Randall and Claire Nathan took their grandchildren, Johnny and Betsy, to their music lessons this week. Betsy is a pianist of note, several of them, in fact, and Johnny is known to everyone at “The Bill and Ludwig Monroe Studios” as “The Mando Commando.” Billy Ray Morris, Johnny’s mandolin teacher, came out to the waiting room, where students and parents gather before and after lessons, to tell Randall and Claire that they would skip the lesson on Rosh Hashanah, since he used to play with “The Texas Jewboys” band and still celebrates with them.
At the mention of Rosh Hashanah, naturally Randall and Claire got up and started dancing the Hava Nagila, right there in front of everybody. Billy Ray grabbed his guitar and accompanied them.
“Hey, you’re good,” he said. “You should enter the Periwinkle’s Got Talent show.”
“No way,” said Betsy. “I’m not as embarrassed by them as I was when I was little, because I’m getting used to it, but no way I’m going to let them be on national TV.”
So the show went on without her dancing grandparents, but it was a good show anyway.
Franklin and Eleanor, Jake and Jenny Newland’s potbellied pigs, did their particular rendition of “This little piggy went to market.”
Three-year-old Clara Wembley made Shingles the Dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, howl “The Hallelujah Chorus” by pulling on different ears, tail, etc to create different notes.
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms played “Pomp and Circumstance” on the ukulele.
Edith Whistle and “The Elvisettes” tap danced to “Pachelbel’s Canon,” having mistaken it for “Polly Belle’s Cannon.”
The winner, however, who will advance to Fargo for the finals, was a baby billed as Lady GooGoo. Even Simon voted for her, saying that her lyrics were not only more understandable than Lady GaGa’s, but that they made more sense.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Word & Words
Betsy Kendy, Claire and Randall Nathan’s granddaughter, is the Freshman Class member of the student council at The P. Michael Dickey High School in Winfast, in the “boot” corner of Periwinkle County.
The council has only one member from the frosh class, two sophomores, three juniors, and seven seniors, guaranteeing that the seniors can always win any vote.
The council had its first meeting to prepare for the coming year. School is not in session yet, and her parents were working, so Randall took her to the school and picked her up after the meeting in his un-restored 1947 Studebaker pickup truck.
“Good grief,” said Betsy, as she reached through the open window to grab the pliers that operate the door handle on her side of the truck. “What a bunch of trivia. All they wanted to talk about was what the cafeteria should have for lunch on Gary Bass Day. I said, ‘Duh. Fish, of course.’ They acted like they didn’t hear me, but then later they decided on fish.”
“Well, it sounds like you were successful, even if you didn’t get the credit,” Randall said.
“LOL! I should be so successful. They paid no attention to anything I suggested—a dance marathon to raise money for cancer kids, getting more electives and special lectures, educating voters on school funding. Nothing but which color to wear on William Luther White Day. Well, white, duh. We’re supposed to be training to be the leaders of tomorrow, and all we do is trivia.”
“That sounds about right, Betsy. All the leaders of today do is trivial, so you’re right on track.”
“Well, couldn’t you make the student council at least think about more important stuff?”
“Why me?” asked Randall.
“Well, you write this stuff, duh. You can put anything you want into it. Isn’t that the point of writing fiction, to make it come out the way you want?”
Betsy has been ahead of her classmates for a long time, and that’s not always a comfortable place to be. Randall recalled when she was a student at “Perry the Imp Pre-School ,” motto: “Every man his own plan. Every day a new way.” One day she said, “There’s this boy who rides his trike around and calls it a bike. I explained to him that ‘tri’ means three and ‘bi’ means two, so it had to be a tricycle, not a bicycle, but he kept calling it a bike, anyway.” She was three years old. Her mother said, “Well, honey, I guess your Latin is just better than his.”
“Fiction is no good, Betsy, if it’s not also true, if people can’t see their own stories in the story you’re telling. Even science fiction works only if it’s true, when people on Mars or in space have the same problems as people on earth.”
“Well, in a place like Periwinkle County, you should be able to make things come out the right way,” Betsy groused.
“Even the Bible doesn’t do that,” said Randall. “The Bible is meaningful to us because it’s true fiction. All of our stories are in there, not just the ones that come out right, but the heartbreaks and sorrows and trivia, too. That’s why the books of the Bible are the words of God. They are not “The Word of God,” even though we often say that.”
“What do you mean?
“Christ is The Word of God, not the Bible. It’s curious, why people mistake the Bible for Christ. ‘Christ’ means God’s word, God’s way of communicating to us. After all, Jesus doesn’t say that the Bible is the Word of God, but the Bible DOES say that Christ is the Word of God.”
“Are you just making this up?”
“Some people would think so. They get ‘true’ confused with ‘factual.’ But the Bible words, all of them, joy words and sorrow words both, are the words of our lives, so God speaks to us through them.”
“Well, couldn’t you at least get people to work on the important problems, instead of just blaming somebody else for them?”
“Betsy, there are some things even a fiction writer can’t do.”
The council has only one member from the frosh class, two sophomores, three juniors, and seven seniors, guaranteeing that the seniors can always win any vote.
The council had its first meeting to prepare for the coming year. School is not in session yet, and her parents were working, so Randall took her to the school and picked her up after the meeting in his un-restored 1947 Studebaker pickup truck.
“Good grief,” said Betsy, as she reached through the open window to grab the pliers that operate the door handle on her side of the truck. “What a bunch of trivia. All they wanted to talk about was what the cafeteria should have for lunch on Gary Bass Day. I said, ‘Duh. Fish, of course.’ They acted like they didn’t hear me, but then later they decided on fish.”
“Well, it sounds like you were successful, even if you didn’t get the credit,” Randall said.
“LOL! I should be so successful. They paid no attention to anything I suggested—a dance marathon to raise money for cancer kids, getting more electives and special lectures, educating voters on school funding. Nothing but which color to wear on William Luther White Day. Well, white, duh. We’re supposed to be training to be the leaders of tomorrow, and all we do is trivia.”
“That sounds about right, Betsy. All the leaders of today do is trivial, so you’re right on track.”
“Well, couldn’t you make the student council at least think about more important stuff?”
“Why me?” asked Randall.
“Well, you write this stuff, duh. You can put anything you want into it. Isn’t that the point of writing fiction, to make it come out the way you want?”
Betsy has been ahead of her classmates for a long time, and that’s not always a comfortable place to be. Randall recalled when she was a student at “Perry the Imp Pre-School ,” motto: “Every man his own plan. Every day a new way.” One day she said, “There’s this boy who rides his trike around and calls it a bike. I explained to him that ‘tri’ means three and ‘bi’ means two, so it had to be a tricycle, not a bicycle, but he kept calling it a bike, anyway.” She was three years old. Her mother said, “Well, honey, I guess your Latin is just better than his.”
“Fiction is no good, Betsy, if it’s not also true, if people can’t see their own stories in the story you’re telling. Even science fiction works only if it’s true, when people on Mars or in space have the same problems as people on earth.”
“Well, in a place like Periwinkle County, you should be able to make things come out the right way,” Betsy groused.
“Even the Bible doesn’t do that,” said Randall. “The Bible is meaningful to us because it’s true fiction. All of our stories are in there, not just the ones that come out right, but the heartbreaks and sorrows and trivia, too. That’s why the books of the Bible are the words of God. They are not “The Word of God,” even though we often say that.”
“What do you mean?
“Christ is The Word of God, not the Bible. It’s curious, why people mistake the Bible for Christ. ‘Christ’ means God’s word, God’s way of communicating to us. After all, Jesus doesn’t say that the Bible is the Word of God, but the Bible DOES say that Christ is the Word of God.”
“Are you just making this up?”
“Some people would think so. They get ‘true’ confused with ‘factual.’ But the Bible words, all of them, joy words and sorrow words both, are the words of our lives, so God speaks to us through them.”
“Well, couldn’t you at least get people to work on the important problems, instead of just blaming somebody else for them?”
“Betsy, there are some things even a fiction writer can’t do.”
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Apocalypse Delayed 'til Next Year
Brother Bo Dacious, the “Apostle” at the “End Times and Gold Investment Church,” preached this morning on why the apocalypse has been delayed. He took his text from II Revelations, the source of most theology these days.
“We shall know the time of the coming of our Lord only by watching the standings of the Central Division of The National League,” he proclaimed, “for the Lord told the Cubs, ‘Don’t do anything until I get back.’ If they ever do anything, we’ll know the end is near.”
