Bonding with Bunny

The sky was sweating profusely as they pulled in to a small parking area next to an emerald English field. A few campers had arrived ahead of them, and their outdoor abodes dotted the soaked landscape.
“Come on sweetie, help me get the tent out of the boot, and we have it set up in a jiff,” said Jo.
“Mum,” cried her daughter Bunny, “it’s bloody pouring out there. This is not exactly the kind of outdoor experience I was hoping for.”
“Don’t be silly dear, it’s just a spot of rain. It will blow over soon.”
“But Mum, it’s been raining for 32 days; I think it’s going to blow London away before it
‘blows over.’”
“Oh posh, come on now, we need to make camp before all the good spots are taken,” said Jo as she opened the car door.
Bunny sighed and reluctantly followed her mother around to the back of the car, leaning into almost gale-force winds trying to stay on her feet.
“Just smell that fresh country air,” said Jo as she opened the boot and started hauling out the recently purchased camping gear.
“I can’t smell a thing,” complained Bunny, “my nostrils are full of water. This is not a good idea, mum. We could drown or catch a cold or become all wrinkly.”
“Nonsense. We are modern British women, and we don’t let a little inclement weather dampen our spirits. It will be fun.”
Bunny looked at her mum who seemed oblivious to hurricane in which they were in the middle. “But mum, I am not a British woman; I am a British girl who hopes to one day be a British woman. But, my chances of achieving that goal are diminishing every minute we are out here in this tempest. Jesus mum, look there’s a waterlogged cow being blown across the field; we could be killed by projectile livestock. This is daft.”
“But Bun, I spent a fortune on all this equipment; we have to get our money’s worth out of it.”
“Well then let’s take it home and set up camp in the parlor.”
Jo looked defeated. It was hard to tell if she was crying. “But I so wanted this to be a mother-daughter bonding experience.”
“It is mum. I’m bonded; I’m in bondage. Now please untie me and let’s go home before this turns into a mother-daughter-cow-flood experience. We can even bond some more on the drive home.”
“Very well,” agreed a somewhat reluctant Jo, “but as soon as England dries out, it’s off to the wilderness again.”
“Fine, mum. But next time you have to bring along your meds.”

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Sunday Evening Deconstructed

All was well until around 4:00 p.m; that's when my head tripped over a teardrop. The sudden collision woke the regulators, who sounded a rotospoke alarm, and a well-armed unit of shit-storm troopers outflanked my luminous gyroscope and fired a warning volley. I ducked for cover like a side-door lover, but there was no cover, and I was left standing in the rain with a diplomatic banjo. A chemical rain, and sparks flew. Where was Bela Fleck when I needed him. I called out to animals that had never existed, "Write me a story." They sent emotions instead, at least I think it was them. I ran wild in the margins, sitting all the while. Pot shots were taken; I ducked and waddled.

The familiar unfamiliar led me, pulled me, covering too much time and not enough territory. Thunder cracked, rain fell, animals cried. The panoramic view behind my eyes burned the time and distance with its dark gray brilliance. I saw all but remembered nothing. Time shuddered. The otter nestling in my left arm drew her whiskers across my neck, and goose flesh exploded. We remained at the far end of the line, relaxed and crying.

Sometimes, a mind is a terrible thing to have.

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Forty Eight Classics

From the website Life Optimizer, here is a list of 48 classic books to help increase your learning experience. You can download all of them for free.

Here are the novels:

1. Don Quixote (Miguel de Cervantes) - Download
2. Gulliver’s Travels (Jonathan Swift) - Download
3. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen) - Download
4. Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens) - Download
5. The Scarlet Letter (Nathaniel Hawthorne) - Download
6. Moby-Dick (Herman Melville) - Download
7. Madame Bovary (Gustave Flaubert) - Download
8. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoevsky) - Download
9. Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy) - Download
10. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain) - Download
11. The Trial (Franz Kafka) - Download

