tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69324202619741489272024-02-19T06:43:40.821-08:00T. St. LaurentArt and commentary, with nostalgia for baby boomers.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-90049696322598108982020-06-16T11:05:00.002-07:002020-06-16T11:12:08.460-07:00Book review: "Destiny of the Republic" by Candice Mallard.<br />
You don't have to be interested in history to love this story of the assassination of President James A. Garfield in 1881, sixteen years after Lincoln was shot.<br />
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If you're interested in all kinds of people--love or hate--you'll be riveted by the dramatic events following the shooting of Garfield, who hung on to life for months in the White House.<br />
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First, you follow the trail of his nutcase assasin, Charles Giteau--basically a case of human waste--then you meet a bunch of political rogues and end with a gallery of heroes trying to save the president's life, including Garfield's wife, Lucretia, Alexander Graham Bell, and the original champion of antiseptic surgery, Joseph Lister, whose name is famous on the bottle of Listerine on your drugstore shelf.<br />
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It's a portrait of humanity and a lovable man who was briefly President of the United States.<br />
Great writing.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-33902320553999339872016-07-02T10:14:00.001-07:002016-07-02T10:14:21.271-07:00Gertrude the Slut.<br />
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I'm not very fond of animals (Come to think of it, I"m not very fond of humans either). Animals are stupid, they have no empathy, and they leave their crap all over the place, kind of like humans, actually.</div>
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Cats and dogs, though, do have their charms (as do humans): dogs are so eager to please, so friendly and so stupid that you can't help laughing at them, and cats are so pretty you can't help admiring their grace and beauty. Keep in mind, though, that if you get a pet it's your job to clean up the poop--unless the stupid dog turns around and eats it without even waiting for it to get crunchy.</div>
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Someone once gave me a fish as a birthday present, a Siamese fighting fish I named "Sushi," and I felt obligated to keep it alive. I'm proud to say that Sushi lived a long and well-fed life on top of my old television, though its life seemed incredibly boring to me.</div>
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A few years ago a female pigeon I named "Gertrude" homed atop the air conditioner on my balcony, and before long she picked up a boyfriend I named "Spotty"--after his unusual pigeon markings. Spotty was apparently a sex machine, judging by the noise of cooing, flapping wings and frantic scratching going on atop the AC outside my sliding door. Spotty once jumped Gertrude right on top of my balcony railing in broad daylight.</div>
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"Jesus Christ, Spotty, have a little decency," I said.</div>
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But, the relationship seemed to be going well. To my amazement, I actually witnessed Spotty helping Gertrude build her nest, flying home with twigs in his beak repeatedly. The result that summer was two chicks who stupidly fell out of the nest prematurely and huddled in a corner. Their sweet peeping soon turned into loud chirping and squawking whenever Mama flew in with food. The racket they made was totally out of proportion to their small size, pushing and shoving each other as Gertrude fed them with her regurgitations.</div>
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Finally, at meal times, when I saw their wings flapping like perfect adults, with just a trace of chick fuzz on the top of their heads, I went out to the balcony with my broom, tired of their squawking dependency.</div>
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"Time to go kids," I advised, sweeping them gently off the second floor. They landed on the ground unphased as I watched, hoping for the best, until I saw them making random flights to nowhere. Later, I saw them on rooftops. "Thank God," I thought, "Maybe now they'll shut up."</div>
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Pigeons mate for life, unlike humans, but somewhere along the way Spotty disappeared. Either, he was a heartless rogue, fugitive from the nest, or he met a tragic end in his travels. Gertrude apparently entertained a parade of horny visitors whose markings I couldn't identify, maybe the same guy, maybe not. Then, last week, I discovered a pigeon egg, alone and abandoned on the deck.</div>
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"Gertrude you slut," I exclaimed. She had abandoned her egg, like a mother and her latest boyfriend getting high and drunk while a toddler bleats in a bedroom.</div>
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I have a beautiful abandoned robin's nest from another time and place on my shelves, a masterpiece of engineering made entirely of dry grass. I keep two Easter candy eggs in it to simulate blue robin eggs. Pigeon nests are different, all twiggy and ugly, containing everything from balloon strings (including the the deflated balloons) to twist ties and dental floss. So I put the pigeon egg in the robin's nest and improvised an incubator near a baseboard heater without much hope.</div>
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All I got were two blobs of candied chocolate and an inert pigeon egg.</div>
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So I ate the egg (I hate wasting food).</div>
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I would describe the taste as only vaguely un-chicken, like the difference between a beefburger and a buffalo burger--negligible, if you got used to it.</div>
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Now, suddenly, I see that Gertrude is building a new nest, hopping from the ground to the balcony with an endless supply of twigs. I'm hopeful. Maybe the new guy is as true-blue as Spotty and they'll start a family. I'm hopeful because, even though the chicks would be a pain in the ass, I love watching life go on, even among humans.</div>
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If not, at least I'll get breakfast.</div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-67382075546838594872016-06-14T08:56:00.000-07:002016-06-14T09:01:19.327-07:00Class of 1964: Change? What Change?<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: #3d85c6; color: #3d85c6; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
Class of 1964: Change? What change?</h3>
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Thank you all for the birthday wishes. If you're good at math, you might have guessed that I turned 70 in May of 2016. What amazes me is: How the hell did I ever get this far? It must have happened when I wasn't looking.</div>
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I recently found the yearbook photo above and added a picture I took last week--a "selfie." People have been taking pictures of themselves since cameras were invented, but the kids needed a new name for it, something catchier than "24/7 narcissism."</div>
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Also amazing is how little I have changed. All I need is to shave and brush my hair, and you would think the photos above were <i>both </i>taken last week--assuming your eyes are at least 70 years old.</div>
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Here's the post from two years ago:</div>
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I just got my pre-invitation to my 50th high school class reunion, just as I was thinking that it's been an amazing 20 years since I graduated.</div>
We had a big class, so I'm not surprised that most of the names on the list of graduates are unfamiliar, but I can't find one person I'm anxious to get reacquainted with. Most of my good buddies were members of the class behind me.<br />
I've never been to a class reunion, and the thought of attending strikes me as ghoulish without an old buddy to share some private jokes about the characters at this particular geezer gathering. I'm sure some perfect stranger would walk up to me smiling with his hand out saying, too enthusiastically, "Hi, Tom, do you remember me?"<br />
Uh... no, I would stare.<br />
Then, he would reveal his identity as if waving a colorful flag which didn't impress me 50 years ago and still doesn't.<br />
"You don't remember me, do you?"<br />
"Oh, yeah. Yes, I remember you."<br />
Yes, I might remember him, except that I don't remember him looking like he had shrunk three inches, swallowed a cow and fell asleep with his head in a clothes dryer.<br />
"Good to see you," I'd lie, meaning that seeing him is better than dropping dead, while I'd be hoping someone would interrupt.<br />
Then, the strange woman would approach, lacking the finer points I appreciated 50 years ago, and tell me I was really cute back then.<br />
"Oh, yes, I remember you. Didn't you marry Joe Jockstrap?"<br />
"Yeah, we divorced a long time ago. Actually, I'm on my fourth marriage."<br />
"Really," I'd say as my eyes searched for one of those bright red EXIT signs--maybe somebody would yell "fire" and we could all pile out to the parking lot and disappear under cars.<br />