“We shall know the time of the coming of our Lord only by watching the standings of the Central Division of The National League,” he proclaimed, “for the Lord told the Cubs, ‘Don’t do anything until I get back.’ If they ever do anything, we’ll know the end is near.”
Saturday, August 28, 2010
That's So Sad
Claire Nathan used to teach high school students to teach little children. So when three-year-old Clara Wembley and her older brother, Marp, came down the street, accompanying Eleanor and Franklin, Jake and Jenny Newland’s pot-bellied pigs, on a trip to the “Slop’s On Us” Café and Worming Center,” she thought of a little rhyme she used to teach the children.
So when Clara and Marp and Franklin and Eleanor stopped to say “Hello,” she recited it to them.
I had a little pig
I fed him in a trough
He ate so much that his tail popped off
So I got me a hammer and I got me a nail
And I made that pig a wooden tail.
Marp teared up and said, “That’s so sad.”
Claire was quite embarrassed. “Oh, I never thought of it like that before,” she said.
“If you never talked to people, you wouldn’t have these problems,” said her husband, Randall, the well-known hermudgeon [hermit + curmudgeon].
Clara is not quite as tender-hearted as Marp, however. Later that afternoon, Claire saw Clara chasing Shingles the Dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, while brandishing a hammer, a nail, and a piece of wood.
So when Clara and Marp and Franklin and Eleanor stopped to say “Hello,” she recited it to them.
I had a little pig
I fed him in a trough
He ate so much that his tail popped off
So I got me a hammer and I got me a nail
And I made that pig a wooden tail.
Marp teared up and said, “That’s so sad.”
Claire was quite embarrassed. “Oh, I never thought of it like that before,” she said.
“If you never talked to people, you wouldn’t have these problems,” said her husband, Randall, the well-known hermudgeon [hermit + curmudgeon].
Clara is not quite as tender-hearted as Marp, however. Later that afternoon, Claire saw Clara chasing Shingles the Dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, while brandishing a hammer, a nail, and a piece of wood.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Foosball Problems
The summer can get long and boring when there’s no school and camp is over and you’re too young for a job, so Randall Nathan has been taking his grandson, Johnny, to McWinkle’s each afternoon for chocolate frappe’s and foosball, since the McWinkle chain, owned and operated by Perry McWinkle, is the only place in Periwinkle County where there are foosball tables. It’s not much of a chain, one restaurant located at each end of Persimmon St, but “any foosball table in a storm,” as the old saying goes.
Randall claims he lets Johnny win, since it’s the only excuse he can muster up for his total failure. He has not won even one game all summer, but neither Johnny nor the denizens of McWinkle’s, who gather around in the afternoons to watch them play, believe it. It’s a hard experience for a man who played professional foosball.
Randall claims it’s the caffeine in the frappe’s that give Johnny that extra boost.
Last night Randall and Claire took Johnny and Betsy to Shanghiatus, the restaurant, for supper, since their parents were at a meeting. When fortune cookie time came, they took turns reading their fortunes. Randall’s said, “You must face your problem and find a solution.”
Johnny immediately said, “Your problem is that you can’t win at foosball.”
Randall is looking for a solution. He’s signed up for a course this fall in the E. Paul Unger Foosball Department at Hope’s Promise U. In the meantime, he’s paying Lucinda, in the kitchen at McWinkle’s, to replace the caffeine in Johnny’s frappe’ with chamomile tea.
Randall claims he lets Johnny win, since it’s the only excuse he can muster up for his total failure. He has not won even one game all summer, but neither Johnny nor the denizens of McWinkle’s, who gather around in the afternoons to watch them play, believe it. It’s a hard experience for a man who played professional foosball.
Randall claims it’s the caffeine in the frappe’s that give Johnny that extra boost.
Last night Randall and Claire took Johnny and Betsy to Shanghiatus, the restaurant, for supper, since their parents were at a meeting. When fortune cookie time came, they took turns reading their fortunes. Randall’s said, “You must face your problem and find a solution.”
Johnny immediately said, “Your problem is that you can’t win at foosball.”
Randall is looking for a solution. He’s signed up for a course this fall in the E. Paul Unger Foosball Department at Hope’s Promise U. In the meantime, he’s paying Lucinda, in the kitchen at McWinkle’s, to replace the caffeine in Johnny’s frappe’ with chamomile tea.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Wife Talk
Kate Bates is having one of her famous candle-light after-dark parties. Kate likes to cook more than she likes to clean, so candle light after dark works both for elegance and blindness.
Julie Wagler, Claire Nathan, and Jenny Newland are helping her get ready.
“Why don’t you get Seymour to clean?” asked Julie, “not that I think there’s anything wrong with dust bunnies.”
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms is the Neal Fisher Distinguished Professor of Social Networking at Hope’s Promise Univ. as well as Kate’s husband.
“Do you really think he would SEE anything to clean if I put a dust-mop into his hands?” asked Kate. “He can see every connection between every social group, but he can’t see an alligator in the corner of the living room.
“Right. Husbands! The bats of human society, except without the hearing and echo location,” said Jenny Newland. “Remember when I had the surprise party for Jake’s 50th birthday. I had the punch bowl out on the dining room table and food for fifty on the counters in the kitchen and he was still surprised. I could have an affair with Zeke Domkowski in the front bedroom and he wouldn’t notice.”
“Well, he might notice Zeke’s pickup was there,” said Kate in defense of Jake.
“Wally can watch three ball games at the same time,” said Julie, “but he wouldn’t notice if I walked through the living room naked.”
“Betsy and Johnny once asked Randall if he could tell the police what I was wearing that day, in case I got abducted in the parking lot of the Marmoset IGA, and the best he could come up with was ‘clothes and shoes,’ and he wasn’t even positive about the shoes,” said Claire.
“I voted against marriage for gays,” said Julie.
“But Julie,” said Claire, “you can’t take rights away from people by majority vote. What if the majority voted that Baptists couldn’t get married?”
“Well, that would be wrong, but it might be a good job to pass a law that they can’t procreate,” said Kate.
“Well, I’m not against gay marriage,” said Julie,” but it used to be, when gays had to hide it, you could get one of them to marry you so people would think they were straight. When you wanted sex you could have an affair, but in the meantime you had a husband at home who would cook and clean and notice what you were wearing.”
“Yeah, now we’re stuck with husbands who are good for nothing except sex,” said Jenny.
Then they all stood silent for a long time, looking out windows, as though they were trying to remember something.
Julie Wagler, Claire Nathan, and Jenny Newland are helping her get ready.
“Why don’t you get Seymour to clean?” asked Julie, “not that I think there’s anything wrong with dust bunnies.”
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms is the Neal Fisher Distinguished Professor of Social Networking at Hope’s Promise Univ. as well as Kate’s husband.
“Do you really think he would SEE anything to clean if I put a dust-mop into his hands?” asked Kate. “He can see every connection between every social group, but he can’t see an alligator in the corner of the living room.
“Right. Husbands! The bats of human society, except without the hearing and echo location,” said Jenny Newland. “Remember when I had the surprise party for Jake’s 50th birthday. I had the punch bowl out on the dining room table and food for fifty on the counters in the kitchen and he was still surprised. I could have an affair with Zeke Domkowski in the front bedroom and he wouldn’t notice.”
“Well, he might notice Zeke’s pickup was there,” said Kate in defense of Jake.
“Wally can watch three ball games at the same time,” said Julie, “but he wouldn’t notice if I walked through the living room naked.”
“Betsy and Johnny once asked Randall if he could tell the police what I was wearing that day, in case I got abducted in the parking lot of the Marmoset IGA, and the best he could come up with was ‘clothes and shoes,’ and he wasn’t even positive about the shoes,” said Claire.
“I voted against marriage for gays,” said Julie.
“But Julie,” said Claire, “you can’t take rights away from people by majority vote. What if the majority voted that Baptists couldn’t get married?”
“Well, that would be wrong, but it might be a good job to pass a law that they can’t procreate,” said Kate.
“Well, I’m not against gay marriage,” said Julie,” but it used to be, when gays had to hide it, you could get one of them to marry you so people would think they were straight. When you wanted sex you could have an affair, but in the meantime you had a husband at home who would cook and clean and notice what you were wearing.”
“Yeah, now we’re stuck with husbands who are good for nothing except sex,” said Jenny.
Then they all stood silent for a long time, looking out windows, as though they were trying to remember something.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Clara Stalks the Future
Three-year-old Clara Wembley, who still has not forgiven Shingles the Dog for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, went to story hour at the Ann White Children’s Library. She overheard some older kids talking about THE CELERY STALKS AT MIDNIGHT, featuring Bunnicula, the vampire bunny.
