Narrative Poem: Meeting Joe Rogan on the beach in Thailand.

 

My Dear Children;

No, I never met Joe Rogan on the beach in Thailand.

Thanks for asking.

Your mother is making keto vegetable lasagna this morning.

She's using a whole block of Bongard's American Pasteurized Process Cheese.

I had a telemedicine conference with my urologist, Dr. Armstrong, last week; he prescribed medication.

Approval from Medicaid is still pending.

I once saw a strange light in the sky. So did my mother, while walking to the bookmobile with my sister Linda.

I've given up reading books from the Library, but still pretend to everyone I love going there.

Your mother bought a pair of black boots at DI on Saturday.

They hurt her feet when she squats.

I'm making a comedy video with grandson Noah on Tuesday; to be called "How to read a newspaper."

I hope he has a TikTok account.

I once fished a Thai Navy captain's hat out of the ocean at Ban Phe.

My Thai girlfriend Joom said I would be arrested if I kept it.

So I threw it back into the waves.

In Thailand after a corpse is burned at the Buddhist temple the monks toss the remains into the nearest body of water.

I once found a human femur in the surf at Ban Phe. I took it home for Joom's dog Neepoo.

This past week we were offered a free frozen turkey by two different people.

We turned them down, with thanks, both times, because we had no more room in our fridge or freezer.

Your mother asked me what happy Valentine Day memories I have.

I told her  none for the past 26 years; that I regard Valentine's Day the same way she regards Halloween -- as an abomination.

She replied "That's sad."

Your mother bought me an electric razor for Christmas.

I'm sorry I never told anyone else but her at the time how grateful I am for that thoughtful gift. 

 

Your mother just poured salt on the bottom of the oven, where some of the keto lasagna bubbled over. She says it keeps the spill from burning and smoking.

Each day brings new evidence to me that your mother is the smartest woman I have ever known.

Love,

Heinie Manush. 

Haiku: 素晴らしい山 Mount Timpanogos.

 

Mount Timpanogos --

serene under the white snow;

til it shakes it off.

Mount Timpanogos --

shredder of clouds and whirlwinds;

little birds nest there.

Mount Timpanogos --

no cares touch its massive brow;

brewing fog and ice.

Today's Timericks. The World Is Likely Sicker Than It Has Been in 100 Years (WSJ)

 

The world is likely sicker than it's ever been before/I myself feel seedy with a microbe tug-of-war/Shots and pills don't cut it; I will take some castor oil/then take a dose of Epsom salts while under Tesla coil.

How to Prepare for Student-Loan Payments Restarting.  (WSJ)

My student debt has been deferred forever, so it seems/And so I use my income for to follow modest dreams/But if the moneygrubbers now start to have their way/and demand of me my pound of flesh to grimly pay/I'll hie me to the circus and become a tragic clown/and they can whistle for their dough while I fall on the ground!

Too Risky to Wed in Your 20s? Not if You Avoid Cohabiting First.  (WSJ)

Marriage takes a lot of guts in this here cockeyed time/Some think it is silly while others call it crime/Children are expensive to conceive and nurture well/You can't afford to have 'em if you ain't a drug cartel/And sex is only tempting when you're young and full of heat/After you grow older all you do is soak your feet!

Excessive Bell-Ringing By Priest Takes Its Toll On Italian Community.  (Forbes)

A church rang its bell day and night/giving townspeople a fright/The priest on the cord/was simply quite bored/and not by design impolite.

Narrative Poem: The Invitation.

 

My Dear Children;

I went with your mother to Springville the other day to look the town over while she worked at the H&R Block office for four hours. I strolled around, got chilled, went back to her office, saw she was busy, went to the library, and started to read Irving Stone's "The Agony and the Ecstasy" in one of their comfortable chairs. 

Then I got hungry and walked a half mile to the Art City Trolley Restaurant. Where I was ambushed by an unexpected kindness.

I guess I look pretty forlorn when I'm eating by myself anymore. I'm always worrying about how much to tip (or whether to tip at all) and I always decide I ordered the wrong thing while I watch other people enjoying their meals.