Just to cheer us up, the reunion committee, whoever these people are, included a list of deceased persons in our reunion package. The only cheerful part is that I'm not on the list. Out of 328 class members, 57 are confirmed dead, including a few bozos I appreciated in the third grade. That's over 80% of us still kicking. This is not a bad score, considering our ages. With all the problems of modern health care, we've fared quite well with the medical miracles.<br />
But--nah--I'm not going to this reunion. I'm going to wait for our 75th, when we can get the whole crowd around one table at Cheers, and I won't have to make much conversation.</div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-61786681827933927042016-06-12T12:38:00.001-07:002016-06-12T12:38:30.584-07:00Breadless BLT.<br />
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All you need for this delicious sandwich is bacon, tomato and a few layers of big leaves ripped off a head of lettuce. Of course, I added salt and pepper, and I couldn't resist slapping on the mayo, which made for slightly sloppy eating, though no worse than consuming one of those giant glutton-burgers you get at a good restaurant (America is too good at this cuisine, but you can always take half of it home for a meal later--it's preferable to cheap European food rations, especially when the little servings come with snooty superiority: "Look, even the waiter is skinny!).<br />
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Ooo, I'm impressed.<br />
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My advice to Americans: Enjoy, but don't eat to fulfill your life. Satisfy your hunger and let it go at that. Don't turn it into a feeding frenzy. That's for wolves and sharks.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-6808065532343792902016-05-08T08:36:00.001-07:002016-05-08T08:36:47.709-07:00Mumma, Keeper of the Faith.<br />
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When you go out to meet the real world and you need strength to face all the tigers and sharks out there, try thinking about the title to that ancient television show from the fifties, "I Remember Mama."<br />
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Ma, Mum, Mom--whatever you call her, she was the first one to give you strength. She empowered you with perfect love, love without boundaries, even when you wanted her to shut up and go away, even in the middle of a knock-down family battle.<br />
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You could commit murder, and your mother would say you didn't really mean it. She could be wrong, but she doesn't know and never will--not when it comes to you, her baby.<br />
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Keep in mind that somewhere out there, even beyond the people you know, you have friends and allies who believe in the dreams you dream, who believe in righteousness, like your mother. The tigers and sharks won't stand a chance.<br />
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Because she's unique. She's the Keeper of the Faith.<br />
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PHOTO: My mother, Doris, also starring Conrad, my father.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-27462395212975039672016-04-09T07:37:00.000-07:002016-04-09T07:37:07.354-07:00Reigning Cats and Dogs.<br />
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Way back in the beginning of Western Civilization, all the dogs on Earth decided to hold a worldwide convention to develop a strategy for survival.<br />
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I know this because my studies in History include author, P.J. O'Rourke.<br />
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The convention was a raucous affair, since dogs bark a lot, but they finally agreed on their fundamental guiding principles. First of all--it was decided--humans were obviously destined to rule the world. Dogs wouldn't stand a chance against clever human thinking and two-legged walking, both of which they could do at the same time. So, dogs must accept the inevitable and adapt.<br />
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Dogs must make friends with humans. Ultimately, the key to success is for dogs to become man's best friends. Select a small family of humans and follow them wherever they lead. Be incredibly loyal, run and jump and celebrate their every asinine activity, like tossing frisbees around. Learn a few human terms like "sit" and "stay," and "say please." Act happy whenever they enter the room, even if your trying to take a well-deserved nap--no need to get up, just wag your tail a little and always keep one eye open to see what they're up to. If they want you to learn the term "fetch," you may have to do the chore, especially unpleasant when some idiot thinks you enjoy swimming through cold ocean surf to fetch a little tree branch that tastes nothing like a meat-bone. Do it. They'll love you for it and feed you nutritious stuff, plus treat you with human delicacies under the dinner table. You'll have a warm place to sleep--and security for life.<br />
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Let your tongue hang out!<br />
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But, here's the paramount tactic in dog strategy: Do not poop on their living room rugs. You <i>will </i>be punished for such behavior. Understand--that no poop is acceptable in the their houses. They even train their own beloved human babies not to leave poop around. Sniff as you might, you won't find a dollop of poop anywhere in the house. It's amazing. So, get trained on pooping, as ridiculous as it seems (Really, who thinks about a little pile of poop? Turns out, <i>they </i>do).<br />
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So. Poop outside and live well.<br />
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Bang, convention adjourned.<br />
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Observing this convention of dogs, the cats on Earth decided to hold their own convention, and it was quite a different affair. They huddled mostly in a cozy pile, many of them purring. And they had no doubt about their guiding principles.<br />
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First of all--they determined--humans were a bunch of dog-like, slap-happy idiots who would bully their way into ruling the world. They're clever, violent, and they have no scruples. So, fine--who cares who rules the stupid world as long as cats can live out their nine lives in comfort and contentment?<br />
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"We are not dogs," the Chaircat assured the convention attendees--to mass meows of agreement.. "We will not--like dogs--hang out drooling tongues slavishly begging for approval. "WE WILL DO AS WE PLEASE!" declared the Chaircat, which triggered a mass demonstration, with every variety of cat joining a celebratory conga line dancing passed the podium, hips swaying, tails waving and meowing all the way. When the convention hall calmed down, the Chaircat delivered another crowd-pleasing declaration: "THE HUMANS WILL NOT TRAIN US. WE WILL TRAIN THEM!"<br />
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The cats were beside themselves with joy, laying on their backs, waving their legs and getting belly scratches from nearby happy cats. They knew that humans were no match for their beauty, grace and flat out sex appeal. Cats were just too tiny and pretty to be punished; no human had the hard heart to kick one of them, as they did dogs. Just curl into their warm, comfortable laps and purr, and your life will be good. They may even fall so in love with you that you'll get to gobble up some expensive albacore tuna, fresh out of the can.<br />
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As for the poop issue, the cats were not concerned. Poop where you please, the Chaircat said. Humans will adapt. None of them have the heart to whack your pretty puss with a rolled up newspaper to train you. They'll even provide you with a pleasant poop place, complete with aromatic granules you can use to cover the foul odor, and--believe it or not--they'll clean out the poop for you while you scratch their furniture to shreds just for the fun of it.<br />
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"If any droopy-eared, ragamuffin mutt comes into the family and tries to interfere with our lifestyle with its obnoxious sniffing around, we'll scratch his dopey eyes out," the Chaircat vowed.<br />
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Thunderous meows of approval rocked the hall as the convention closed--woe be it to dogs and humans.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-51984482664879643522015-10-18T10:09:00.000-07:002015-10-18T10:09:55.676-07:00Sangria: Eat Fruit, Get Drunk.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZINK9HpdZ2qXa-eD3dA0dmJQO713epqB2OAbvLRRiBBaUhHD9xCW44VMdpxmI6XAQ1qBNB6yiNLRJXJdVh75dhIGYMr0erAiMTDs2axfZ7HD2hfSE-33uxsbaY9URYrr3T0MyjTCiYIN/s1600/sangria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZINK9HpdZ2qXa-eD3dA0dmJQO713epqB2OAbvLRRiBBaUhHD9xCW44VMdpxmI6XAQ1qBNB6yiNLRJXJdVh75dhIGYMr0erAiMTDs2axfZ7HD2hfSE-33uxsbaY9URYrr3T0MyjTCiYIN/s320/sangria.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Sangria is great drink, and it's easy to improvise a nutritious, home-made batch.<br />