Now she has given up on weapons to wreak her revenge on Shingles and is concentrating on psychological warfare, using a Bunnicula doll and a Furby that occasionally snarls, “Clara will get you.”
No one else in the whole of Periwinkle County can understand why Shingles refuses to go home whenever he gets out of the house.
Clara went down the street to chat with Jake Newland as he sat on his front porch.
“What’s new, Clara?” asked Jake.
“Shingles wasn’t born here, you know,” said Clara. “He was born in a foreign country and he’s secretly a cat, a socialist cat that thinks the Friskies should be shared, and he’ so lazy he won’t get a job, even though there’s lots of jobs for dogs.”
“Clara, I know you’re little,” said Jake, “but you need to start thinking a little straighter. This sort of talk is not going to serve you very well when you’re older.”
“Oh, yes it will,” said Clara. “I’ve decided what I’ll do when I grow up. I’m going to go to vet school and be a talk radio show host and explain to people how to control their animals. They’ll call me Dr. Clara.”
“Well, that sounds alright,” said Jake.
Clara just laughed her evil laugh.
Now she has given up on weapons to wreak her revenge on Shingles and is concentrating on psychological warfare, using a Bunnicula doll and a Furby that occasionally snarls, “Clara will get you.”
No one else in the whole of Periwinkle County can understand why Shingles refuses to go home whenever he gets out of the house.
Clara went down the street to chat with Jake Newland as he sat on his front porch.
“What’s new, Clara?” asked Jake.
“Shingles wasn’t born here, you know,” said Clara. “He was born in a foreign country and he’s secretly a cat, a socialist cat that thinks the Friskies should be shared, and he’ so lazy he won’t get a job, even though there’s lots of jobs for dogs.”
“Clara, I know you’re little,” said Jake, “but you need to start thinking a little straighter. This sort of talk is not going to serve you very well when you’re older.”
“Oh, yes it will,” said Clara. “I’ve decided what I’ll do when I grow up. I’m going to go to vet school and be a talk radio show host and explain to people how to control their animals. They’ll call me Dr. Clara.”
“Well, that sounds alright,” said Jake.
Clara just laughed her evil laugh.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Preaching During the Sermon
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), had to go to church this morning because old friends, Ron and Carolyn Kaltenborn, had come to visit from up north in South County.
Afterwards, they went to Sue Zuki's Sushi & Violin Parlor for lunch.
"Wow, that Pastor Patty," said Ron. "She preached during the sermon."
"Isn't that when a preacher is supposed to preach?" asked Claire Nathan.
"Yes," said Carolyn, "but our pastor preaches during the announcements, and when he introduces the hymns, and during the prayer. But when it comes sermon time, he can't preach."
Afterwards, they went to Sue Zuki's Sushi & Violin Parlor for lunch.
"Wow, that Pastor Patty," said Ron. "She preached during the sermon."
"Isn't that when a preacher is supposed to preach?" asked Claire Nathan.
"Yes," said Carolyn, "but our pastor preaches during the announcements, and when he introduces the hymns, and during the prayer. But when it comes sermon time, he can't preach."
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The New Web Cam
Randall Nathan has a new computer. He left it on while he went across the hall to shower.
When he returned to his room, it was running through all its new programs, showing off. Then it got to…
“Good grief,” said Randall. “I didn’t know this thing came equipped for porn. They’re showing pictures of a naked old man. Who would want to see something so disgusting…”
Just then the phone rang. It was Betsy, Randall’s 14 yo granddaughter.
“How do you like your new computer, Grandpa? I set it up so your web cam would come on when you leave it for a while.”
“Web cam? I have a web cam? It doesn’t have a feed to YouTube, does it?”
When he returned to his room, it was running through all its new programs, showing off. Then it got to…
“Good grief,” said Randall. “I didn’t know this thing came equipped for porn. They’re showing pictures of a naked old man. Who would want to see something so disgusting…”
Just then the phone rang. It was Betsy, Randall’s 14 yo granddaughter.
“How do you like your new computer, Grandpa? I set it up so your web cam would come on when you leave it for a while.”
“Web cam? I have a web cam? It doesn’t have a feed to YouTube, does it?”
Friday, August 20, 2010
Baseball & Broken Hearts
John Jumper is the baseball writer for The Old Weird-Herald newspaper. His daughter, Junie B, ran into the kitchen, crying.
“Daddy broke my heart,” she wept at her mother. “He has always said there was nothing I could do to cause him to stop loving me, but now he says he can’t forgive me.”
Justa Jumper stalked into the remote-control room, where her husband was staring into space.
“What do you mean, telling your daughter you can’t forgive her? What did you do to break your daughter’s heart?” she demanded. “You should know the agony of heartbreak. The Cubs break your heart every day, twice if there’s a double-header. She’s a wonderful girl. She doesn’t do sexting. She doesn’t do drugs or booze. She gets good grades.”
“You say those things like they are equal to being a Yankees fan,” sniffed John Jumper.
“What?”
She turned toward the kitchen, fists dug into her waist.
“Young lady, you get in here right now and apologize to your father,” she shouted.
“Daddy broke my heart,” she wept at her mother. “He has always said there was nothing I could do to cause him to stop loving me, but now he says he can’t forgive me.”
Justa Jumper stalked into the remote-control room, where her husband was staring into space.
“What do you mean, telling your daughter you can’t forgive her? What did you do to break your daughter’s heart?” she demanded. “You should know the agony of heartbreak. The Cubs break your heart every day, twice if there’s a double-header. She’s a wonderful girl. She doesn’t do sexting. She doesn’t do drugs or booze. She gets good grades.”
“You say those things like they are equal to being a Yankees fan,” sniffed John Jumper.
“What?”
She turned toward the kitchen, fists dug into her waist.
“Young lady, you get in here right now and apologize to your father,” she shouted.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Haircuts
Johnny Kendy's parents were out of town at conferences, and his older sister, Betsy, was at persimmon camp, so Claire Nathan had him all to herself.
"Today," she said brightly, "you're going to get your hair cut."
"Well, THAT's annoying," said Johnny.
But Grandmas have a special power, so his hair came off.
Randall Nathan hated it. He knew on whom she would turn her shear power next.
"Today it's your turn," she told him this morning. "You can't go out in public to see the senator looking like that."
"I've gone out in public like this before," said Randall.
"I know," she said. "I'm getting letters."
"Today," she said brightly, "you're going to get your hair cut."
"Well, THAT's annoying," said Johnny.
But Grandmas have a special power, so his hair came off.
Randall Nathan hated it. He knew on whom she would turn her shear power next.
"Today it's your turn," she told him this morning. "You can't go out in public to see the senator looking like that."
"I've gone out in public like this before," said Randall.
"I know," she said. "I'm getting letters."
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Remembering that Special Shot
Being an hermudgeon [hermit/curmudgeon], Randall Nathan doesn’t like to be seen in public, unless coffee or baseball are involved. When they are both involved, he is willing even to be seen with Franklin and Eleanor, Jake and Jenny Newland’s pot-bellied pigs, because The Brothers Jim, who run The Buddy Mutts Café, where you cannot enter unless you have a dog with you, think that F&E are a special breed of strange canine, especially since they can do card tricks. If they beat the brother Jim who is the sculptor at a trick, he has to change the TV to “Animal Planet.” They always win. They’re not really all that smart, but they use a marked deck.
Anyway, Randall and Jake took Franklin and Eleanor and went to Buddy Mutts for OTB, which is not off track betting, even though it’s usually off the track. It’s Old Time Baseball.
They drank a special coffee brew this morning, prepared by the other brother Jim, the one who has installed a compost toilet at Buddy Mutts, in memory of Bobby Thomson. The coffee is called “The Accidental Hero,” the way Thomson referred to himself. It’s a dark roast called Miracle Brew, with a shot of espresso called “The Shot Heard ‘Round the World.”
Anyway, Randall and Jake took Franklin and Eleanor and went to Buddy Mutts for OTB, which is not off track betting, even though it’s usually off the track. It’s Old Time Baseball.
They drank a special coffee brew this morning, prepared by the other brother Jim, the one who has installed a compost toilet at Buddy Mutts, in memory of Bobby Thomson. The coffee is called “The Accidental Hero,” the way Thomson referred to himself. It’s a dark roast called Miracle Brew, with a shot of espresso called “The Shot Heard ‘Round the World.”
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Persimmon-Eating Contest
One of the events in the Prodigious Persimmon Festival last weekend was the competitive eating contest. There was a slight problem, though. No one entered.
It reminded Randall Nathan of the old question: What if they gave a war and nobody came?
