones, last night, so instead of snoozing peacefully I sat up most of the night, just going over the last few days spent with my ex, Amy.
A bowl of chicken broth went down well this morning, and I think the worst of the attack is overfor now.

Where to start? (The better question is probably 'where to end'?)

Forgive me for burdening you with my jejune ruminations, but I want to put my thoughts down to get them organized and analyzed, plus I have always trusted your judgement and discretion.

Anywho . . .

As I've mentioned, Amy is going to go live w/our Daughter Madelaine back in Virginia so she'll have someone to help look after her and help her file for Disability (she's still 3 years away from being able to file for early Soc Sec like I've done).

Amy has been wrapping up her life here in Utah Valley and has involved me in some of it. Since I have a storage closet as part of my apartment deal she asked if she could leave some things behind in it. Since I don'tuse it, I saw no problem. So she has crammed it full of suitcases and bags and cheap plastic tubs and photo albums (and her collection of 2-thousand DVDs). In doing so, she and I have cautiously been reviewing our life together, and I've come to the conclusion that she regards me mainly as someone she can talk to. She has a great, consuming need to talk deeply and in detail about relationships and family. I am very thankful she does not want to talk about the Gospel with me anymore -- she does that with her sister Kathy, up in Idaho. Most of our arguments were about LDS theology, or about food & diet & nutritional supplements.

So I found myself nodding my head frequently and saying "uh-huh" or "of course" a lot.

She told me some very shocking things about our children. I never realized (or perhaps did not want to know at the time) how hard things have been for them -- not just growing up, but right now. Where I today see my kids as mature, well-balanced, active, adults, Amy has informed me of the tremendous struggles that each of them are facing -- some that started long ago, and some that are very recent. My kids have never told me about these things, but they opened up to their mother.
There's no need to go into details, but if you ever hear me complaining about my ungrateful kids again you have my permission to kick me in the butt. The poor kids are weighed down with problems that would have certainly crushed me at their age. BUt since they won't open up to me, I guess I'll just have to remain in the background and give long-distance love & support.

Amy also told me all about her second marriage, and her affair while she was remarried. I found I could not gloat over her mistakes, but also could not offer her much comfort either. In fact, I started to get bored of the whole sordid thing after a while. She cheated on her second husband not out of romance or even physical attraction, but just because she felt he was ignoring her. It's an old and cliched story -- like the clown with a broken heart . . .

Amy has been cooking all her meals at my house since moving out of her apartment last Thursday. With her special dietary requirements (all self-imposed) she won't eat anything I keep around, so she brought over dozens of special organic, grass-fed, free range, non-GMO stuff to keep in my fridge -- and then promptly became too weak to do her own cooking, so I did it for her. Which I don't mind -- I like to cook.  
She drinks an incredible amount of kambucha and chia seed suspensions. And puts sterilized clay in it.

I've got to stop and rest a moment . . .

Now that I've had a little nap in my recliner . . .

So last night Amy wanted to watch the movie "The Five PEople You Meet in Heaven", with John Voight. I wasn't too keen on watching it, but since she is, in a sense, a guest in my house, I said okay. I had read the book when it first came out, but didn't remember very much of it.
Much to my surprise I found myself bawling through much of it. When it was over Amy wanted to have a long talk about our relationship, now, as she said, that "You're back in touch with the spirit."
I had to explain to her that nothing was changed or enhanced for me after viewing the movie -- that I had simply been emotionally manipulated by the film, and did not view it as a spiritual experience.
I think I was finally able to make her understand that about me -- not everything that moves me is some kind of spiritual revelation, but more likely just the product of my own imagination and emotions being triggered by an event or narrative or even a memory. I have grown to mistrust my feelings and desires as a sure compass to spirituality. More often, I am greatly moved by my own desires and stratagems that have little or nothing to do with the Holy Ghost.
If something is common sense and does somebody some good, and nobody harm, then, and only then, am I willing to consider it as coming from God. Amy's decision to divorce me was not a revelation. My decision to move back to Thailand and out of my children's lives for so long was not a revelation, but a selfish bit of foolishness. On the other hand, my decision to take the discussions, get baptized, serve a mission, marry Amy, etc., were all inspiration.