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Take a bottle of good wine (I prefer red) and add some brandy. The more brandy, the more "punch" it will have (Brandy is distilled wine. They boil wine to get rid of water content, leaving more alcohol and more flavor in the pot. Actually, you could try making brandy at home, but be careful--if you get too rambunctious boiling this stuff, you could end up calling 911 to fight the fireball consuming your kitchen). I recommend a good store-bought brandy like cognac.<br />
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Next, add some sugar and/or molasses until you like the taste.Then, add a handful or two of fruit chunks or slices of citrus fruit, apples to make "applejack," strawberries or whatever. Let it chill in the frig for a couple hours to let the flavors meld, then serve over ice or mix with soda.<br />
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I find that you can get a very good sangria ready-made in a bottle. Although it's a traditionally Spanish/Portuguese drink, try the Australian brand, <i>[yellow tail]. </i>Just look for the kangaroo on the label. You might even find this in a convenience store.<br />
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As for me, I would not dilute it by mixing. I prefer it straight, a lesson I learned forever from my mother, Doris, at a restaurant in her old age.<br />
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I watched her using a spoon to scoop out the ice from the glass of water the waitress had served her. She placed each ice cube in a plate nearby.<br />
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"Ma," I said, "What are you doing?"<br />
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"I don't want ice," she answered irritably.<br />
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"What's wrong with the ice?"<br />
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"It dilutes the drink," she said.<br />
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"Ma...," I started to say....<br />
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But I never finished my sentence because--how could I explain to her that water doesn't dilute water? She was right, in principle. With the single exception of water in this case, water dilutes everything.<br />
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Gotta give her credit for the principle.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-26477219605746187072015-09-23T11:17:00.000-07:002015-09-23T11:17:39.700-07:00Ode To a Friend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0nZ0Mwju4lu443wynnOkMZBkiP36nPxDqrY-diUZsNdc3WTRXdy90gPamrVxjIK9kHBpx_NU180afpq_errrHSLh8cFG_MJzhJIYVf-k8KBocO39nfnVhRSATkb0KGsXNgqBV9B9GA3E/s1600/vera2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu0nZ0Mwju4lu443wynnOkMZBkiP36nPxDqrY-diUZsNdc3WTRXdy90gPamrVxjIK9kHBpx_NU180afpq_errrHSLh8cFG_MJzhJIYVf-k8KBocO39nfnVhRSATkb0KGsXNgqBV9B9GA3E/s320/vera2.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>
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About 40 years ago, I met a very pretty, very sweet girl when she suddenly married my good ol' Navy buddy, Brian, who turned out to be my truest life-long friend. Since then,Vera, the girl, was always there by his side.</div>
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"A good woman to ride the river with," Brian would describe her, taking the measure from those beloved Western novels by Louis L'Amour.</div>
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"Yup," I say, in the succinct spirit of L'Amour.</div>
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The girl treated Brian like rough-cut royalty on that river, kind of like a king, and she gave my friend two princes, their sons, Shane and Brad. She took care of those riders night and day, however the river ran.</div>
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I spent a lot of time in that household, supported heart and soul in my dubious adventures, as if I was first cousin to the king, royal blood. And, if the king and his cousin yearned for a pitcher of martinis and a platter of homemade nachos supreme to accompany three TV movies in a row, Vera was supremely tolerant, armed with her understanding that men, though loathe to admit it, are genetically programmed to make asses of themselves--at least occasionally.</div>
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She knew.</div>
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It wasn't easy on her, but she knew; the men would eventually come home, always.</div>
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Then as suddenly as I met her she was gone in a shock too soon--<i>bam--</i>take that boys. I had assumed that the king and I would never see her go, that she would bury us. But no. At 62 she was gone--while we kept aging along the river, riding more slowly.</div>
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It didn't seem right. She was too gentle, too sweet, too young....</div>
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Like a fragile flower, I wondered? Well, maybe...like a flower that looked beautiful, smelled sweet and died too soon? Yes, but no, those flowers didn't complete the picture in my imagination. I needed something more, something that <i>does </i>things. She was more like one of those graceful dandelion parachutes, floating on a current of air you didn't even know existed, carrying a kindness to the life around her--in fact, carrying life itself.</div>
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That's how I think of her as she floats in my memory, gently, slowly, brushing my cheek with her very human grace.</div>
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Thank you, my friend, Vera.</div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-55364371127891438202015-07-12T07:24:00.000-07:002015-07-12T07:24:03.226-07:00Ahh...Vacation.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNQkNeukJEFGGQoRm0n_xPhhF-FZVkZmSkjqTloBUGSDQJkP2Nia_DCVkbE7aeZejg58OcfeIZNJrDHQqH2zEi7hdQk0RXn3LdUrjbAo74bTgRLjpF4xRwyRC4W9P4t7llFevynotGFDKs/s1600/AhVacation.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNQkNeukJEFGGQoRm0n_xPhhF-FZVkZmSkjqTloBUGSDQJkP2Nia_DCVkbE7aeZejg58OcfeIZNJrDHQqH2zEi7hdQk0RXn3LdUrjbAo74bTgRLjpF4xRwyRC4W9P4t7llFevynotGFDKs/s320/AhVacation.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>"Hey, look," God said, "Tom and Gayle are going to Tennessee on vacation for the week."</i></div>
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<i>Grins of anticipation broke out on all the angels' faces.</i></div>
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<i>"Oh, Lord, no. You're not going to do it again, are you?" said one of the angels.</i></div>
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<i>"Hee hee," said God. "Don't worry, I'll give them fair warning."</i></div>
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When we left for Tennessee on Southwest airlines, we naturally checked the weather forecast on the smart phone, and it didn't look promising. Little icons with dark clouds, rain and lightening marched across the screen for the next seven days without interruption--no little suns peeked at us.</div>
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Yet, we dodged those little bullets for four days, enjoying the Grand Ol' Oprey, some great restaurants and lounging in the high-end hotel, with only a short cloudburst once overnight. Gayle attended her DoTerra essential oils conference, and I laughed away most of the days with my old Navy buddy, Brian, seated not far from the well-stocked bar.</div>
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The rain began on departure day, but we flew from Nashville to Baltimore without a hitch.</div>
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<i>"Look how happy they are..." said one of the angels, prompting his cohorts to steal a glance at God.</i></div>
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<i>"Hee hee," said God.</i></div>
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In Baltimore, at 6:40 pm, when we checked the big board for departures, our home town was labeled "DELAYED" --two hours. A bit later as we watched lightening flashes through the rivers of rain on the windows, the delay became three hours. Then, suddenly at 8:30 pm, the board flashed back to "ON TIME," and we lined up to board, though Gayle continued frowning at the lightening flashes.</div>
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Within minutes, the board changed its mind again: "CANCELLED," like everything else in and out of Baltimore.</div>
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So, we were instructed to line up for re-booking--next flight 6:55 am tomorrow, and word spread fast that the hotels were already booked solid and lines to rent cars were crawling. At 10:30 pm, I'd had enough.</div>
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<i>"Now, watch what Tom does, " said God. "And the angels rolled in the clouds laughing, though a few of them pleaded for mercy between howls. "Oh, Lord, no, no, no, a-hahahahaha!"</i></div>
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"I might as well explore the food situation for later," I told Gayle "Watch my bags."</div>