While I was sipping my water (I never order a beverage -- my cheap-itis won't let me) a woman from a nearby table came over and invited me to join them. It was apparently a large, rollicking, family table. Celebrating an anniversary or birthday. I thanked her for her kind invitation, then turned her down. At her disappointed look, I simply said I enjoyed sitting by the tilework on the wall. She smiled uncertainly and went back to her table.

Why did I do that?  I enjoy company and conversation while I eat. Always have. I didn't hesitate to turn her down. Why? 

I decided not to overthink it at the time. And I refuse to feel guilty about it now.

Maybe I was just not in the mood to explain myself to strangers once again. It always happens -- when I'm introduced to new people and they find out I was a circus clown they begin to drill me with the same old questions. Of course, I could lie. I was wearing an old blue shirt I got at DI. It had SEARS embroidered above the pocket. So I guess I could have spun a yarn about working at Sears for thirty-five years before being forced to retire on a reduced pension. I think I would have gotten a lot of sympathy. And if I had played my cards right I bet that whole table would have taken up a collection for me. Poor old lonely man!

But I didn't have the energy to sustain such a bamboozle.

I'm reminded of a few years ago, when daughter Daisy came over one summer Sunday afternoon to ask if I wanted to take a walk with her. There again, I didn't hesitate to turn her down flat. Why? I don't really know myself. I have always craved the company of my children and I enjoy short walks in the park. But that day I told her my back was giving me problems -- but then, my back is ALWAYS giving me problems. I'm used to it by now. So Daisy went for a walk by herself.

My best guess is that I'm so used to looking for silt that I don't recognize the river. When good things are offered to me I automatically think of why I can't accept it. 

Thank God I didn't feel that way when your mother came to me last September to ask about getting remarried!

Your mother, by the way, made a dynomite bowl of potato salad last night, and I'm eating some with a slice of fried ham right now. It makes me happy as a clam and as satisfied as a pig in mud. And so I will leave youse guys on that happy note.

Roses are red/violets tremble/when they think/of Sarah Siddons Kemble. 

Love

Heinie Manush.

Haiku: ブランケットのブタ Pigs in a blanket.

 Pigs in a blanket --

tawny glister of syrup;

sneak on more butter.

Pigs in a blanket --

the black griddle needs cleaning;

off to McDonald's!

Pigs in a blanket --

a cold glass of choc'late milk;

throw out the lettuce!

ブランケットのブタ
冷たいチョコレートミルクのグラスで-
レタスを捨てろ！

Haiku: 痛い足を浸す Soaking my sore feet

 

soaking my sore feet --

washing rancid socks each day;

when will we all float?

Soaking my sore feet --

too much striding through strip malls;

so many shoe stores!

Soaking my sore feet --

the light gray cement sidewalk;

destination lost.

私の痛い足を浸す-

ライトグレーのセメント歩道。

目的地が失われました

Narrative Poem: I, too, am leaving Spotify.

 My dear children;

I want to explain my decision to leave Spotify. Even though I don't have anything on there. Never had. Never will. But I want to support people who have lots of money and no responsibilities. Because at heart I am just a lemming -- I go where the pack takes me.

But don't you be like that! I think you should all stick out like sore thumbs. At home, At work. Abroad. At play. And especially when you come over to visit us. I can't speak for your mother, but I personally am getting mighty bored seeing the same faces and hearing the same voices every time you come to visit. I'd like to see you change things up a bit. Maybe grow a second head. Dye your hair octarine. Wear clothes made out of pop cans. That kind of thing. If I never knew what to expect from you when you visited it would keep me tingling all over. And that would be good for my . . . uh, my prostrate?

I especially appreciate you kids who don't come to visit. That way I can let my imagination run wild about what has happened to you. Did the night wump get you? Or did you fall into a vat of limburger cheese? Maybe you're trapped in a molybdenite mine -- the air is running out; you're down to your last match; and the tube-nosed bats are closing in . . . 

Then, hark! I bust down the mine door and carry you out, one by one. To the applause of a grateful nation. My picture will be on brick walls and I'll get endorsement deals from Nike and Spotify.   