I also wanted to tell her that the more she 'opened up' to me, the more she appeared as merely wanting to justify all her own decisions and actions, many of which were hurtful to me and to our kids. However, that would be like the pot calling the kettle black -- meaning I am just as guilty about making poor choices that have not done anything good for my kids, or for others. The difference between Amy and me, I am finally convinced, is that at least I KNOW I have been foolish and selfish and should not be trusted. If Grace is not an operative principle of the Gospel, then I'm doomed.

Amy leaves this Tuesday morning for Virginia, and so once again she is, in a sense, abandoning me. Despite all that I've said above, she and I have established a wary friendship, a sort of Detente. I have enjoyed making 'organic' meals for her and listening to her and even doing her laundry. We sat together on the little couch my daughter Sarah gave me, her feet tucked under my legs for warmth, to watch Deana Durbin movies. I even got her to watch a silent movie with Harold Lloyd, and she grudgingly admitted it "had some good parts". There are strands of her long hair all over that little couch, all white. Having her around is more of a comfort than anything else to me.  And in a few days she leaves me again. I think I will hate the silence that is the only thing to replace her in my apartment, and my life.

I wish I was a garbageman

I wish I was a garbageman, and drove the garbage truck;
I think that it would be such fun, and I'd feel full of luck!
To back the beeping wagon up to dumpsters great and small;
and then to lift and shake them as if they were a beach ball.
Each morning I would jump from bed, as happy as a lark,
and then upon my journey I would happily embark;
down alleyways and up steep hills, and round the mansions big -- 
and if some rich guy said I smelled I wouldn't care a fig! 
For I am serving ev'ryone the same, no matter who
they might be to others in this worldly wobbly zoo.
Ev'ryone makes garbage and they need it hauled away;
and I'm the one who does it, and I even get some pay!
You can be an astronaut, a lawyer, or dragoon --
all I ask is just a truck and streets with garbage strewn . . . 

Cleveland

A reporter in Cleveland did say

"That RNC gets in the way

of viewing this city

with more than just pity."

And then she flew out the next day. 

When Trump is the President, oy . . .

When Trump is the President, oy . . . 
reporters will find so much joy
in being assigned
beneath all mankind,
ignored like a backward busboy. 

The Bagel

The bagel is a wonder bread, it has so much to offer;
offer number one is that it's tougher than a raw fur.
After you have bitten off a chaw, be sure to count
your teeth to make sure that you still have got the right amount.
Never use a knife to cut a bagel -- that won't do;
try a blow torch or a buzz saw or even a corkscrew.
Experts say a laser works quite well, but it ain't kosher
(that's according to the local rabbi, Irving Loescher).
Me, I chip away at 'em with chisel and sledge hammer;
it takes a little longer but it does provide less clamor. 
So what if bagels have an outer crust like granite rocks?
You won't care once you have had them with a slice of lox!

What if no one voted

What if no one voted come election time next year;
that would send a message to those shysters, crystal clear.
If ev'ryone did shun the polls and stay away in droves,
Trump and Mrs. Clinton could go suck on pickled cloves.
The White House would stay empty and we'd save on salaries,
and find some other ruckus that would burn up calories.
Oh, journalists would suddenly be out of work -- hooray!
Let 'em find some honest job, like laying down parquet.
Civil disobedience; that is what I'd call it, sure.
To keep future elections honest, peaceful, and secure.
Then maybe Congress would wake up and stir their stumps a bit,
instead of filibustering while on their rumps they sit.
So here's our motto to create a country that's resurgent:
"WE'LL NEVER VOTE AGAIN AT ALL -- IT REALLY ISN'T URGENT!"

Moroni, Chapter 9: 5

Moroni Chapter 9, verse 5:    For so exceedingly do they anger that it seemeth me that they have no fear of death; and they have lost their love, one towards another; and they thirst after blood and revenge continually.