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Back in the Nashville airport there's a little tobacco store, about the size of a walk-in closet with a door in the back that leads to a legal smoking room. For five bucks you can get in and burn one, and I was primed for burning. But no such comfort appeared in Baltimore, so I walked and I walked, all the way to the fresh air outside, lit a Camel and enjoyed. It would be worth going through security again, I thought.</div>
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So, on my way back through security, I stripped my belt, emptied my pockets, slipped off my shoes, and produced my new boarding pass--and the Homeland Security lady rudely declared, "You can't go in," which triggered an indignant round of haggling from me that ended in her telling me that my boarding pass was for a flight TOMORROW, therefore I needed a "special gate pass" and I would have to go stand in line at the counter to get one. The line was one of those long snaking messes with about six or seven hairpin turns in it, so I hurried to the other end of the airport where there was another security line; maybe there would be a human being in charge who would show some understanding.</div>
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Nope. No human being, just another rude regulation reader going by-the-book from the TSA who said, "You want to get in? Go stand in line."</div>
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So I did, for an hour and a half, while my phone kept telling me to connect my charger--which was in my bag at the gate. I did get in one call to tell Gayle where I was. The lady at the counter then informed me that a "gate pass" wouldn't do me any good because the TSA, our security watchdogs, closed up shop and went home to sleep at 1:00 am. Nobody could get in until the next shift began at 4:00 am.</div>
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Nice to know that our watchdogs got a good night's rest.</div>
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I settled down in the baggage area and watched luggage from cancelled flights get strewn all over the airport floor like thick underbrush, people searching everywhere, then around 2:30 am Gayle staggered in. Some counter jerk told her she had to re-check her baggage for the morning flight, so we searched the underbrush and concluded that the luggage must be already on its way to loading, then we collapsed on a bench and stared at each other, brain dead.</div>
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<i>"Nice touch, Lord," said an angel, giggling.</i></div>
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We got in line for our crack TSA team before 4:00 am. Apparently, we conformed to all the TSA regulations and they let us in, only to learn that our 6:55 am flight had been CANCELLED and we were officially assigned to the STANDBY list, which means we go to the bottom of the totem pole where every dingbat who arrived five minutes ago with a ticket has priority over us.</div>
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<i>Howls across the heavens. Angels laughed, tumbled and rolled over each other in the clouds.</i></div>
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We sat through several boardings waiting for our names to be called and dragging our bags from gate to gate, waving goodbye to our overnight acquaintances until the 4:00 pm flight when I finally approached a counter clerk to beg. "Let's see," he said, squinting at the computer screen, "the best I can do is move you up ten places on the list, which makes you numbers 6 and 7."</div>
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A few minutes later, the crowd was aboard and they called Gayle's name. Hooray! The new clerk handed Gayle a boarding pass but she hesitated, waiting for me, "Go," I said, "Get on. I should be right behind you," but as I watched Gayle disappear down the tunnel, a boozy-looking business man interrupted. He had the wrong boarding pass, and the clerk told him he should have stopped at the previous counter--at which point I interrupted, "Do you have more seats?"</div>
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"I have one more seat...."</div>
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"Then I'm next."</div>
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"Excuse me, sir, I have a paying customer here I have to take care of."</div>
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Paying customer?! PAYING CUSTOMER??? Haven't I paid enough! With my money! With my time! With my sleep!</div>
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"<i>I'm</i> a paying customer!" I shouted.</div>
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No use. He got the pass, and as I watched the plane pull away, I noticed the next flight to Manchester on the big board, formerly 6:40 pm, now, CANCELLED.</div>
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I was slumped in a chair fighting sleep when word went out that the 6:40 flight was back on, and I got on.</div>
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Thank God Gayle was still awake to pick me up at around 9:00 pm at the Manchester airport.</div>
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<i>"See," God said, "everything turns out okay. Tom even thanked me."</i></div>
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<i>"As he should," nodded the angels in universal agreement.</i></div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-90918672921009558412015-06-08T17:16:00.001-07:002015-06-08T17:22:08.735-07:00Who?<div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/1l0xpkk0yaQ/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1l0xpkk0yaQ?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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Every now and then, I explore famous music, and I discover the names of my favorites, names I never knew, like Eric Clapton. Here's a great one--The Hollies:</div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-5480958660820480732015-04-24T08:06:00.000-07:002015-04-26T13:36:03.345-07:00Three Times Hopalong.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7lLK-LNO5llwSeyV0Si6da7CX30FfUBOOzGDMmIOpiwrENxzlV-rC7rHF5CYoMe10LmFti28bZeK7oHwxrw7f_nG0-0grcRE8puFYQkuyZn98gvf9IpcFuZa9p_ZPDs7SZoewb5aAuAE0/s1600/hoppyboys+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7lLK-LNO5llwSeyV0Si6da7CX30FfUBOOzGDMmIOpiwrENxzlV-rC7rHF5CYoMe10LmFti28bZeK7oHwxrw7f_nG0-0grcRE8puFYQkuyZn98gvf9IpcFuZa9p_ZPDs7SZoewb5aAuAE0/s1600/hoppyboys+(2).jpg" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
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Back in the black and white fifties, shortly after we got that first 12-inch television set, which was squeezed into a big cabinet alongside a record player that popped out when you opened a door, the first network Western appeared on broadcast TV: Hopalong Cassidy, and it was a sensation, a phenomenon of mass marketing. Not until Roy Rogers and Davy Crockett hit the screen did so many businesses make so much money off we little tykes. They had Hopalong cap guns and holsters, Hopalong watches, Hopalong bicycles, and the first kid's tin lunchbox depicting a hero.<br />
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Hoppy (only his friends could call him that), played by William Boyd on TV and in 66 feature films, got his unusual nickname in an early Western novel when he got shot in the leg. In the original novels, he was a whisker-stubbled, rag-wearing bad-ass with a moral mission, like Bruce Willis with a hangover, but they cleaned him up and gave him a dude outfit for the show, where he drank only sarsaparilla, reputed to be a healthy soft drink that could fight all kinds of ailments including venereal disease, similar to the original Coca-cola.</div>
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In the photo above, you can see the result: a trio of Hopalongs, complete with Hopalong T-shirts and sidearms. I'm the big guy on the left, followed by Raymond then Jimmy. You can tell by our trigger fingers that Jimmy had not yet made the connection between a trigger and shooting a gun, but he sure could shoot.</div>
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A lot of gunfights took place in that house. It was the only Wild West we had to tame, to rid the territory of bank robbers, cattle rustlers and horse thieves, get them behind bars if not dead on the range. The sound of gunfire shook the house as we imitated the sound coming from the single, over-driven speaker of that antique TV, more like the sound of a steam locomotive, <i>tchoo tchoo tchoo, </i>since we had never actually heard a real gun fired. The only variation was when one of our imaginary bullets bounced off a rock, <i>tchoo-ptching.</i> We ran, hid, jumped, shouted, and climbed all over the terrain, which included huge boulders (couch and armchairs), giant cactus (floor lamp), and we even charged up to the high plains (the stairs), where we plotted in the bunkhouse (our bedroom) for the assault on the bad guys.</div>
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We watered our horses down at the creek (the kitchen sink), got some grub and quenched our own thirst with tall glasses of water laced with multiple spoonfuls from the sugar bowl, which later elicited a reprimand from parents brandishing the empty bowl. But, thus re-charged in the kitchen, we once again rode rough-shod through the rooms, urging our invisible mounts into a gallop with whoops and hollers.</div>