Some events are best left un-entered.
It reminded Randall Nathan of the old question: What if they gave a war and nobody came?
Some events are best left un-entered.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Eating & Underwear
Like many old people, Claire and Randall Nathan like to eat their meals sitting in their recliners and watching TV, so they won’t have to acknowledge that they have nothing to talk about. They spread hand towels over themselves as they eat, since recliner eating is not exactly neat.
“Good grief,” said Claire to Randall. “How long have you been using that towel? It looks like it has the debris of a thousand meals on it.”
“It’s just getting broken in good,” he said. “I can use it for a long time yet.”
[Randall is in charge of washing towels and dishes and so prefers to use the same ones as long as possible.]
“No, you’re going to get a new, clean one,” said Claire. “What if somebody came in? Having a clean eating towel in case somebody comes by is like wearing clean underwear in case you’re in a car accident.”
“If I’m in a car wreck, my underwear won’t be clean anymore, anyway,” replied Randall, but he levered himself out of his recliner and got a clean towel.
“Good grief,” said Claire to Randall. “How long have you been using that towel? It looks like it has the debris of a thousand meals on it.”
“It’s just getting broken in good,” he said. “I can use it for a long time yet.”
[Randall is in charge of washing towels and dishes and so prefers to use the same ones as long as possible.]
“No, you’re going to get a new, clean one,” said Claire. “What if somebody came in? Having a clean eating towel in case somebody comes by is like wearing clean underwear in case you’re in a car accident.”
“If I’m in a car wreck, my underwear won’t be clean anymore, anyway,” replied Randall, but he levered himself out of his recliner and got a clean towel.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Prodigious Persimmon Festival
This is the weekend of “The Prodigious Persimmon Festival” in Periwinkle County.
The center-piece of the festival is the “Paramount Persimmon” contest, with persimmon miners and explorers and scientists all vying to dig or find or create the largest persimmon of the year.
Pastor Patty’s sermon for today was “Cleaving the Persimmon of Purity,” based on the Lectionary reading that claims Jesus did not come to earth to bring peace, but a sword. She also quoted Ezekiel 18:2, “The fathers have eaten sour persimmons, and the teeth of the children have been set on edge.”
“That’s why people around here are so sour of spirit and divisive—sour persimmons of the past,” she said. “Instead of a ‘biggest persimmon’ contest, always trying to out-do one another about whose is the biggest, we should have a contest for the one that tastes the sweetest, the persimmon of peace.”
The problem was that all the people who needed to hear it were at the “Paramount Persimmon” contest.
She had to admit, however, that when Wong Wey, the chef at the “Wok Around the Clock 24-hour restaurant and iPod Downloading Station,” took his “William Tell” brand persimmon cleaver and chopped up all those phenomenal persimmons and made them into a prodigious persimmon pudding, it made for mighty good eating.
The center-piece of the festival is the “Paramount Persimmon” contest, with persimmon miners and explorers and scientists all vying to dig or find or create the largest persimmon of the year.
Pastor Patty’s sermon for today was “Cleaving the Persimmon of Purity,” based on the Lectionary reading that claims Jesus did not come to earth to bring peace, but a sword. She also quoted Ezekiel 18:2, “The fathers have eaten sour persimmons, and the teeth of the children have been set on edge.”
“That’s why people around here are so sour of spirit and divisive—sour persimmons of the past,” she said. “Instead of a ‘biggest persimmon’ contest, always trying to out-do one another about whose is the biggest, we should have a contest for the one that tastes the sweetest, the persimmon of peace.”
The problem was that all the people who needed to hear it were at the “Paramount Persimmon” contest.
She had to admit, however, that when Wong Wey, the chef at the “Wok Around the Clock 24-hour restaurant and iPod Downloading Station,” took his “William Tell” brand persimmon cleaver and chopped up all those phenomenal persimmons and made them into a prodigious persimmon pudding, it made for mighty good eating.
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Museum of Broken Things
The “Friday the 13th Club” met this morning at the “Hard Luck is Better Than No Luck at All Diner,” on 13th St. The club meets only on Friday the 13ths, to let the members tell about all the bad luck they’ve had since their last meeting.
Josefina Krautberg, “The German Firecracker,” known primarily for her rendition of “La Weinerrocha” at “Periwinkle’s Got Talent” shows, went first. She is the curator of “The Museum of Broken Things.” It features broken toasters, broken bikes, broken hearts, broken vows, broken promises, broken spines [mostly books], and all other things known for their brokenness. The museum is situated upstairs over the firehouse that was built in 1910.
“You know Maurice Greeley, the museum attendant?” she asked.
“That young nerd guy?” said Kate Bates.
“Yes. I know some people feel we don’t need an attendant, but I can’t always be on the museum floor when people come in, what with my broken leg. But the economy improved so much because of the tax cuts for millionaires that we were able to hire Maurice.”
“Wait a minute,” said Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms. “The economic improvement was because of tax cuts for millionaires? Now because they have so much more money from the tax cuts they are able to contribute to the museum so you can hire staff?”
“Oh, no. They invest their tax cut money in China. Millionaires break things a lot, but they don’t like to be reminded of it afterwards, so they don’t contribute to the museum. Our income is still the same, what we get from donations and selling knickknacks we get from the Chinese factories the millionaires invest in, but Mayor Reckonwith said the economy is better because of the tax cuts, and politicians think if they say something, that makes it true, so we were able to hire an attendant, specifically Maurice Greeley, her nephew.”
“Sounds necrophilic, or neopolitan, or narcissistic,” said Edith Whistle, on break from cooking at The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Sushi Restaurant.
“I think you’re talking about nepotism,” said Pastor Patty.
“Whatever floats your boat,” said Edith.
“Anyway,” said Josefina, not especially happy about being interrupted, but assuming it was just more bad luck that Edith was there, “we had TWO patrons come in yesterday.”
“Wow,” said Paige Turner, the owner of “If You’re Reading It You’re Buying It Books Store and Counseling Clinic,” who was there to complain about Amazon’s announcement that it was now selling more ebooks than real books. “That’s a lot of people at one time.”
“Oh, it wasn’t at one time,” said Josefina. “One was in the morning and one was in the afternoon. But two in one day was more than Maurice Greeley could take. You know that window on the west side of the building?”
“The one above Pocket Park,” asked Pastor Patty, “the one named for Polly Pocket?”
“That’s the one,” said Josefina. “We keep an iced-tea Snapple out on the counter to revive anyone who is overcome with nostalgia or grief as they look at the broken things. When that second person came in, Maurice was overcome with too much social contact. He just grabbed the Snapple and hit the chute.”
“He what?” asked Charley Bob Diamond, the college sophomore who hasn’t returned to college yet, much to the dismay of everyone in town.
“That window has a chute attached to it,” said Josefina. “It was a broken invention. This was back in the days that people eloped a lot. Mycroft Golden thought it would be easier for girls to get out of second story windows if they didn’t have to climb down ladders, so he developed the second-story chute. When fathers found out about it, though, the chute hit the fan. I think the one on our window is the original and only chute that Mycroft made, out of special-strength Saran Wrap. Maurice Greeley just opened the window and the chute deployed and that young man went west.”
Josefina Krautberg, “The German Firecracker,” known primarily for her rendition of “La Weinerrocha” at “Periwinkle’s Got Talent” shows, went first. She is the curator of “The Museum of Broken Things.” It features broken toasters, broken bikes, broken hearts, broken vows, broken promises, broken spines [mostly books], and all other things known for their brokenness. The museum is situated upstairs over the firehouse that was built in 1910.
“You know Maurice Greeley, the museum attendant?” she asked.
“That young nerd guy?” said Kate Bates.
“Yes. I know some people feel we don’t need an attendant, but I can’t always be on the museum floor when people come in, what with my broken leg. But the economy improved so much because of the tax cuts for millionaires that we were able to hire Maurice.”
“Wait a minute,” said Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms. “The economic improvement was because of tax cuts for millionaires? Now because they have so much more money from the tax cuts they are able to contribute to the museum so you can hire staff?”
“Oh, no. They invest their tax cut money in China. Millionaires break things a lot, but they don’t like to be reminded of it afterwards, so they don’t contribute to the museum. Our income is still the same, what we get from donations and selling knickknacks we get from the Chinese factories the millionaires invest in, but Mayor Reckonwith said the economy is better because of the tax cuts, and politicians think if they say something, that makes it true, so we were able to hire an attendant, specifically Maurice Greeley, her nephew.”
“Sounds necrophilic, or neopolitan, or narcissistic,” said Edith Whistle, on break from cooking at The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Sushi Restaurant.