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Lucinda Whacks Another One

Edgar Smoil was a happy man. His dog Jonny, a pug, had won “Best in Breed” earlier that day in the Canine-Orama Dog Show in Bakersville, California, and with Jonny safely asleep in his cage upstairs in the hotel room, Edgar was on his third scotch in the hotel lounge. It was Valentines Day.
Edgar Smoil was 39 and had no woman in his life. As a matter of fact, his dog was his only companion. He had been married, albeit briefly, in his early 20s, but his wife Simone quickly became bored and left him for another man. Although he had dated a few women over the years, by the third date, they were ready to move on. Edgar had pretty much given up on romance, and even if he was interested, between his job as a chemical engineer specializing in polymers and traveling to dog shows with Jonny, he hadn’t much time for the pursuit of love. But this was Valentines Day, and Edgar he was happy, and he wished he had someone to share that happiness with.
Lucinda Rainwater was also in Bakersfield at the same moment. She had driven down from Carmel to attend an antique auction, and being an animal doctor, had decided to catch the dog show as well. She, too, was happy. A particularly fine piece of art deco glassware had come up for sale at the auction, and hers had been the winning bid.
Lucinda Rainwater was sitting at the long, oak, hotel bar, three stools down from where Edgar Smoil sat. She was enjoying a Campari on ice when her internal electricity tripped a breaker and reset automatically. This was unfortunate, for when Lucinda’s electrical system faltered, she would go into her serial-killer mode. It had happened 25 times before. She turned her head, and saw that Edgar Smoil had the number 26 painted on his forehead.
With her antique railroad spike nestled in her handbag, Lucinda moved down two stools and asked Edgar, “Do you have a light?”
Shaken out of his reverie and slightly startled, Edgar looked at the pretty, blond woman next to him and stammered, “Uh…no…sorry…uh…I don’t smoke.”
“That’s OK,” responded Lucinda, “neither do I. I just thought you looked lonely, and it’s Valentines Day and all. Hi, I’m Lucinda.”
Pretty women did not come up and talk to Edgar, so he was more than surprised that this one was paying attention to him. “Uh…hello. My name is Ed,” he said, preferring the shortened version of his name because he felt it sounded manlier. “I’m here for the dog show. Uh…can I buy you a drink?”
It was then Lucinda knew for sure her railroad spike would find its Valentines Day heart.
In addition to notching up her 26th kill, Lucinda Rainwater found an unexpected benefit on Valentines Day: she now owned a beautiful little pug.

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Towards Texada

Although most poetry makes my butt suck wind, I nevertheless actually wrote a poem. The inspiration for the poem was the painting of the same name (shown on left) by a friend and fellow writer named Sofie. I hope it doesn't cause too much of an internal rectal breeze for you.

Toward Texada

Texada sits in moist shimmer
A verdant emerald
A cluster of hills raised in celebration of her homecoming

Her chilled eyes probe the land
From the far side of the lake
Searching for the childhood left behind

She’s been moving towards Texada
The day she moved away
Circular motion, a fool’s errand

A step from the shore, cold memories embrace her ankles
A second step
The familiar touch of chaos grips her mind

With the third step, she is swimming toward Texada
Bold, slow strokes
She pulls the future behind her