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Meanwhile, our older sister, Loretta, barricaded herself in her bedroom to tear her hair out--when she wasn't begging our parents to have us all publicly hanged in the center of Deadwood Gulch. We had gotten glimpses of that forbidden feminine sanctuary by crowding shoulder to shoulder on the threshold and craning our necks, jaws open at the sight of the mind-boggling neatness of the place, but, in front of the closed door, with periodic screams coming from the interior, we "figurred" it was nothing less than a damsel in distress, probably a pretty schoolmarm who needed protection from the kidnappers. We posted Jimmy to guard the door because he was the easiest to order around, although he would have difficulty staying focused when he heard the gunfire down in the canyon.</div>
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After a few hours of combating evil, my mother would call us back to civilization--dinner, where Loretta could take advantage of mandatory table manners to beg our parents to get us under control as she stared with equal disgust at her three younger brothers and the canned peas on one side of her dinner plate.</div>
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"Okay, boys," I'd say, holstering my gun--always in charge of the Hopalongs, "Let's get some grub."</div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-77510938398220120382015-04-05T09:53:00.001-07:002015-04-05T09:53:28.900-07:00Bachelor Kitchen Tips: Grandma's Molasses.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Bachelors should always keep a dependable supply of long-lasting food staples in their disgusting hovels, stuff that your descendants would be able to eat when you're dead and gone for a couple generations, because, until your money runs out, you'll be eating out most of the time while perfectly good food rots in your refrigerator. Things like flour, oils, rice, sugar and pasta will wait patiently for your attention while you're out swilling high-calorie beer with your marginally moronic companions, screaming at sports events on a TV screen and looking for loose women. .<br />
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One of my favorite staples is Grandma's molasses, not only because it keeps forever but it's the perfect solution to the brown sugar dilemma.<br />
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I love brown sugar. I could eat it by the spoonful, which is like a mouthful of grainy but delicious fudge. But, trying to store brown sugar is almost impossible. A nice, moist box of brown sugar turns into a brick in no time, and unless you like licking a brick, you can't use it. I've tried everything short of buying a special storage container that claims to keep it moist. Who needs another container? You need room in your cupboards for microwave popcorn, Doritos and Ramen noodles.<br />
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I tried chipping pieces off the brick, but even Michelangelo could not sculpt this stuff.<br />
I tried giving it a mighty whack with a 16-ounce hammer, and all I got was two bricks instead of one.<br />
I tried melting it in the microwave and, maybe my microwave is an old jalopy, but all I got were sparks, bright flashes of light in the window and a warm brick.<br />
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Here's the key: Refined white sugar is nothing more than the sweet crystals formed after boiling the juices from crushed raw sugar cane. Molasses is the leftover goo. It still contains lots of sweet crystals, unless you keep boiling until the goo becomes "blackstrap" molasses, which is too bitter for most folks, although, if you have a home-made distillery in your apartment, it's a main ingredient for making rum and stout beer.<br />
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My parents used to keep a big jar of Grandma's molasses in the pantry when I was a kid (Yes, we had a pantry, a walk-in closet full of food staples and canned goods instead of clothes). You know a mess when you've seen the aftermath of a trio of under-8 boys turned loose in the pantry with a butter knife, a loaf of Wonder bread and a jar of Grandma's molasses. Brown sticky stuff can spread faster than snow in a blizzard.<br />
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The beauty is that you can count on Grandma's to make instant brown sugar on demand, no spoilage, no brick. Mix a spoonful or two of molasses in a cup of white sugar (you need good biceps and/or a little patience), and no one will know that the brown sugar is homemade.<br />
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I prefer brown sugar in my apple pies. If you ever sum up the courage and ambition to leave the living room to pass through the kitchen, aside from momentary foraging, try baking an apple pie (ready-made crusts like Pillsbury's rolled-up dough are excellent). Toss the apple chunks in a healthy dose of molasses and add a little less sugar.<br />
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Mmm. Delicious.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-26573104714190967032015-04-02T07:31:00.000-07:002015-04-02T07:31:25.654-07:00Blood Moon for Easter.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Get up early on Saturday if you want to catch the Blood Moon.<br />
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On the East Coast, you'll have to be watching around 6:30 am. In California, plan for the middle of the night. There's lots of spooky lore about the total eclipse when the moon turns reddish-orange, but this time it's special. It arrives on the first night of the Jewish Passover, the celebration of the Exodus, when the Children of Israel escaped Egyptian slavery (that would be Moses parting the Red Sea), and in the middle of the Christian Easter Vigil, the day between Jesus' death and His resurrection on Sunday.<br />
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So it says in the King James Bible: "The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and the terrible day of the Lord comes." (Joel 2:31).<br />
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According to the forecast (the weather forecast, not the biblical), there may be clouds rolling in, which is why I missed the last Blood Moon, but if you're planning a special breakfast for Sunday, set an extra plate anyway. After the Last Supper on Good Friday, Jesus may be looking for a First Breakfast to give us a new start.<br />
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<br />T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-9207192467347402632015-03-28T11:58:00.000-07:002015-03-28T11:58:47.565-07:00Bad Dream/Good Dream<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's an amusing backstory to how I drove every day without a driver's license for almost 26 years, but it's a long story--actually, a whole series of stories, amusing but too long for today.<br />
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Right in the middle of those 26 years, I enjoyed a reprieve when I lived in Maine for about a year. I was actually awarded a license by the state, which was suspended by the court about a week later. But, I went on a little adventure to the state capital, got an interview with a bureaucrat, got the license back, then moved to New Hampshire, where the license became legally invalid after 90 days.<br />
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Blah blah blah on and on.<br />
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To sum up my irritating saga, be it known that I have now had a valid New Hampshire driver's license for over five months.<br />
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My personal satisfaction--my denouement--came to me in a dream the other night:<br />
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I was in a resort town somewhere on a side street scratching my car key on the ground. An uncle of mine, suddenly appearing as a young man, accompanied by his son and a friend, approached me and informed me that I was about to be arrested and taken to jail for driving without a license, that they were here to take me to none other than the prison for terrorists at Guantanamo Bay.<br />
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I took a fighting stance, threatened them and vowed that they would have to take me by force--and it would not be pretty. Unwilling to commit themselves, they decided to go for a walk around the colorful town to see the sights. They would come back later.<br />
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Parked in this backstreet was an antique car, something resembling an old Model A Ford, which they would use to take me away. I crawled into the front seat and saw--close up--the keys dangling from the ignition. Ah-ha!<br />
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I started the car and tested the old brakes on the sloping street. The car was a dusty old piece of junk, not well preserved, but it worked, and all I had to do was take a right to get on the main strip. At the corner, I had a great thought: I would drive down the strip and see my uncle and his companions walking along as I glided by, and I would beep the horn, laughing at them. I could just imagine their jaws dropping. Love it!<br />
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I woke up from the dream happily, and I was still smiling as I sipped my second cup of coffee.<br />