How close are we today to this debacle and decline,

As hundreds murder innocents and think it's very fine?

Vast armies sweep across far lands, and blood is spilled by drones;

juggernauts mow down the crowd and crush their raging bones. 

Those who wield authority are Gadianton-bound;

shooting children, crushing widows down into the ground.

The holy places still remain, but few seem to desire

the safety and assurance of the Savior's cleansing fire.

How long, how long, the ancient question flares again today,

until the great Jehovah carries justice to the prey?

Save me from despair, O Lord, and quicken my weak trust,

so in your bosom I may hide when devils shove and thrust!

The Gualicho

The tiny arms of carnivores in Mesozoic ages

Puzzles scientific groups, where controversy rages.

The gualicho is a case in point – its arms were futile

When it savaged sauropods in a manner brutal.

I wish that Darwin were around so he could maybe parse

Why their arms were smaller than a fruit fly’s dainty arse.

Maybe creatures of this sort disdained to wash their hands,

And so they lost ‘em pretty much, as Nature so demands.

Or perhaps they wouldn’t shake hands with our Mother Eve,

And so were cursed to lurch around and sorrowfully grieve . . .  

Sealed Records

Moroni 10:2 -- "And I seal up these records . . . "

That which was long ages sealed
now at last has been revealed;
words of Christ and prophets bold,
writ upon pure plates of gold.
Put into our common tongue
by a prophet boy so young.
Heed the Book of Mormon stat
or your soul becomes a gnat.

Kevin Sieff Wants Out

I have compiled a list of around 75 professional journalists who enjoy my limericks. But sometimes one of them will ask to be removed from my email list.

Kevin Sieff of the Washington Post is one such reporter who no longer wishes to receive any more limericks.  The reason? I'll quote his email to me verbatim:

Hi man, I’m really sorry, but can you take me off this list? I’m running for cover in south sudan and emails are flooding in. sorry.

Kevin Sieff

Africa Bureau Chief

The Washington Post

Twitter: @ksieff

Naturally, I immediately took him off my list.
But I can't help wondering what kind of assignment he's on, running for cover and feeling threatened by emails.
Journalism is dangerous work sometimes, ain't it?

The Ordeal of Andre Saraiva (from Louis Sahagun)

An artless impulse moved Andre to scribble on a rock.

For that he has been vilified and made an awful gawk.

No one knew his folly, not until this little lamb

Posted it for all to view upon his Instagram.

Haled into court of law, Saraiva glumly stood accused

of raping Nature in the Raw and leaving it all bruised.

He paid a modest fine and left, defiant and unbowed;

Ignoring taunts and insults from the hiker’s roiling crowd.

But finally his conscience, or what passes for one now,

Made him change his heart and mind and brassy Gallic brow.

“Graffiti  should be sprayed on man-made items” he decreed.

“I’ll never raise my brush against another stone or weed!”

Eating my way through Iowa

You never have to punch a clock when indigestion calls;

You can find it day or night, in drought or when snow falls.

Each Kum & Go has greasy trays of food your mother taught

You never to indulge in to avoid the tummy rot.

At Casey’s there are donuts from the days of Watergate;

And wieners that the Civil War most certainly predate.

And Kwik Trip offers pizza slices baked until they’re like

Asbestos curtains or perhaps an iron railroad spike.

The land is bursting with abundant poultry, beef, and corn;

Yet Iowans  consume fried nuggets like it was free porn.

No one takes the time to cook, to marinate and stew;

They all run out to purchase schlock that tastes like Elmer’s glue.

It will not be our politics or wars that bring us down –

Our end will come from eating at the Git-N-Go downtown.

Frank Capra's reporters

Frank Capra's reporters were swell;
their stories were writ just to sell
a newspaper sheet
out on the loud street;
they grabbed you right by the lapel!
(So coatless, today's clientele . . . ) 

Singing Lawyers

There once was a lawyer who sang;
he thought it would give quite a bang
to clients who needed
to be guilty pleaded.
And billed like he was k.d. Lang. 