“I think you’re talking about nepotism,” said Pastor Patty.
“Whatever floats your boat,” said Edith.
“Anyway,” said Josefina, not especially happy about being interrupted, but assuming it was just more bad luck that Edith was there, “we had TWO patrons come in yesterday.”
“Wow,” said Paige Turner, the owner of “If You’re Reading It You’re Buying It Books Store and Counseling Clinic,” who was there to complain about Amazon’s announcement that it was now selling more ebooks than real books. “That’s a lot of people at one time.”
“Oh, it wasn’t at one time,” said Josefina. “One was in the morning and one was in the afternoon. But two in one day was more than Maurice Greeley could take. You know that window on the west side of the building?”
“The one above Pocket Park,” asked Pastor Patty, “the one named for Polly Pocket?”
“That’s the one,” said Josefina. “We keep an iced-tea Snapple out on the counter to revive anyone who is overcome with nostalgia or grief as they look at the broken things. When that second person came in, Maurice was overcome with too much social contact. He just grabbed the Snapple and hit the chute.”
“He what?” asked Charley Bob Diamond, the college sophomore who hasn’t returned to college yet, much to the dismay of everyone in town.
“That window has a chute attached to it,” said Josefina. “It was a broken invention. This was back in the days that people eloped a lot. Mycroft Golden thought it would be easier for girls to get out of second story windows if they didn’t have to climb down ladders, so he developed the second-story chute. When fathers found out about it, though, the chute hit the fan. I think the one on our window is the original and only chute that Mycroft made, out of special-strength Saran Wrap. Maurice Greeley just opened the window and the chute deployed and that young man went west.”
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Deer Crossing Dilemma
Hortense Bandervilt called up Sheriff Shiva ben-Rockin, the only Hindu Rastafarian reggae Baptist rapper sheriff in the state. He is a Republican.
Republican Indian-Americans, or other brown-Americans, who want to go into politics, add a Christian denomination to their resume’. [See Jindal, Bobby and Haley, Nikki] It is a good and acceptable strategy. It does not work for Democrats, though. [See Obama, Barack]
Hortense is a Democrat, but she voted for Sheriff ben-Rockin because she liked the way he reggae rapped at his campaign stops. This is one of the better ways that voting decisions are made.
“Sheriff,” she said, “you’ve got to come out here by my house and take down this Deer Crossing sign.”
“Why is that Ms. Bandervilt?”
“It’s not safe. They keep trying to cross here, and they keep getting hit by cars.”
At least Sheriff ben-Rockin has an idea for a new rap.
Republican Indian-Americans, or other brown-Americans, who want to go into politics, add a Christian denomination to their resume’. [See Jindal, Bobby and Haley, Nikki] It is a good and acceptable strategy. It does not work for Democrats, though. [See Obama, Barack]
Hortense is a Democrat, but she voted for Sheriff ben-Rockin because she liked the way he reggae rapped at his campaign stops. This is one of the better ways that voting decisions are made.
“Sheriff,” she said, “you’ve got to come out here by my house and take down this Deer Crossing sign.”
“Why is that Ms. Bandervilt?”
“It’s not safe. They keep trying to cross here, and they keep getting hit by cars.”
At least Sheriff ben-Rockin has an idea for a new rap.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
It's Hard to be a Crow
Claire and Randall Nathan were sitting on their deck, having breakfast, feeling the morning air, hearing the morning sounds.
“It must be so hard to be a crow,” she said, “since the other birds have such pretty voices. That must be why they caw so loudly and so often, trying to drown out the other birds, so they don’t have to know how ugly they sound.”
“You’ve been watching too many politicians on TV,” said Randall.
“It must be so hard to be a crow,” she said, “since the other birds have such pretty voices. That must be why they caw so loudly and so often, trying to drown out the other birds, so they don’t have to know how ugly they sound.”
“You’ve been watching too many politicians on TV,” said Randall.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Chirping Season
Claire Nathan was sitting under an umbrella on the patio at the “Cha-Cha Chai-Chai Mexican Tea House and Purveyors of Fine Digestion Products Salon” with Randall, drinking a grande’ Earl Grey La Cucaracha, when she observed that this is the chirping season.
“Birds, frogs, bugs, chipmunks, squirrels… all chirping," she said.”
Just then a truck from the “Over the Rainbow Garbage Pickup and Package Delivery” began to back up.
“Even the trucks are chirping,” Claire said.
Unfortunately she said it in front of Mayor Amanda Reckonwith.
“You’re right,” shouted the mayor. “The chirping season. Of course. We need a ‘Chirping Season’ festival to bring in the tourists.”
She hurried off to make plans for yet another festival.
“Thank God you said chirping instead of burping,” said Randall.
“Every season is the burping season with you,” replied Claire.
“Birds, frogs, bugs, chipmunks, squirrels… all chirping," she said.”
Just then a truck from the “Over the Rainbow Garbage Pickup and Package Delivery” began to back up.
“Even the trucks are chirping,” Claire said.
Unfortunately she said it in front of Mayor Amanda Reckonwith.
“You’re right,” shouted the mayor. “The chirping season. Of course. We need a ‘Chirping Season’ festival to bring in the tourists.”
She hurried off to make plans for yet another festival.
“Thank God you said chirping instead of burping,” said Randall.
“Every season is the burping season with you,” replied Claire.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The Worship Service Known Ever After as "O Excrement!"
Pastor Patty was just getting up from her big throne chair behind the pulpit, ready to give the traditional call to worship, “The Lord is in his holy temple; let all keep silence before God,” when she heard a voice coming down the aisle say, “Oh, excrement!” It was actually another word that means “excrement.”
“Well, not exactly what I was going to say to start the service,” thought The Rev. Patricia Niebuhr, “but considering that I’m preaching on ‘where your treasure is, there is your heart also,’ when people realize where and what their treasure is, ‘O excrement!’ is probably appropriate.”
Then she saw the back end of Nicyann Darvon hurrying back down the middle aisle toward the front doors. Turns out she had finally gotten her husband, Norbert, to agree to come to church, but since he never comes, by the time she got the kids and her mother ready and into the car and into the church, coming down the aisle, she remembered that she had left Norbert at home.
When it came time for the Kids’ Sermon, and Pastor Patty announced that it would be given this morning by Cathleen Cathaway, Cathleen, sitting in the choir loft behind the altar table, exclaimed, “O excrement!” Then her face went very red. Turned out Cathleen had forgotten all about the Kids’ Sermon and had not prepared anything.
Pastor Patty raised her hand and pronounced the benediction. She wasn’t going to take any more chances.
“Well, not exactly what I was going to say to start the service,” thought The Rev. Patricia Niebuhr, “but considering that I’m preaching on ‘where your treasure is, there is your heart also,’ when people realize where and what their treasure is, ‘O excrement!’ is probably appropriate.”
Then she saw the back end of Nicyann Darvon hurrying back down the middle aisle toward the front doors. Turns out she had finally gotten her husband, Norbert, to agree to come to church, but since he never comes, by the time she got the kids and her mother ready and into the car and into the church, coming down the aisle, she remembered that she had left Norbert at home.
When it came time for the Kids’ Sermon, and Pastor Patty announced that it would be given this morning by Cathleen Cathaway, Cathleen, sitting in the choir loft behind the altar table, exclaimed, “O excrement!” Then her face went very red. Turned out Cathleen had forgotten all about the Kids’ Sermon and had not prepared anything.
Pastor Patty raised her hand and pronounced the benediction. She wasn’t going to take any more chances.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
A Perfect Rat Poison Day
Claire Nathan returned home and announced: “I made 10 stops in 2 hours running errands, and every one of them worked. I got what I needed every time. It took the cashier at K-Mart only 3 tries to get my rat poison scanned correctly. A perfect day!”
But we don’t have rats, thought Randall, so why do we need rat poison? Unless she’s trying to get on one of those true crime shows…
Then he remembered how, after church, Babette Bandervilt, the youngest of the 96-year-old Bandervilt triplets, had told Claire, “Oh, honey, life doesn’t start for a woman until her husband dies. Then you can stop taking care of a man and start living your own life.”
What had brought that on? Had Claire asked Babette about how to get rid of her husband and he just wasn’t listening? Had she done it to see if he were listening? Or because she really wanted to know?
Later he had his dermatology appointment with Lana Caine, M.D. He asked her if women needed rat poison for any reason other than killing rats or husbands.
“Same thing,” said Lana.
I should have known better than to ask a woman whose analysis of men is only skin-deep, thought Randall.