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So--I think those 26 years prove one thing: I must be one dam good driver to dodge the authorities for all that time, when lots of people, including a few lawyers, predicted that I'd end up in jail. Ha!<br />
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BEEP BEEP.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-67131941049644034282015-02-18T14:01:00.001-08:002015-02-19T08:13:30.826-08:00Hearts of Bronze.<div style="text-align: center;">
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Think about it. Think about a passage from a Victor Hugo play, perhaps mangled by me but true to the original French:</div>
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...Happiness is serious</div>
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And asks for hearts of bronze</div>
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On which to engrave itself.</div>
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Pleasure alarms it by throwing flowers to it.</div>
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It's smile is nearer tears than mirth.</div>
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Think about the happiest moments of your life--your wedding, the birth of a child, the sight of a parent with dreams fulfilled, or a son or daughter on the way to fulfillment at a graduation or showing off a grandchild.</div>
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Hearts of gold are not enough--too shiny and shallow, like party favors. The metal is too soft.</div>
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It takes a heart of bronze.</div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-21624646329263985322015-01-01T10:03:00.001-08:002015-01-01T10:07:03.132-08:00Party Like It's 1999 or 2015--or 1966.<img 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" /><br />
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Imagine the New Year Ball dropping in Times Square in 1966, which is pretty much like the Ball dropping in 2015, except that Dick Clark hasn't been there recently.<br />
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I attended this party in 1966 with a couple other sailors from the U.S. Navy and concluded that this was the sorriest excuse for a party I ever witnessed. The Ball drop was uninteresting in the extreme and we couldn't wait to pee in an ally and get the hell out of the shivering cold. All around us people celebrated nothing save getting drunk, while we were pretty soused ourselves, passing around a warm fifth of Southern Comfort.<br />
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Yet, people rave about these events. "Oh yeah, what a blast! I was so hammered I staggered for blocks and projectile vomited across Fifth Avenue. People were slipping and sliding on my leftover pizza--including me! Ha ha ha! Look at the lump on my forehead. Ha ha ha!"<br />
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Oh yeah, what a blast. You behaved like a hopeless alcoholic and left your mess for other people to<br />
clean up or walk around.<br />
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Of course, when you're in the moment, the experience could be good for a life-giving laugh. Believe me, I know.<br />
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But, what are these people celebrating? A new beginning? Maybe. Getting another year older? Maybe not. Certainly not throwing out your old calendar for the new one. My guess is that they're just celebrating being all too human, the good, the bad and the ugly, mostly ugly. It reeks of mob psychology (See a classic analysis by Gustave Le Bon dating back a couple hundred years, entitled <i>The Crowd).</i><br />
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But, don't watch this boring party on television with it's gathering of hired hype artists (they're paid to like it), unless you're thoroughly drunk or addicted to bygone memories. Celebrate getting the day off with someone you love. And wish them a Happy New Year.<br />
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Happy New Year!T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-11687375644488688232014-12-04T09:59:00.000-08:002014-12-04T09:59:53.496-08:00Enema Anyone?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcFyOvpLWCg0OrUGxI8f4GwLuJ8jur2Rsr-Nph-_IZ8qzxqDXsCm1KQHgliFLjpsgm_aBSZI2pFvRlhBHi7FLF_H3cVZrBvUWK2Ano3bRpGE8I8ZFx6PaGDkW8beO4SmLvZqbSwrdxrZV/s1600/enema+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcFyOvpLWCg0OrUGxI8f4GwLuJ8jur2Rsr-Nph-_IZ8qzxqDXsCm1KQHgliFLjpsgm_aBSZI2pFvRlhBHi7FLF_H3cVZrBvUWK2Ano3bRpGE8I8ZFx6PaGDkW8beO4SmLvZqbSwrdxrZV/s1600/enema+(2).jpg" height="320" width="282" /></a></div>
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Ugh--I had my prostate examined and the doctor said he felt a certain firmness on one side (the prostate is the gland which manufactures the sweet fluid which sperm frolic in on their epic swim to glory). And, by the way, in answer to salacious inquirers--YES, I'm sure the doctor was a man, and YES, I'm sure the probe he used was a finger. He recommended that I see a urologist, so I did.</div>
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The urologist turned out to be a tall, dark attractive woman of about 30 years old (Who knew? It's the first time in my life that a beautiful woman asked me to drop my pants and bend over). She agreed with the male violator that my prostate contained a suspicious "nodule." When I objected to yet another doctor's appointment, she gave me a rundown on the insidious advance of prostate cancer.</div>
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Cancer? What the hell was she talking about? My doctor never told me that firmness in the prostate is a red flag for malignant cancer.</div>
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She recommended a biopsy, so I agreed.</div>
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They give you antibiotics for the procedure which are clearly labeled, "antibiotic for prostate biopsy, so the lady behind the counter at the drugstore says to me, <i>sotto voce,</i> "You know, it's the best kind of cancer you can have."</div>
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Hey-hey, nothin' but the best for me!</div>
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As for the biopsy, I imagined a little Pacman on the end of a tube curling up my backside and taking a little munch, but it was more like a snakebite--twelve times! (You'll hear a little pop, the doctor says). They inject you with an anesthetic first, but you still feel a little shock of pain and wonder, "How many god dam samples do they need!".</div>
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One of the preparations prior to the biopsy requires you to give yourself an enema. The problem is you can't buy just one enema at the drugstore--you have to buy a package of two. Okay, I used one, however reluctantly, so what do I do with the other one?</div>
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I hate waste. That's why I save half a paper towel, use the backs of printed paper, and eat suspicious items from the back of my refrigerator. But, what the hell do I do with an extra enema?</div>
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"Put it on ebay," a friend suggested, laughing.</div>
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The biopsy turned out to be good news--no cancer, my "nodule" is benign--but I still have the problem of an extra enema.</div>
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Maybe I should walk into the cafeteria and make an announcement: "Anybody want a free enema?"</div>
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That oughta clear the room.</div>
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T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-76080385059732439282014-10-19T10:36:00.000-07:002014-10-19T10:36:00.053-07:00Tom's Election Coloring Book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuU4g_RrXPUcZ_rLmG6IVkHWbwyd_uCMZWyG1BwekEo4Q7FYSjXt1fd4WJPvt1RkL4X-KkhkK9so8XAtBlK6i03k48AcKLKFHY7BOPndYfbrtddSQigvtFS1kYjhYRS60rvgIkviyjBIkS/s1600/election.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuU4g_RrXPUcZ_rLmG6IVkHWbwyd_uCMZWyG1BwekEo4Q7FYSjXt1fd4WJPvt1RkL4X-KkhkK9so8XAtBlK6i03k48AcKLKFHY7BOPndYfbrtddSQigvtFS1kYjhYRS60rvgIkviyjBIkS/s1600/election.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
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Three cheers for the red, white and blue.</div>
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On November 4th, we'll pick a whole bunch of "leaders." Never mind that most of them will be lame opportunists, looking out for themselves--they DO make a difference, especially for your children and grandchildren. So pick your poison, red or blue, print these maps, get out your crayons, prepare your snacks and watch it on TV. It's more exciting than a Superbowl, if you ask me.<br />
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The colored areas on the map represent the places where there are no elections, so the "leaders" in these places will stay in place for at least the next two years. Fill in the blanks on November 4th, red for Republican, blue for Democrats.<br />