Bankers and Mortgages

Bankers and mortgages go
together like icebergs and snow.
The rates they supply
are their apple pie,
promoting a one-way cash flow.

When income in households declines

When income in households declines
the voters become porcupines;
they want no smooth talk,
but something to shock
those lazy sedate dollar signs.

Break Out the Goo Goo Glasses -- A Clown's Vocabulary

When I joined Ringling Brothers Circus in 1971 as a clown I learned a wonderful new lexicon of slapstick jargon.

One of the first terms I acquired was "blow-off". The ending of a clown gag. Was it tight, was it loose, or did it have too much spaghetti? (Too confusing.)

To pull a funny face was to do a "take 'em".

A "track gag" was a traveling piece of whimsy paraded around the entire arena, such as a midget dressed as a baby in a self-propelled perambulator, smoking an outsize cigar.

The accoutrements of clowning included goo goo glasses, the squirt, devil dust, old slop, and cream puffs. The veteran clowns kept most of these items handy during the show, in case there was an unexpected break in the performance; then the clowns would be whistled out to "play the accordion"; that is, stretch out a gag for as long or as short as needed to allow the next act to get into the ring.

When that happened the boss clown would issue crisp commands:

"Break out the goo goo glasses!" (Horn rim spectacles that spit out water to imitate tears.)

"Get yourself a squirt!" (A turkey baster filled with water -- always a handy tool in slapstick improvisation.)

"Pack some devil dust in the chicken!" (This referred to a specially treated flour that could be sprayed over a match flame to create a geyser of fire, but at a relatively low temperature; issuing from the mouth of a rubber chicken, it never failed to send audiences into a panic.)

"Get that old slop whipped up quick!" (Old slop was derived from Old Spice shaving soap bars, which were grated into a barrel of water and then whipped into a fragrant froth used for pie throwing and any other contingency that demanded a sturdy goo.)

"Gimme a dozen cream puffs!" (Black gunpowder squibs wrapped in duct tape; when attached to an electrical wire and then touched to a battery terminal, they made a terrific noise and towering clouds of smoke; their one drawback was that constant use left professional clowns hard of hearing.)

Or our marching orders might be to start a balloon chase. A vendor planted in the audience with a string of balloons would be hectored by the clowns and then his balloons stolen from him -- precipitating a wild chase up and down the aisles and around the track and rings, with one clown handing off the balloons to another clown like Olympic torch bearers until the last luckless clown trips and falls onto the balloons -- exploding them all.
.
To "take a buster" meant any kind of a pratfall. By the end of each season my wrists would be constantly sore and almost twice their regular size from breaking innumerable falls with my hands. And that is how the inimitable Buster Keaton got his stage name; from the amazing scope and versatility of his pratfalls.

There were long shirts and fright wigs and fart whistles -- a medley of words that kept the business of clowning so enchanting to me and so mystifying to the "townies" for over forty years.

Today though,, my hands have lost their cunning from arthritis and my knees are unreliable, so all I can do is sit down with my grand kids, and say, with a Mack Sennett twinkle in my eye:  "Did I ever tell you about the skeleton chase?"  

Fetchin' Gretchen

There once was a journo named Gretchen,
and powerful men found her fetchin'. 
Her virtue she guarded
till she was discarded --
or is this a case of truth stretchin'?  

Gretchen Carlson and Fox

Headline from the Washington Post:

Gretchen Carlson is the latest female journalist to allege harassment at Fox News

Apparently working at Fox,

a lady had best watch her socks.

Those high-powered chiefs

will take off their briefs

and wrestle her down with headlocks. 

a couple who had their first child

A couple who had their first child
got the bill, then went quite wild:
"That stork is a thief --
we'll sue for relief!"
as bankruptcy they quickly filed. 

Hibernate like a bear

It would be blissfully great
to sleep like a bear, hibernate!
During their snooze
no health do they lose;
but me, I deteriorate!