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Career Day

Yesterday, I spent the morning at Adams Elementary School giving Career-Day presentations to third and fourth-grade classes. Although I don’t actually have a career, I was there speaking on behalf of the Animal Defense League, the largest “no kill” animal shelter in South Texas. Two women—also ADL volunteers—were supposed to assist me, carrying a box full of printed handouts, etc, but for various reasons they were unable to attend, so it was left to me and Simone to handle the gig. Simone is a four-month-old black, Labrador retriever who is great with kids, but not very handy toting boxes and water bowls.
After spilling brochures, coloring books, and a water bowl in the school parking lot, Simone and I finally made it to the teacher’s lounge where we awaited our call along with a police officer, a water company employee, and a guy who sold cell phones, a university professor, a fireman, and several others from various professions. Everyone loved Simone, but voiced their concerns about “following a dog act.” I could understand their pain; if you show a kid a cell phone and a puppy, guess which one is going to get the most attention.
The school officials suggested I talk about: a) the kind of work the ADL does, b) other careers working with animals, c) educational requirements and subjects one would need for animal-related careers, and d) why the kids should stay in school. As I said, these were suggestions, not requirements, so I immediately threw them out the window. Instead, when I entered the first classroom—Mrs. Ramirez’s third-grade class—I held up the dog and said, “This is Simone, and her job is being a dog. How many of you would like to be a dog?” Nearly all the hands in the class shot up.
“Cool,” I said. “Being a dog is fairly easy, you have to now how to eat, pee, and play. I would guess that most of you already know how to do this.”
A loud chorus of “Yeahs” broke out, while Mrs. Ramirez eyed me suspiciously. I was tempted to take a bow and leave on a high note, but my devotion to duty got the better of me. Simone and I stayed, and I went through a 15-minute spiel about careers, education, and the behavior of pets. I don’t know how much of what I said was actually heard by the kids; their attention was riveted on Simone. They interrupted every few minutes with “Can we touch her.”
The last part of the presentation was the “question and answer period,” which is always fun for me. As I walked Simone around the classroom so the kids could pet her, tiny hands would rise. “Do you have a question? I would ask.
“Yes,” most of them would say. “I had a dog, but he got out of the yard and was hit by a truck,” was typical of the kind of questions I got.
“That’s a good question,” I would respond. “Anyone else have a question?”
“I have a Chihuahua, and it ate my sister’s bra.”
“Another excellent question,” I would say.
After all the kids got to pet Simone, I thanked them for allowing us to visit and then passed out some “activity books” filled with pictures to color and connect-a-dot puzzles.
Before we left, I said, “So kids, be sure to stay in school and read a lot of books, but if I were you, I’d give serious consideration to being a dog. A dog doesn’t have to have a job, pay taxes, get married, go to war, worry about changing fashions, or pay a mortgage. And, you can even eat a bra.
After that first presentation, the principal asked me to wait in the teacher’s lounge while Simone did the remaining four presentations by herself.

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Hector's Revenge

Captain Ulysses was reading “The Iliad” in his cabin aboard the steamship Delta Darlin’ when he was distracted by three sharp knocks at the door. “Cap’n, the fog is rollin’ in. You better get to the bridge.”
“Be there in a minute,” said Ulysses, setting the book aside, “You better go rouse the pilot.”
The captain swung his legs out of the bunk and stretched. “Jesus, would this trip never end?” he thought. “Ever since we took on the 12 tons of potatoes and the 20-foot zebra in St. Louis, we’ve had one problem after another. Please God, let this fog lift so I can get back home to Ithaca, Louisiana and my sweet wife Penelope.”
Arriving on the bridge, Ulysses noticed the new pilot, Hector, was at the wheel. Hector, from Troy, New York, had signed on in St. Louis as a last-minute replacement for Mr. Palamedes, who had jumped ship. The captain peered out the bridge window, straining to see what lay ahead on the river, but a wall of dark-grey vapor limited his viewing distance. About the only thing he could make out was the head of the massive zebra tied to the deck. The wooden animal was being shipped to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras celebration.
“What’s the situation pilot?” barked Ulysses.
“Sir, I suggest we anchor and ride it out. There are too many sand bars to navigate along this section of the river; we could run aground in this fog.”
“This is also a section of the river that is frequented by river pirates,” said the captain. “This voyage is cursed.” But Ulysses couldn’t risk being stranded on a sandbar for days. The Irish potatoes could rot, and he would lose his commission. “Very well pilot, drop anchor and see that guards are posted.”
As Ulysses returned to his cabin to wait out the fog, the zebra’s belly ruptured, oozing dark shapes of men onto the foredeck. The men assembled into a group and stealthily made their way to the bridge where Hector allowed them entry. “Where’s the captain?” asked a tall man in a black, knit cap.
Hector knew the man to be James Joyce, leader of The Dubliners, one of the most vicious pirate gangs on the Mississippi. “He’s in his cabin.”
“Good. Here’s your pistol Hector, now go get your revenge for that incident at Troy, and me and the boys will start unloading the potatoes.”

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