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For those of you who daydreamed through geography lessons, here's the cheat sheet:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyghDgfN2TbX09P7f2BAA0PmeeXLGA8KuYm_kGRbtob2pc-ZCLmoUyveFeeyM0K16il8KsXsNtxO_tX2sTh5oQO8uy8VQFkb2lIXDVA5c-2JpqYm3fPkmA9GsPWjn7tbe50j7xTAC5okz/s1600/usmap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyghDgfN2TbX09P7f2BAA0PmeeXLGA8KuYm_kGRbtob2pc-ZCLmoUyveFeeyM0K16il8KsXsNtxO_tX2sTh5oQO8uy8VQFkb2lIXDVA5c-2JpqYm3fPkmA9GsPWjn7tbe50j7xTAC5okz/s1600/usmap.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
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Voting is the best you can do. After that, the best you can do is to have fun with it.<br />
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Crayons rule!T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-21077019802928259592014-10-09T10:46:00.001-07:002014-10-09T10:46:24.996-07:00Bachelor Kitchen Tips: Save Money.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq3MQmf0JHT34gBMORAJb3MM8JVSWs3XmG0A-x_QTykw8LxfpYqKOaS5sIq71y77Sc0W4_EGv8hEunwAzJvF8hLnd-6yhIHTAlA4a1XoP3INXu9efMnrvbhCxRYx7TgLSdsHDIbi_RQ5Qi/s1600/food+pyrmd+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq3MQmf0JHT34gBMORAJb3MM8JVSWs3XmG0A-x_QTykw8LxfpYqKOaS5sIq71y77Sc0W4_EGv8hEunwAzJvF8hLnd-6yhIHTAlA4a1XoP3INXu9efMnrvbhCxRYx7TgLSdsHDIbi_RQ5Qi/s1600/food+pyrmd+(3).jpg" height="247" width="320" /></a></div>
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Always save your leftovers for the next meal. In a pinch, when you absolutely can not tolerate another bowl of macaroni and cheese, you can freeze it. Later, it may not taste like Mama used to make, but it will keep you from eating your marijuana plants to stay alive. Throw all this crap into a frying pan or pot of water, and it can be surprisingly tasty.<br />
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That's how the Irish invented their famous stew, which tastes like a water-logged potato, half an onion, one carrot, and a few meat shavings from the bones of a skinny rat (In the days of the camel caravans, all those great spices from the Middle-East and Asia never made it across the English Channel to teach those people how to cook, so that, across the generations, their taste buds atrophied into nothing more than little food-grinder-helpers for the teeth. To them, a boiled potato taste the same as a jalapeno popper).<br />
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Of course, you don't want to eat anything poisoned by bacteria, but testing leftovers is easy. I always go by my father's scientific technique: Look, Sniff, Taste. If it looks good, smells okay, and tastes okay, it's good. Shut up and eat it. If you detect a sour odor from the milk carton, it's only from the film of milk on the inside of the carton getting overripe. Bottoms up.<br />
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The result of many years of such fatherly training is a stomach that could digest a bowling ball spiced up and heated to a temperature of 350 degrees without so much as a hiccup.<br />
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Never throw out leftovers unless the growth on it reaches a height of one-quarter inch. Mow the growth off and heat the remaining lump enough to kill all living things. Let cool and eat.<br />
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I have more tips, but I'm anxious to get to my "Recipes" chapter.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-46959015557563992432014-09-17T11:29:00.001-07:002014-09-17T11:29:28.737-07:00Goody Two Shoes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6G3R49zP38PYzTSJU20FdSv3vNaT6yLpm89VRYYPxBwRGw_hroOaLJBmaHH_WuqAGNFSwgZdSl4_vnfHCopEUK_61jSQOUvIgWtxAXHocjWy3ijQRFN__qFJofIqf6dkWQZKbpKfkn0rp/s1600/gateSD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6G3R49zP38PYzTSJU20FdSv3vNaT6yLpm89VRYYPxBwRGw_hroOaLJBmaHH_WuqAGNFSwgZdSl4_vnfHCopEUK_61jSQOUvIgWtxAXHocjWy3ijQRFN__qFJofIqf6dkWQZKbpKfkn0rp/s1600/gateSD.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
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I love exploring, even if the object of exploration is only insect life under a rock. That's why I'm reading this book about Polar exploration. It's amazing what those guys went through, frostbite, starvation, scurvy, gangrene and death, yet they kept going back for more, again and again.<br />
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None of that for me. I was heading for San Diego on vacation, no icebound ship, no freezing and, most importantly, no dying. And I could even travel with my trusty partner, Gayle, plus see my long lost brother, Jim.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fFyaGYTJSWE-QlUrGyI7b_G3dwJlP7ew8mLvZ5fBH_uBKQDWxy7HgOks0gF6O2Wal5EIjgw2g11Al1OJLF-25R1nDZ6jtLOZaLXbOujyjOA0VYRiq17AsBhlUJwMBQJ3DCuzSiMikrH-/s1600/Tom&JimSD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fFyaGYTJSWE-QlUrGyI7b_G3dwJlP7ew8mLvZ5fBH_uBKQDWxy7HgOks0gF6O2Wal5EIjgw2g11Al1OJLF-25R1nDZ6jtLOZaLXbOujyjOA0VYRiq17AsBhlUJwMBQJ3DCuzSiMikrH-/s1600/Tom&JimSD.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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My brother, who's been living in San Diego for many years, dropped us off at a beach in nearby La Jolla. "Follow the beach around the point, and I'll meet you with my RV at the grass hut on the other end of Windansea Beach. You can't miss it," he said.<br />
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So Gayle and I strolled south along the beach, which very quickly turned into rock-hopping and raging surf. And it only got worse as we went along. A concrete wall loomed to our left, protecting the beach houses twenty feet above. Gayle stopped atop a rock and stared at the treacherous-looking rocks and surf up ahead. "I'm not going there," she said.<br />
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"Come on, it's an adventure. We can explore a place we've never been--the thrill of discovery!"<br />
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"Right. I'm gonna take the street around to the grass hut."<br />
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"Come on! I'm taking the surf road, the road to adventure," I said, trying to entice her.<br />
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"See ya," Gayle waved, picking her way across the rocks in the other direction.<br />
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Okay. This was a challenge, and I was up to it, so I pushed ahead carrying my shoes in one hand. I had to wait for each wave to recede before I could find the negotiable rocks to hop along, until I met a young guy on the rocks going in the other direction who pointed at the surf with his swim fins. "Have you ever seen it this bad," he asked?<br />
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"Uh, no, I'm from New Hampshire."<br />
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"I've been walking this beach for twenty years and never saw it like this. There's a storm out at sea. Normally, you can walk on beach sand all the way around the point to Windansea Beach."<br />
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I looked at the mess ahead--nothing but raging white water and rocks. Here's a picture of Windansea Beach I found, taken after a big storm:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdeWUHTDF4J4cCpYhtMONxL6ea_EpkaH-UNw0q4ubLsxrMVJq7z4_o850E0-xjgyf2s9Ofh7znVAD7RBMWKEqaZRyxLjleJ6KtaVpp8jGQbCkXFZr4oQbaAlR8VQbNzKOsaLlhHEwQvxSI/s1600/Windansea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdeWUHTDF4J4cCpYhtMONxL6ea_EpkaH-UNw0q4ubLsxrMVJq7z4_o850E0-xjgyf2s9Ofh7znVAD7RBMWKEqaZRyxLjleJ6KtaVpp8jGQbCkXFZr4oQbaAlR8VQbNzKOsaLlhHEwQvxSI/s1600/Windansea.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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My exact location would be somewhere behind that white water, on my way to the nice beach sand which usually occupies the foreground.</div>
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"There's a staircase in the wall ahead," my rock-traveling compadre suggested. "You might want to try that."<br />
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I made it to the stairway, but not before gouging my bare feet all over old piles of concrete and rough rocks, then, being bashed against the wall by raging white water that splashed off my back and over my head, soaking me and my highly valued cigarettes.<br />
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The stairs were steep and slippery, with an ominous black iron gate at the top. I crawled up to the gate and untwisted a wire that apparently held the gate closed, though it seemed to be stuck. I wanted both hands to grip the gate, so I threw my shoes through the bars, one at a time, clinging for dear life and shaking it as much as I dared..<br />
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But the gate wouldn't budge, so I peered around and discovered that there was a padlock on the backside (the "thrill of discovery")--those rich folks were protecting their beach houses from all intruders.<br />
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I looked south to the point and decided that I'd never make it, so I looked forlornly at my shoes on the other side of the gate--I'd never find them in the private yards among the blocks and blocks of beach houses over my head.<br />