He left Lana Caine’s office and stopped by the Freeze-Dry Coffee Shop and Cryogenics Emporium. Amos Propheter, the Elmer Unger Distinguished Professor of Farmocology at Hope’s Promise U, was drinking a persimmon latte’-dah. Randall told him about Claire and the rat poison.
“You need to come with me tonight,” said Amos.
“Where?” asked Randall. “Is there an endangered husbands group?”
“No. We need to go to the Tea Party Rally. You’ve got the right level of suspicion, paranoia, and non-facts.”
But we don’t have rats, thought Randall, so why do we need rat poison? Unless she’s trying to get on one of those true crime shows…
Then he remembered how, after church, Babette Bandervilt, the youngest of the 96-year-old Bandervilt triplets, had told Claire, “Oh, honey, life doesn’t start for a woman until her husband dies. Then you can stop taking care of a man and start living your own life.”
What had brought that on? Had Claire asked Babette about how to get rid of her husband and he just wasn’t listening? Had she done it to see if he were listening? Or because she really wanted to know?
Later he had his dermatology appointment with Lana Caine, M.D. He asked her if women needed rat poison for any reason other than killing rats or husbands.
“Same thing,” said Lana.
I should have known better than to ask a woman whose analysis of men is only skin-deep, thought Randall.
He left Lana Caine’s office and stopped by the Freeze-Dry Coffee Shop and Cryogenics Emporium. Amos Propheter, the Elmer Unger Distinguished Professor of Farmocology at Hope’s Promise U, was drinking a persimmon latte’-dah. Randall told him about Claire and the rat poison.
“You need to come with me tonight,” said Amos.
“Where?” asked Randall. “Is there an endangered husbands group?”
“No. We need to go to the Tea Party Rally. You’ve got the right level of suspicion, paranoia, and non-facts.”
Friday, August 6, 2010
Who Is Willie P. Davidson?
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), and his wife, Claire, (Likewise), took their grandchildren, Betsy and Johnny, to see the Reds and Brewers play.
Randall noticed that the middle-aged, ponytailed beer vendor looked closely at him each time he came around. Randall assumed the beer guy was trying to “eye” him into buying a beer. No way, though, that he was paying eight bucks for a beer that he could get for free by preaching the funeral of one of members of the Hell’s Angles Motorcycle Gang and Geometry Club. Besides, he doesn’t like beer.
Along about the fifth inning, though, the beer vendor stopped and said, “Are you Willie P. Davidson?”
“OMG,” thought Randall. “How could a beer vendor in Milwaukee have found out my secret identity?”
He ran through all the possibilities.
Was this someone he had worked undercover with in Mexico? No. Margarita Esmerelda Juanita Conchita Garcia-Gomez had been responsible for cleaning up after that fiasco, and she never left a stone unturned, nor a tern unstoned, either, when they had been on the beach.
Perhaps it was a musician, from his stint as the violin soloist with the Dubai Symphony. He’d had full Ringo hair then, though. No chance of recognition now.
Had somebody actually broken the Vadinci Code he had labored on so long to hide the secrets of the persimmon bomb so it could not be used to destroy the world?
Hamas? KGB? The Dixie Chicks? The boys from Brazil? The girl with the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant tattoo?
What the… Oh, Claire was shaking his arm. He looked up. The beer guy was holding a bottle out to him.
“Randall, the man asked ‘Are you willing to please pass this on?’”
Randall reluctantly took the beer and passed it down the row. “Well, it sounded like ‘Are you Willie P. Davidson?’ to me,” he muttered.
[Author’s note: While watching the Reds beat the Brewers on July 28, a beer vendor, as described above, actually did say to me, “Are you Willie P. Davidson?” We still have not figured out why.]
Randall noticed that the middle-aged, ponytailed beer vendor looked closely at him each time he came around. Randall assumed the beer guy was trying to “eye” him into buying a beer. No way, though, that he was paying eight bucks for a beer that he could get for free by preaching the funeral of one of members of the Hell’s Angles Motorcycle Gang and Geometry Club. Besides, he doesn’t like beer.
Along about the fifth inning, though, the beer vendor stopped and said, “Are you Willie P. Davidson?”
“OMG,” thought Randall. “How could a beer vendor in Milwaukee have found out my secret identity?”
He ran through all the possibilities.
Was this someone he had worked undercover with in Mexico? No. Margarita Esmerelda Juanita Conchita Garcia-Gomez had been responsible for cleaning up after that fiasco, and she never left a stone unturned, nor a tern unstoned, either, when they had been on the beach.
Perhaps it was a musician, from his stint as the violin soloist with the Dubai Symphony. He’d had full Ringo hair then, though. No chance of recognition now.
Had somebody actually broken the Vadinci Code he had labored on so long to hide the secrets of the persimmon bomb so it could not be used to destroy the world?
Hamas? KGB? The Dixie Chicks? The boys from Brazil? The girl with the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant tattoo?
What the… Oh, Claire was shaking his arm. He looked up. The beer guy was holding a bottle out to him.
“Randall, the man asked ‘Are you willing to please pass this on?’”
Randall reluctantly took the beer and passed it down the row. “Well, it sounded like ‘Are you Willie P. Davidson?’ to me,” he muttered.
[Author’s note: While watching the Reds beat the Brewers on July 28, a beer vendor, as described above, actually did say to me, “Are you Willie P. Davidson?” We still have not figured out why.]
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Baby's Second Word
Little Chetelina Atkinson was back at The Whistle & Thistle this morning. It was only 10 days ago that she spoke her first word, right there at The W&T.
“Favre!”
Today her father, Chet, was crying into his persimmonmeal.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Edith Whistle.
“Chetelina has learned a new word,” said Roselina.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” asked Edith.
“Not if it’s…”
“Retire! Favre! Retire!” cried Chetelina.
[Author’s Note: In the obits of the Princeton, IN newspaper online today, there was one for a woman named “Nicyann.” Durn. Now I can’t use that in PC.]
“Favre!”
Today her father, Chet, was crying into his persimmonmeal.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Edith Whistle.
“Chetelina has learned a new word,” said Roselina.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” asked Edith.
“Not if it’s…”
“Retire! Favre! Retire!” cried Chetelina.
[Author’s Note: In the obits of the Princeton, IN newspaper online today, there was one for a woman named “Nicyann.” Durn. Now I can’t use that in PC.]
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Chelsea's Wedding
Randall Nathan went to the “Good to the Last Slop Coffee Shop and Sweet Corn Exchange” this morning. Claire had told him to get something while he was there, something specific, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Some vegetable sort of thing. Yellow. Seasonal. He could think of all those attributes to what she wanted, but not of the thing itself. So he decided to have another cup of Moose Drool while he worked on it.
“I see here in the ‘Old Weird-Herald’ newspaper that Elsie Newmeadow died. It says she was living in Lungville, but that she formally lived in Snake Run,” said Zeke Dombrowski to the room at large.
“Shouldn’t that be ‘formerly’ instead of ‘formally?’” asked “Bruce the Bruce” Roach, leader of the Hell’s Angles Motorcycle Gang and Geometry Club, who was having Earl Grey decaf tea.
“Maybe she wore an evening gown in Snake Run,” said Eleanor Elegante’, the president of The Alter Guild at St. Swithbart’s Episcopal Church and Antique Auction House. They used to have an Altar Guild, but they started doing alternations to make money for their mission project to help the persimmon-deprived and stopped altering the altar.
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” said Bruce. “Anything else interesting in The OWH? ”
“Says Chelsea Clinton got married. You know, the girl who did that persimmon-deprivation research for her degree at Stanford.”
“Oh, yes. I wondered what happened to her,” said Eleanor.
“Says she married a Jewish boy. Had a traditional Jewish wedding, chuppah and Ketubah and everything. Served persimmon pudding at the reception.”
“That was a nice touch, considering her research here and all, but I’m not sure it’s Jewish,” said Edith Whistle, on her usual morning break from cooking at The Whistle & Thistle Pub and Broomcorn Exchange.
“Must be kosher, though, because it says the rabbi who did the service had been on a spiritual pilgrimage so he ate three helpings,” Zeke reported.
“Rabbi. I’ve never understood the appeal of that. What kind of job is that for a nice Jewish boy?” said Herschel Greenberg, of Greenberg Studebaker and DeSoto Sales & Service.
“But Chelsea went to The Methodist when she was here doing her research, didn’t she?” asked Bruce. “Didn’t they do a joint Jewish-Methodist wedding?”
“Yep,” said Zeke. “Says here in the OWH that there was a Methodist minister ‘in attendance.’ Sounds like he didn’t do anything. Guess he just had to be there to report to the Methodist headquarters, or something.”
