How to Save Money (after an evening spent rereading Robert Benchley)

With the world's eyes glued on Rio for the Olympics, and everyone asking the question: "Who, or what, is Camoes -- some kind of hand soap?"-- and with the aftermath of Brexit, the Boer War, and Bollywood, and a bull market that is so historic it makes the Hindenburg crashing into an iceberg seem like a walk in the park -- well, all I can say is that this sentence has run on to ridiculous length and had better come to a stop before somebody gets it in the labonza . . .

Which brings us to the subject of how to save money.

For most people, earning money is easy; they get a job, collect a paycheck, and then try to hide it from Uncle Sam by depositing it in a cheap brass spittoon bought on eBay for $1.99, plus shipping and handling.

But saving money, now that is a horse of a different kettle of fish, and no mistake.

As wise old Justin Timberlake once said: "Money doesn't grow on trees unless you prune it with golden shears." Which only goes to prove that Timberlake is about as dumb as a sawdust brisket.

The first thing to do if you are sincere about saving money is to quit reading this article right now and go looking for diamonds in the south of France. You won't find any, but the bouillabaisse is very good and I won't have to write another word, since I'd rather be out trout fishing on the Provo River.

Oh, I see. You wish to continue reading . . .

Fine. Be that way.

The next thing to do when you are determined to save some of your hard-earned mazuma is to open an overseas bank account. Or take up the accordion. Either way people will hate you passionately.

Next you should invest in something you can either eat, yell at, or sleep on when you retire. Because, believe me, by the time you stop working the banks will all be convenience stores and Wall Street will be nothing but an alley where pushcarts hawk second hand cardboard.

Once the above steps are achieved, you will find a sense of peace and purpose descend upon you. This is known as 'Knox's Senile Reflex', and can be treated effectively with syrup of squills or a dose of Carmen Miranda.

Experts agree that you should start saving when in your twenties. But what do they know? The experts also said red wine was good for your heart, but forgot to mention that it makes your liver burp in French.

The question of accumulating Bitcoin has bedeviled savers for quite some time. The best advice, as always, comes from a complete stranger I met on the bus. He said "You can't go far wrong with a barrel of pickles."  How true.

It should be self evident that a penny saved is a penny earned. Put another way, take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves. (Some more Timberlake malarkey, no doubt.)

Put some of your savings in warp coils, video cassettes, and powdered kambucha; they all will increase in value. They have to, since they're worth nothing right now.

And finally, always pay yourself before you pay anyone else. That way, when they repossess your house and car, you can rest easy because in forty more years you'll have your own timeshare dumpster on the beach.
 

The One-Way Wagon

Ted Natus, founder of Hamernick’s Decorating on Rice Street said: “The wagon was tilted so it was going one way.”   

(As reported in the St Paul Pioneer Press by Fred Melo)

The one-way wagon trods a path

that only leads to tears and wrath;

a juggernaut, or Conestoga,

it will not calm at all like yoga.

Please take heed, ye drivers plucky;

one-way wagons are unlucky.

You can drive the ox a bit,

but in the end the fan will hit,

and those you've thought to leave behind

will make you taste the bitter rind

of eating crow with humble pie --

and learning not to think 'banzai'! 

MAD Magazine

I cannot think a better screed
was ever writ for boys to read
than MAD -- that graphic jape sublime,
whose pages parents thought a crime.

A whoopee cushion on the trends
of Eisenhower times, from pens
that ruptured smugness like a bladder --
making music all the madder.

A boy who read its antic pages
knew that clowns were our true sages.
I may be a lousy rhymer,
but MAD was my New England Primer.

An Indian from Bangalore

An Indian from Bangalore
exclaimed in a rage "What a bore!"
"To simplify taxes
will take many axes
before we can even the score!"

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!"