(Your mother just ate the last of the shrimp -- I didn't think there was any more. But there was. And you mother got it. She offered me some but I proudly said I could live without it, unlike some people who hide stuff in the fridge and never tell a living soul about it, so they can have it all to themselves -- I'm not calling anyone selfish, mind you, or accusing anyone in this household with having eyes bigger than their esophagus; I'm just saying that some people get all the shrimp while all I get are roasted peanuts.)

Now where was I?  Oh yes. Spotify. Of course you've heard the news about Spotify. It's in all the Tupperware publications. And on the Victrola. It seems James Taylor got sore and took all his songs somewhere and did something with them because of something that happened somewhere or other. I think it has to do with global warming myself.

We are currently watching a creaky 1930 murder mystery on TCM. Your mother chose it. I think probably so she can fall asleep and take a nap before she has to go to Springville to do her H&R Block stuff. I promised to go with her today, since it's her first day down there. Moral support, and all that.

I hope they have a good place to eat. I won't have anything else to do otherwise. I'll bring a book or two, and perhaps a block of marble to whittle on. Of course, I may just sit and ponder about finding a cure for paper cuts. Do you know that over $456,000.00 is lost each year from time taken to suck on fingers and find a Band Aid? Of course, I just made up that figure out of thin air. And if anyone argues the point with me I'll hammer on them with a bung starter. 

Or a piece of shrimp. 

Roses are red/violets snore/If you come in/I'll open the door.

Love,

Heinie Manush.

Haiku: The constant pine trees 一定の松の木

 The constant pine trees --

silently green and stolid;

resisting the wind.

The constant pine trees --

holding the bright snow until

I walk underneath.

The constant pine trees --

lined up like old bowling pins;

smelling of cough drops.

一定の松の木- 古いボウリングのピンのように並んでいます。 咳止めドロップのにおい。

Video: The Sex Life of the Norwegian Bachelor (with apologies to Robert Benchley.)

 

Narrative Poem: Shrimp Toast.

 

My Dear Children:

So we bought two pounds of cooked shrimp yesterday at Smith's. Why? I dunno. We just saw the shrimp glowing white and orange in the butcher's display case and decided we must have some at all costs. I'm afraid I'm becoming a bad influence on your mother -- since that's the kind of thing I'm always doing, but she is much more circumspect and prudent.

Anywho. So we brought it home and ate tons of it. But two pounds is a lot of shrimp. So I made a shrimp salad for the neighbors. But when your mother learned I only used 6 shrimp in the salad (they were BIG shrimp!) she gave me a pitying look and said something about somebody being cheap. I will not repeat her exact words, as they have no direct bearing on this story.

So this morning I decided to make something with a boatload of shrimp in it. Working purely on adrenaline and intuition I laid down a layer of buttered bread in a tin foil pan, then topped it with shrimp, then topped THAT with processed cheese, and finished with a slurry of buttermilk, sour cream, whipping cream, and parmesan cheese. I poured that over the whole mess, then sprinkled it with smoked paprika. Covered it and popped it in the over for 40 minutes at 350 degrees.

But your mother took it out and told me that it was just a gooey melted mess, and not cohering. So I put it back in and baked it uncovered for another 20 minutes. The bottom got burned and it still did not solidify -- until I took it out and let it cool. The next hurdle was what to name the darn stuff. Shrimp toast? Shrimp scampi? Shrimp chowder? Shrimp gone bad? Shrimp a la Torkilini? I can't believe it's Shrimp? We settled on Welsh Rarebit.

Placed on a bed of lettuce and drizzled with olive oil, with a bit of canned diced tomato on top, it didn't look too bad. Both of us were afraid to taste it, so we gave it away with a lot of your mother's peanut butter cookies as a bribe. 

Now, at least, the shrimp is all gone. But somebody just gave us a rotisserie chicken, which we will turn into chicken salad for tonight. I insisted we put grapes in it. Your mother decided not to fight me on this whim. I can get pretty feisty when I'm aroused -- or just bored of doing rewrites all day. I accidentally erased one of the rewrites just as it was getting ready to submit, and we couldn't get it back. So had to start all over again. Thunderation! I'd rather be out on the street getting quarters with my Clown for President sign. 

Roses are red/violets scream/life is a sleep/in which we all dream.

Love,

Heinie Manush.