“Hey, Randall, didn’t Bill call you and ask you to be the Methodist preacher for that wedding?” asked Pastor Patty. “How come you weren’t there?”
“Theological differences,” said Randall. “You know my vows do not allow me to eat persimmon pudding on a Saturday.”
“I thought Methodist headquarters was right here, since this is where all the Methodists hang out, right here at Good to the Last Slop Coffee House and Sweet Corn Exchange,” said Bruce
“Sweet corn! That was it! I want sweet corn!” yelled Randall Nathan.
“This is a sweet corn exchange,” said Maxwell House, the owner. “You got anything to exchange for it?”
“Money?”
“That will do,” said Max.
[Author’s note: In the obits in the Princeton, IN newspaper online for today, it actually does say that a lady “formally lived in Snake Run.”]
[Author’s additional note: My “religion for people in their winter years” blog is at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
“I see here in the ‘Old Weird-Herald’ newspaper that Elsie Newmeadow died. It says she was living in Lungville, but that she formally lived in Snake Run,” said Zeke Dombrowski to the room at large.
“Shouldn’t that be ‘formerly’ instead of ‘formally?’” asked “Bruce the Bruce” Roach, leader of the Hell’s Angles Motorcycle Gang and Geometry Club, who was having Earl Grey decaf tea.
“Maybe she wore an evening gown in Snake Run,” said Eleanor Elegante’, the president of The Alter Guild at St. Swithbart’s Episcopal Church and Antique Auction House. They used to have an Altar Guild, but they started doing alternations to make money for their mission project to help the persimmon-deprived and stopped altering the altar.
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” said Bruce. “Anything else interesting in The OWH? ”
“Says Chelsea Clinton got married. You know, the girl who did that persimmon-deprivation research for her degree at Stanford.”
“Oh, yes. I wondered what happened to her,” said Eleanor.
“Says she married a Jewish boy. Had a traditional Jewish wedding, chuppah and Ketubah and everything. Served persimmon pudding at the reception.”
“That was a nice touch, considering her research here and all, but I’m not sure it’s Jewish,” said Edith Whistle, on her usual morning break from cooking at The Whistle & Thistle Pub and Broomcorn Exchange.
“Must be kosher, though, because it says the rabbi who did the service had been on a spiritual pilgrimage so he ate three helpings,” Zeke reported.
“Rabbi. I’ve never understood the appeal of that. What kind of job is that for a nice Jewish boy?” said Herschel Greenberg, of Greenberg Studebaker and DeSoto Sales & Service.
“But Chelsea went to The Methodist when she was here doing her research, didn’t she?” asked Bruce. “Didn’t they do a joint Jewish-Methodist wedding?”
“Yep,” said Zeke. “Says here in the OWH that there was a Methodist minister ‘in attendance.’ Sounds like he didn’t do anything. Guess he just had to be there to report to the Methodist headquarters, or something.”
“Hey, Randall, didn’t Bill call you and ask you to be the Methodist preacher for that wedding?” asked Pastor Patty. “How come you weren’t there?”
“Theological differences,” said Randall. “You know my vows do not allow me to eat persimmon pudding on a Saturday.”
“I thought Methodist headquarters was right here, since this is where all the Methodists hang out, right here at Good to the Last Slop Coffee House and Sweet Corn Exchange,” said Bruce
“Sweet corn! That was it! I want sweet corn!” yelled Randall Nathan.
“This is a sweet corn exchange,” said Maxwell House, the owner. “You got anything to exchange for it?”
“Money?”
“That will do,” said Max.
[Author’s note: In the obits in the Princeton, IN newspaper online for today, it actually does say that a lady “formally lived in Snake Run.”]
[Author’s additional note: My “religion for people in their winter years” blog is at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Dinner Party
Phillippians J. Shufflebottom was pleased, when he popped into The Mills of the Gods Coffee House this morning, to hear that people were talking about the “Ten Thousand Hours” song he wrote for Donna Prima to sing at the summer commencement of Hope’s Promise U yesterday.
“Yes, I love Malcolm Gladwell. He explains things so well. I’m putting him on my list,” said Kate Bates.
“What list is that?” asked her husband, Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms. He sounded suspicious. He’s heard of lists.
“The list for my dinner party. It’s a game. If you can have six people, living or dead, not counting family and friends, people you already know, who would you invite?”
“That’s easy for me,” Edith Whistle, who is the cooking half of The Whistle and Thistle Eating Emporium, who takes a break each morning by going out somewhere else for coffee. “I’d start with Martha Stewart, and then Mr. Food, and…”
“If it’s got to be a Stewart, it should be Jon,” said Ben.
“No, Colbert,” said Remington Watts, Pastor Patty’s son, named for the painter, not the rifle.
“Does your mother let you watch Colbert?”asked Edith.
“No, duh,” said Remington. “I’m eight. I have a secret night job with tech support. I can make it look to Mom like it’s Spongebob on the TV when I’m really watching Colbert.”
“That guy on Animal Planet,” said three-year old Clara Wembley. “I’d ask him how to make Shingles, the dog, an Animal Planet star, so he will have to go to Hollywood and become a drug addict and go to jail. Then I’ll have my revenge,” she laughed evily.
“Lindsey Lohan,” said fifteen-year-old Justus Soon, who is secretly in love with Pastor Patty and tries to make people think he is a normal teenager.
“Amelia Earhart,” said super-agent Phyllis Ethridge. “Then I’d get rich publishing a book about what really happened to her.”
“What about you?” everyone asked Judge Thistlethwaite, who just celebrated his 100th birthday.
“Johnny Wyrostek,” said Judge.
“Who?”
“My childhood hero. Just an average baseball player, at most, but the best player on a below-average team. I figured that would be my life.”
“Did it work out that way?” asked Phyllis.
“Too early to say,” said Judge Thistlethwaite.
“Yes, I love Malcolm Gladwell. He explains things so well. I’m putting him on my list,” said Kate Bates.
“What list is that?” asked her husband, Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms. He sounded suspicious. He’s heard of lists.
“The list for my dinner party. It’s a game. If you can have six people, living or dead, not counting family and friends, people you already know, who would you invite?”
“That’s easy for me,” Edith Whistle, who is the cooking half of The Whistle and Thistle Eating Emporium, who takes a break each morning by going out somewhere else for coffee. “I’d start with Martha Stewart, and then Mr. Food, and…”
“If it’s got to be a Stewart, it should be Jon,” said Ben.
“No, Colbert,” said Remington Watts, Pastor Patty’s son, named for the painter, not the rifle.
“Does your mother let you watch Colbert?”asked Edith.
“No, duh,” said Remington. “I’m eight. I have a secret night job with tech support. I can make it look to Mom like it’s Spongebob on the TV when I’m really watching Colbert.”
“That guy on Animal Planet,” said three-year old Clara Wembley. “I’d ask him how to make Shingles, the dog, an Animal Planet star, so he will have to go to Hollywood and become a drug addict and go to jail. Then I’ll have my revenge,” she laughed evily.
“Lindsey Lohan,” said fifteen-year-old Justus Soon, who is secretly in love with Pastor Patty and tries to make people think he is a normal teenager.
“Amelia Earhart,” said super-agent Phyllis Ethridge. “Then I’d get rich publishing a book about what really happened to her.”
“What about you?” everyone asked Judge Thistlethwaite, who just celebrated his 100th birthday.
“Johnny Wyrostek,” said Judge.
“Who?”
“My childhood hero. Just an average baseball player, at most, but the best player on a below-average team. I figured that would be my life.”
“Did it work out that way?” asked Phyllis.
“Too early to say,” said Judge Thistlethwaite.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Commencement Time
Yesterday afternoon, after Donna Prima sang “Ten Thousand Hours,” it was time for The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), to give the graduation speech for the summer commencement at the newly named Hope’s Promise University. President Nan Tucket had told him just to give a piece of good advice, state some eternal truth, and acknowledge a persistent question.
Kaleb Kudzuski, the R.Y. Butts distinguished prof of kazoo, played Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” softly as background while Randall spoke. Dr. Nathan found in his preparation that there were so many pieces of good advice, statements of truth, and persistent questions, that he thought he should just give them all and let the graduates choose which they wished to observe. Here is his speech.
