He has a hunch

It's ok , you can shake my hand, I can't touch my face or any other body parts, I can scratch my elbows tho. What's going on? I heard that the Bailout Industry is asking your people for more money

 Who is this bozo?
 Mind bending, truth twisting.  A continuously agitated display of buffoonery.    Ridiculous boasts, mind twisting claims of greatness, attacks and mockery of citizens, congressional personnel, scientific professionals,  highly honored individuals,  pettiness  and peevishness. He is obsessed with ratings rather than the goodwill of the country for which he leads with a boiling cesspool of poor information and alternative realities.

 ‘ I have a hunch......’.  He is compulsive. He lacks empathy, is self-congratulatory , with a narcissistic hunger for adoration. A ‘war time president’? Give us a break, he is  more like a sun king.

 His xenophobia is the sine qua non of his political bests.  Easier to steer the ship when the sailing is smooth,  perhaps a few tweaks here and there to keep the tassels a fluttering properly. Your ship is lost at sea with an incapable helmsman. Individuals reveal themselves in times of crisis:

This bozo has revealed himself from the days of the New York Posts ’Page 6’ pageantry of the Donald’s whoredum of a world.  Infantile,  short tempered, so boorish and  predicable , so thin skinned , so deplorable.  An ill informed populist, demagogue. The favorable optics of his pathway are as superficial as his defunct university,  are as misguided as was the sloganeering banner of the stupid TV show. The American exceptionalism that he touts appeals all too well to his simpleminded view of complex situations.  He has promoted his very own version of political distancing.

I have a hunch too

The very proper gander

The very proper gander

by James Thurber as interpreted by an anonymous story teller

 

 

Not so very long ago there was a very fine gander. He was strong and smooth and beautiful and he spent most of his time singing to his wife and children. They lived in Ohio, where almost everybody loved Benedict Donald, the over seer of the largest chicken house in all of the universes. One day somebody who saw the Gander strutting up and down in his yard and singing remarked,

 "There is a very proper gander." A red white and blue hen named Spinderella heard this and promptly reported to Mr Donald that night in the roost.  "They said something about propaganda," she said. "I have always suspected that," said Mr Donald, and he went around the barnyard the next  day tweeting to the whole universe that the very fine gander was a dangerous bird, more than likely a hawk in gander's clothing. A small brown hen  named Smiller remembered a time when at a great distance she had seen the gander talking with some hawks in the forest. "They were up to no good," she said. A duck named Mr Globalist remembered that the gander had once told him he did not believe in anything. "He said to hell with the flag, too," said the duck. A guinea cluck called da Hooch recalled that he had once seen somebody who looked very much like the gander throw something that looked a great deal like a bomb.

Finally everybody snatched up sticks and stones and descended on the gander's house. He was strutting in his front yard, singing to his children and his wife. "There he is!" everybody cried. "Hawk-lover! Unbeliever! Flag-hater! Bomb-thrower!" So they set upon him and drove him out of the country.

Moral: Anybody who you or your advisor thinks is going to overthrow the government by incompetence must be driven out of the country.

The fly in the plane

Insects don't seem to be concerned about where they are: they only require an environmental ambience.

A moth that flutters in  through the open window of a  28th floor condo is so consumed by the pursuit of an illuminated light bulb, that it has no regard for any long range plans. That moth will fly erratically as it easily dodges  attempts from you to swat at it,  eluding capture,  perhaps to be released back outside.

Suppose you  miss and you tip over the glass of red wine, spilling on the carpet. The moth will advance  to the consumption of the light, which he thought was just beyond the branches of the monkey pod tree. There is probably  very little chance of escaping  your condo to breed, which is the long range plan

A fly boarded the plane with Mr Trex and me today. I don't really think that it cares where it is.
When we land and the fly escapes, it will have no recollection of where it spent its maggot hood.
Wherever, it will be the same: a tuna salad, a pile of dog crap, a melting ice cream sandwich

This is Mr Trex, he sat next to me when I flew to PDX. He could not eat his meal, arms too short, see? I was able to get him a can of ensure and a straw, he was grateful. He invited me to meet his wife and kids

The Year.......

"The older I get, the better I was"
 
A few things that happened the year I was born:

Brazil Beats Czechoslovakia in the World Cup
The Beverly Hillbillies and the Lucy Show began 
Jon Bon Jovi, Demi Moore and Ralph Macchio, amongst others, were born
Gas was 25 cents/gallon
Morning sickness drug thalidomide found to cause birth defects
Phil Knight develops the first Nike running shoe
USS Arizona Memorial Dedication
The Rolling Stones adopt their band name
Nelson Mandela was imprisoned
Danial Inouye elected to the US senate
John Barns elected as Governor of Hawaii
The first Taco Bell opened
Goldfish Crackers go on sale
Jack O'Neil trademarks the term "Surf Shop" (but never enforced it)

The Surfboard Chair

He went to Hawaii for a break from the wretched northern winter.

His girlfriend at the time backed out of the trip: a break-up, so his roommate was glad to go instead.

He took a surf lesson and was entranced by the whole experience: Floating in the Pacific, undulating waves rocking him as he sat on his longboard. He never really caught a wave, but the experience was breathing in him. He wanted to bring something back with him to keep the fire alive, but a proper surfboard would have no purpose in the land-locked never-lands of Fargo

When he finally bought the chair, shaped from an old fiberglass longboard, cut into 3 sections and shaped into an Adirondack-like chair, he could not believe he bought such a great piece of furniture. It was impressive. It was different from all of the other chairs he had seen in North Dakota. He half thought it would unfold itself and reform into its former longboard shape. His friend said, 'that'll look great on your porch!" It was an impressive work of art and functionality

It was packed up and crated back to Fargo. It was too big to fit in the jeep.  In those days,  he could fit everything he owned into his Wrangler, but the surfboard chair changed all of that.

After he married, a year or so later, nothing would fit in the jeep.  He got a bigger car, a new job, children. The surfboard chair moved with him from house to house, state to state. All that moving around took its toll on the surfboard chair. It looked worn: the paint chipped, the point of the nose broke off. It went into the attic of the new house.

Just before the divorce became final, when he was moving to an apartment, his wife said "take this goddamned chair". He put the longboard chair on the porch before he unpacked anything else.

It seemed impressive, almost too big for his apartment. But, it looked good. He could not believe he bought such a great piece of furniture

A Poem: The end of quiet surf session

12/6/2013
The time has come to say goodbye: our satisfaction for the small session is finished. You, who stayed to my left, balding middle aged guy, and you 'goofy-footer,' on my right, though we barely spoke, I feel our kinship.

My bruddah, you were steadfast in passing me your ball of board wax when I needed it. You were gracious in offering me a few waves that you could have taken yourself. Although they were small in size they were large in bliss and contentment.  No surfer can ask for better companions.

The session is over for all 3 of us, as we paddle in. Life's  responsibilities are now to take over. We are leaving behind an unusually empty surf spot.

We will go our separate ways, not a fond embrace, but perhaps a relaxed shaka. It is unlikely we will meet here again, but perhaps, we will: paddling in the sun, the gently rolling swells, catching sweet, soft unhurried waves, glancing at  the Ko'olau mountains in the distance, not completely impeded by the skyline of Honolulu, and in between sets, sitting quietly, saying nothing.