The New Good Samaritan

Are you prepared for an emergency? Have you got the essentials to take care of your family when disaster strikes? Everyone should. But Hikingware.com wants to ask another question: Once your own family's needs are met, are you willing to reach out to others during an emergency or crisis? Here's a little think piece about that question, called:

THE NEW GOOD SAMARITAN.

A certain man went down a public road, not long ago, where thieves fell upon him.

He was stripped of everything except a few rags, and left for dead.

Several people saw him as they came by on the same road, but did not stop to investigate.

Finally a Samaritan came by and stopped. He was very concerned at what he saw.

So he acted quickly.

He immediately went to the capital to demand better roadway safety so such things would not happen any more. He led a petition drive that helped to increase the number of police on the roads, and donated a large amount to help fund better road lights. He organized a youth group to cut back the weeds and bushes on the roadsides, to make it impossible for thieves to hide themselves nearby.

For all of this he was recognized and applauded by the government and good people everywhere. His story went viral, and he soon had his own radio talk show -- where he urged everyone to make a difference. He was given a medal, wrote a book, and ran for Congress.

As for the thieves' victim, he was eventually picked up for vagrancy, and taken to a free clinic where he died while waiting to see a doctor.

Coal Miner Layoffs

From the Wall Street Journal:

Murray Energy Corp., the largest privately held coal miner in the U.S., has warned that it may soon undertake one of the biggest layoffs in the sector during this time of low energy prices.

In a notice sent to workers this week, Murray said it could lay off as many as 4,400 employees, or about 80% of its workforce, because of weak coal markets. The company said it anticipates “massive workforce reductions in September.”

Should you meditate digging coal

the end result is just a hole.

And what makes it worse,

the hole's in your purse --

and you'll be tossed out on the dole. 

In Paris the air is crasseux

From the Washington Post:

In an effort to curb pollution that some days makes the city as smoggy as Beijing, Paris began on Friday to ban cars built before 1997 from coming within city limits. Vehicles registered before then — and motorcycles before 1999 — will now face modest, phased-in fines during weekday traffic between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., though they can drive freely into the city on weekends.

In Paris the air is crasseux.

Parisians, they mutter "Par bleu!"

So elderly cars

the city now bars,

making Renault to go fou. 

Cookie Dough

A little girl ate cookie dough.
It gave her an unhealthy glow.
Bacteria has laid her low.
She's gluten-free, six feet below. 

Wally the Whale

From the Los Angeles Times:

Wally the whale was towed into the sea by two Los Angeles County lifeguard boats Friday evening at Dockweiler State Beach, just a day after he washed ashore.

Lifeguards, working with the county’s Department of Beaches and Harbors, decided to tow the carcass far out to sea, where it will be clear of shipping lanes and where currents will keep it away from the beach. Natural decomposition and marine life will do the rest . . .

dead bodies towed into the sea
sounds like a first class remedy
not only for whales
but all other fails.
hey Bernie, do you water ski?

The Fitness Center

A maiden who wanted to shed
some butterfat finally said:
"My fitness club here
serves Cheetos and beer--
but helps me get out of my bed."

A lawyer from Inver Grove Heights

A lawyer from Inver Grove Heights
guaranteed clients their rights
to hourly rates
that only Bill Gates
could pay without holding last rites. 

dreams of a grouchy gourmet

airplane food and hospital food and things warmed up from cans
feeds nothing but the belly tho it's cooked in copper pans.
i used to dream of brunches that would thrill my inner soul;
of dishes fused with saffron, set aflame with liqueurs droll.
cheeses of distinction and fine artisanal bread 
and livers from those geese that only acorns are force-fed.
but since i am a bachelor and don't bring home much loot
my cooking is so basic that it tastes like some old boot.
my meatloaf is pedantic and my pasta falls apart,
and for making my own mayonnaise I haven't any heart.
perhaps someday i'll rob a bank and feast on courtly quail
before they can catch up with me and toss me into jail.
O death where is thy victory, o grave where is thy sting?
it's in the fact I can't tell squab from common chicken wing . . .   

I'd rather the Army play tones

I'd rather the Army play tones
on woodwinds than fly any drones.
A bomb or two less
is fine, I confess;
but please spare those long brass trombones!