GOOD ADVICE: Remember the Alamo. Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his moccasins. Only you can prevent forest fires. Just say no. Don’t drink and drive. If your eye offends you, pluck it out. When in trouble, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout. Make new friends but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold. Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Don’t complain; don’t explain. Keep the faith. Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think on these things. Keep your eye on the prize. Don’t spit into the wind. Don’t pee uphill. Never cook eggs that are not room temperature. Never trust a fart. Measure twice, saw once. Stand by me. Stand by your man. Don’t think twice; it’s alright. Keep a song in your heart. One day at a time. Give it 110%. Let the dead bury the dead. Drop, cover, and roll. Shake, rattle, and roll. Shake and bake. Rescue the perishing. Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me. Turn your head and cough. Duck. Have a good day. Enjoy yourself; it’s later than you think. Pass with care. Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow. Don’t mess with Mother Nature. Stay in the moment. Plan ahead. You must be present to win. No day is over if it makes a memory. The longest journey starts with a single step. Think outside the box. Push the envelope.
ETERNAL TRUTHS: There’s always room for jello. It’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. You deserve a break today. It’s a small mind that can think of only one way to spell a word. Different strokes for different folks. It is what it is. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. The love of money is the root of all evil. Three strikes and you’re out. The answer is blowin’ in the wind. Practice makes perfect. It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness. We have nothing to fear but fear itself. The future lies before us. I have a dream. You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true. Stay the course. Those who fight and run away live to fight another day. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me. Beware the Brindlebeast. Take care, beware, of the green-eyed dragon with the 13 tails. Keep your chin up, your head down, your eye on the ball, your nose to the grindstone, your shoulder to the wheel.
PERSISTENT QUESTIONS: Who will stop the rain? Who let the dogs out? If not you, who? If not now, when? Whose side are you on? Will you be my neighbor? If birds fly over the rainbow, why oh why can’t I?
FINALLY: Keep your eye on the Goooooal!
Kaleb Kudzuski, the R.Y. Butts distinguished prof of kazoo, played Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” softly as background while Randall spoke. Dr. Nathan found in his preparation that there were so many pieces of good advice, statements of truth, and persistent questions, that he thought he should just give them all and let the graduates choose which they wished to observe. Here is his speech.
GOOD ADVICE: Remember the Alamo. Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his moccasins. Only you can prevent forest fires. Just say no. Don’t drink and drive. If your eye offends you, pluck it out. When in trouble, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout. Make new friends but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold. Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Don’t complain; don’t explain. Keep the faith. Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think on these things. Keep your eye on the prize. Don’t spit into the wind. Don’t pee uphill. Never cook eggs that are not room temperature. Never trust a fart. Measure twice, saw once. Stand by me. Stand by your man. Don’t think twice; it’s alright. Keep a song in your heart. One day at a time. Give it 110%. Let the dead bury the dead. Drop, cover, and roll. Shake, rattle, and roll. Shake and bake. Rescue the perishing. Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me. Turn your head and cough. Duck. Have a good day. Enjoy yourself; it’s later than you think. Pass with care. Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow. Don’t mess with Mother Nature. Stay in the moment. Plan ahead. You must be present to win. No day is over if it makes a memory. The longest journey starts with a single step. Think outside the box. Push the envelope.
ETERNAL TRUTHS: There’s always room for jello. It’s easier to get forgiveness than permission. You deserve a break today. It’s a small mind that can think of only one way to spell a word. Different strokes for different folks. It is what it is. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. The love of money is the root of all evil. Three strikes and you’re out. The answer is blowin’ in the wind. Practice makes perfect. It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness. We have nothing to fear but fear itself. The future lies before us. I have a dream. You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true. Stay the course. Those who fight and run away live to fight another day. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me. Beware the Brindlebeast. Take care, beware, of the green-eyed dragon with the 13 tails. Keep your chin up, your head down, your eye on the ball, your nose to the grindstone, your shoulder to the wheel.
PERSISTENT QUESTIONS: Who will stop the rain? Who let the dogs out? If not you, who? If not now, when? Whose side are you on? Will you be my neighbor? If birds fly over the rainbow, why oh why can’t I?
FINALLY: Keep your eye on the Goooooal!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Ten Thousand Hours
Phillipians J. Shufflebottom, the “Malcolm Gladwell Distinguished Professor of Lengthy Articles” at Hope’s Promise U, has written a song for the summer graduation ceremony, for 3 tenors and a loaner cello. Or maybe that’s “lone” cello; it’s hard for him to read his own writing on his musical scores.
Dr. Shufflebottom is a fan of Malcolm Gladwell and the “10 thousand hours” thesis. You have to put in 10 thousand hours before you’re fully adept, the way Bill Gates and the Beatles did. They didn’t just burst onto the scene. They put in 10 thousand hours learning their craft, then burst onto the scene. He was especially gratified to hear Bobby Valentine, an ESPN baseball analyst, say of a particular player this week, “He’s put in his ten thousand hours.”
This is the song Professor Shufflebottom has written for Donna Prima, the Stephanie Smith-Wilkey Distinguished Professor of Autoharp, Washboard, and Voice, to sing at commencement this afternoon:
VERSE 1
I heard a baby laughing and I saw a young girl dance
I saw a daddy playing ball with a boy in short blue pants
I’ve had minutes and I’ve had moments, the fleeing beauty of a flower
But when it comes to sorrow I’ve put in ten thousand hours
REFRAIN
Ten thousand hours, ten thousand hours,
You’re an expert when you’ve done then thousand hours
I’ve had minutes, I’ve had moments, joy bright as the lone daystar
But when it comes to sorrow, I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
VERSE 2
I carved initials in a tree, a moment of romance
I walked across a stage with pride, and won a game of chance
I’ve had blinks and I’ve had glimpses, a quick vision from a tower
But when it comes to sorrow I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
REFRAIN
Ten thousand hours, ten thousand hours,
You’re an expert when you’ve done then thousand hours
I’ve had minutes, I’ve had moments, joy bright as the lone daystar
But when it comes to sorrow, I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
VERSE 3
I’ve been to the place where courage sticks and to the tipping point
I saw what the dog saw and it did not disappoint
I’ve seen the outliers in their prime and felt them in their power
But when it comes to sorrow, I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
REFRAIN
Ten thousand hours, ten thousand hours,
You’re an expert when you’ve done then thousand hours
I’ve had minutes, I’ve had moments, joy bright as the lone daystar
But when it comes to sorrow, I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
[Author’s note: “The Tipping Point,” “Blink,” “Outliers,” and “What the Dog Saw” are titles of Malcolm Gladwell’s books. He writes of the Ten Thousand Hours thesis in “Outliers.”]
Dr. Shufflebottom is a fan of Malcolm Gladwell and the “10 thousand hours” thesis. You have to put in 10 thousand hours before you’re fully adept, the way Bill Gates and the Beatles did. They didn’t just burst onto the scene. They put in 10 thousand hours learning their craft, then burst onto the scene. He was especially gratified to hear Bobby Valentine, an ESPN baseball analyst, say of a particular player this week, “He’s put in his ten thousand hours.”
This is the song Professor Shufflebottom has written for Donna Prima, the Stephanie Smith-Wilkey Distinguished Professor of Autoharp, Washboard, and Voice, to sing at commencement this afternoon:
VERSE 1
I heard a baby laughing and I saw a young girl dance
I saw a daddy playing ball with a boy in short blue pants
I’ve had minutes and I’ve had moments, the fleeing beauty of a flower
But when it comes to sorrow I’ve put in ten thousand hours
REFRAIN
Ten thousand hours, ten thousand hours,
You’re an expert when you’ve done then thousand hours
I’ve had minutes, I’ve had moments, joy bright as the lone daystar
But when it comes to sorrow, I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
VERSE 2
I carved initials in a tree, a moment of romance
I walked across a stage with pride, and won a game of chance
I’ve had blinks and I’ve had glimpses, a quick vision from a tower
But when it comes to sorrow I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
REFRAIN
Ten thousand hours, ten thousand hours,
You’re an expert when you’ve done then thousand hours
I’ve had minutes, I’ve had moments, joy bright as the lone daystar
But when it comes to sorrow, I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
VERSE 3
I’ve been to the place where courage sticks and to the tipping point
I saw what the dog saw and it did not disappoint
I’ve seen the outliers in their prime and felt them in their power
But when it comes to sorrow, I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
REFRAIN
Ten thousand hours, ten thousand hours,
You’re an expert when you’ve done then thousand hours
I’ve had minutes, I’ve had moments, joy bright as the lone daystar
But when it comes to sorrow, I’ve put in ten thousand hours.
[Author’s note: “The Tipping Point,” “Blink,” “Outliers,” and “What the Dog Saw” are titles of Malcolm Gladwell’s books. He writes of the Ten Thousand Hours thesis in “Outliers.”]
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