Tempest in a Milk Carton

The Senior Lunch today down at the Center is roast pork, mashed potatoes, diced beets, and a large white fluffy dinner roll with butter. And a side of applesauce.

They serve it cafeteria style, so I take my plate, grab 2 cartons of 1 percent milk, and head over to the condiment table for some hot sauce.

And there I collide with one of the cranks that infest the Senior Center.

A scruffy old man, in patched overalls, with a threadbare DEKALB seed cap wedged firmly on his head, is pouring ketchup ove his beets. He says:

"Hey, you can't have two milks. You're only supposed to have one."

This is news to me. I always take two.

"Who says?" I ask politely.

"You're supposed to take one, not two." he repeats, his eyes ablaze with the unholy zeal of the stickler.

I decide that today is not the day I will be kind to idiots, so I silently turn my back on him to go to my table. He follows me.

"You better put that other milk back so's there's enough fer everbody" he grates through his long yellow teeth.

"Ah, go peddle your papers" I tell him. I have always wanted to use that phrase since hearing Victor Mature snarl it in a gangster movie.

He stands unmoving above me as I eat. Like a senile obelisk.

He finally whirls and strides away. I am left in peace, but not for long. He comes back with the Senior Lunch supervisor, an earnest young man with rimless glasses and a crew cut.

The supervisor is plainly all at sea, since I am obviously not doing anything upsetting or immoral.

"You see what I mean?" says DEKALB in triumph.

"Is there a problem?" the supervisor asks no one in particular.

I continue to eat my lunch, dipping my roast pork into the applesauce -- something I learned to do when I lived in Florida.

At this, DEKALB snorts and shakes his head in disgust, then takes his tray over to another table, where he slams it down -- startling an old woman in a flowered nightie dozing over a Nora Roberts novel.

Now the supervisor, as is the wont of supervisors worldwide and forever, decides he'd better earn his keep by annoying someone. And that someone is me.

"Just don't let it happen again" he tells me, rather uncertainly.

Now maybe he means it as a mild joke, a way to smooth over a rough patch in the day's events. But I choose not to take it that way.

I fix him with a beady eye -- I practice piercing looks in the mirror every morning, so I'm pretty effective. And I say, deadpan, "Don't let WHAT happen again?"

 At this, the supervisor pretends to hear his name being called, gives me a friendly bob of the head, and skitters away.

I finish my lunch, including both cartons of milk. The pork is a bit dry, but dipping it in the apple sauce helps. Busing my tray, I notice several cartons of milk left out on the condiment table, so I ask one of the nice lunch ladies about it.

"Oh" she says, "there's always some milk left over after lunch. Take 'em if you want -- otherwise we just have to throw them out."

Nonverbal Dominance

The silent treatment is the way a woman rules the roost.
Nonverbal and non-anything, it first was introduced
by Eve when Adam would not taste the apple she had bit;
she stayed so anti-verbal that he almost had a fit. 

To dominate coworkers, use of body language can
make them start to twitch and drain the darkest, deepest tan.
It's almost like some voodoo or a witchcraft silently
making thralls of colleagues just by bending arm or knee.

Assertive female leaders can the corp'rate ladder climb
if they will just concentrate on using pantomime.
And now that I have had my say about this hot bombshell,
I'm going home to my dear wife who's sure to give me  ****

Dumb Laws

Dumb laws come from dumb people, and dumb people come from . . . where?
Dumb schools with dumber teachers or dumb chapels full of prayer.
Dumb parents make dumb children, who spread dumbness all around
like disease that threatens to put you into the ground.

Ev'rytime a dumb law is struck down dumb people groan,
and say the Feds are evil and will not leave them alone.
And then instead of realizing that they might be dumb
the dumb people start marching as they beat upon a drum.

They beat upon a drum so other dumb people will know
that dumb laws will not go away, in summer or in snow.
Legislatures are so dumb that they cannot be stopped;
dumbness is like merchandise that never can be swapped.