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I had to go back, so I fought my way back over the rocks and walked around the point through the streets as the hot sidewalks burned my feet, limping and wondering how Gayle found her way, wondering if she was okay. At the other end of Windansea Beach, I found her, gazing placidly at the blue Pacific.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDL4S87qiuzZkFkiV-ooVXUbqYSaN11tTwHNlSh81ZpKntSIz7mTfah-lFdflzgf29hhkiaxsFnx-cXX1KBXSHlcxbaGnUZYKL3mXxOWtpmdP8kxsLBD2NcSLFl3NzbNr3ICZnSDNOAWQ/s1600/grasshutgayle+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDL4S87qiuzZkFkiV-ooVXUbqYSaN11tTwHNlSh81ZpKntSIz7mTfah-lFdflzgf29hhkiaxsFnx-cXX1KBXSHlcxbaGnUZYKL3mXxOWtpmdP8kxsLBD2NcSLFl3NzbNr3ICZnSDNOAWQ/s1600/grasshutgayle+(3).jpg" height="247" width="320" /></a></div>
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"I was worried about you," I said, still wet and nursing my aching feet.</div>
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"I'm fine," she said, "What happened to you?"</div>
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After I told her my story, scolding her for abandoning me, she nodded in satisfaction. "There are good choices, and there are bad choices."</div>
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Sure, she was fine, sitting there in her dry, comfy white sneakers enjoying the view--like the rest of the Goody Two-Shoes, like the ultimate Goody Two-shoes--Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, who, with a click of her heels, could conjure up beautiful sky and water and fresh breezes without a single thought of the sharks and sting rays and poisonous jellyfish out there.</div>
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Where were MY two goody shoes?</div>
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"What are you laughing at?" I demanded.</div>
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"There are good choices, and there are bad choices," she intoned again in a sing-song voice.</div>
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I grimaced in fear at her words, fear that some night soon, I would wake up in the middle of the night screaming at the echo.</div>
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"There are good choices, and there are bad choices. There are good choices and there...."</div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-62242280732514636282014-06-19T11:22:00.002-07:002014-06-19T11:22:53.852-07:00Bachelor Kitchen Tips: Leftovers.<br />
If opening the refrigerator door stinks up your whole kitchen, you may have to do a thorough search of its interior. Wear latex gloves if possible and rummage carefully--you may run into things that could not only spread disease but also make a mess, of which you have enough already.<br />
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If you remove the lid from a pot stored way back on a shelf to take a sniff, and your head jerks back violently, there's your problem. The contents will be mysterious and soft, but whatever it is, you can easily scoop it into the toilet with a large spoon while you hold your breath. Flush immediately, but don't throw out the pot. They're expensive. Leave the lid off and push aside leftover debris to make room for it on your counter for a few days--so that the contents dry into a harmless solid crust, then clean the pot thoroughly.<br />
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Use a power drill with a wire brush attachment if necessary.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-22034378564593982372014-05-20T11:18:00.001-07:002014-05-20T11:18:23.044-07:00God and Golf.Golf is a very pleasant sport. You can get some fresh air, stroll through some of the world's finest manicured landscape, slam little responsive balls that sail incredibly through the air, and actually keep score to see how you're doing. Plus, if you're too lazy to hike the course, you can grab an open car, drive to your ball, smoke cigarettes and explore a cooler filled with all sorts of mood enhancing liquids.<br />
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It's fun, unless you're with my brother-in-law, Bob, when he gets into one of his mischievous moods, probably influenced by one trip too many to the cooler. He will help you find your ball, and the ball may turn up in unimaginable places, maybe brought there by a hole in his pocket, down his pant-leg and over his ankle and shoe top. And he's very convincing. It makes no difference to him whether your ball turns up in a good spot or a bad spot. Win or lose, it's all fun to him.<br />
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Which brings me to the time God and St. Peter played a game of golf one Sunday morning, which I didn't witness, but I believe must be true, considering my brother-in-law, Bob.<br />
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On the first hole, God drove the ball into a water hazard, but the waters parted and God made an easy chip onto the green. On the second hole, God actually plunked the ball onto the green with an impressive drive. Suddenly, there was a little earthquake and the green tipped enough to roll the ball into the cup. On the third hole God's drive sent the ball into a sand trap. A little ocean appeared nearby and started an evolution. Microbes turned into fish, fish turned into reptiles, reptiles turned into mammals, and one of these furry little mammals ran up, grabbed the golf ball in his mouth, then ran to the cup and dropped the ball in.<br />
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St. Peter looked at God and said, "You wanna play golf, or you wanna fuck around?"T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-35719826925376385312014-04-24T10:59:00.000-07:002016-06-14T08:32:28.076-07:00Class of 1964: Change? What change?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZtTTuvue8toI6e8eqCcV4DFod08QQl8f_H65EPwSDuTqR2MWk6reRdUACua8xyfBqvQzwgKGslHEqbdLm1SeVEEKz96CejJzmAi7aAL0wNIEMMtDHNlvlWeDSI4KCLe1068NGzDDVqoXV/s1600/classof64+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZtTTuvue8toI6e8eqCcV4DFod08QQl8f_H65EPwSDuTqR2MWk6reRdUACua8xyfBqvQzwgKGslHEqbdLm1SeVEEKz96CejJzmAi7aAL0wNIEMMtDHNlvlWeDSI4KCLe1068NGzDDVqoXV/s320/classof64+%25282%2529.jpg" width="222" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxY2sSEQfVuA5m9Ri3yIZFE3LBUoKYeCU-Y43YLDXIKiDIehlCmfCcKPxxXzV_cJf_O4KO6PE7IHMGC-c9vbLFkrGCIN3HQYPQJk5gbKKx0x7CuonCfbpuV9ETaBRqVcefJw6fyTaU9qeU/s1600/selfie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxY2sSEQfVuA5m9Ri3yIZFE3LBUoKYeCU-Y43YLDXIKiDIehlCmfCcKPxxXzV_cJf_O4KO6PE7IHMGC-c9vbLFkrGCIN3HQYPQJk5gbKKx0x7CuonCfbpuV9ETaBRqVcefJw6fyTaU9qeU/s320/selfie1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Thank you all for the birthday wishes. If you're good at math, you might have guessed that I turned 70 in May of 2016. What amazes me is: How the hell did I ever get this far? It must have happened when I wasn't looking.</div>
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I recently found the yearbook photo above and added a picture I took last week--a "selfie." People have been taking pictures of themselves since cameras were invented, but the kids needed a new name for it, something catchier than "24/7 narcissism."</div>
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Also amazing is how little I have changed. All I need is to shave and brush my hair, and you would think the photos above were <i>both </i>taken last week--assuming your eyes are at least 70 years old.</div>
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Here's the post from two years ago:</div>
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I just got my pre-invitation to my 50th high school class reunion, just as I was thinking that it's been an amazing 20 years since I graduated.</div>
We had a big class, so I'm not surprised that most of the names on the list of graduates are unfamiliar, but I can't find one person I'm anxious to get reacquainted with. Most of my good buddies were members of the class behind me.<br />
I've never been to a class reunion, and the thought of attending strikes me as ghoulish without an old buddy to share some private jokes about the characters at this particular geezer gathering. I'm sure some perfect stranger would walk up to me smiling with his hand out saying, too enthusiastically, "Hi, Tom, do you remember me?"<br />
Uh... no, I would stare.<br />
Then, he would reveal his identity as if waving a colorful flag which didn't impress me 50 years ago and still doesn't.<br />
"You don't remember me, do you?"<br />
"Oh, yeah. Yes, I remember you."<br />
Yes, I might remember him, except that I don't remember him looking like he had shrunk three inches, swallowed a cow and fell asleep with his head in a clothes dryer.<br />
"Good to see you," I'd lie, meaning that seeing him is better than dropping dead, while I'd be hoping someone would interrupt.<br />
Then, the strange woman would approach, lacking the finer points I appreciated 50 years ago, and tell me I was really cute back then.<br />
"Oh, yes, I remember you. Didn't you marry Joe Jockstrap?"<br />
"Yeah, we divorced a long time ago. Actually, I'm on my fourth marriage."<br />
"Really," I'd say as my eyes searched for one of those bright red EXIT signs--maybe somebody would yell "fire" and we could all pile out to the parking lot and disappear under cars.<br />
Just to cheer us up, the reunion committee, whoever these people are, included a list of deceased persons in our reunion package. The only cheerful part is that I'm not on the list. Out of 328 class members, 57 are confirmed dead, including a few bozos I appreciated in the third grade. That's over 80% of us still kicking. This is not a bad score, considering our ages. With all the problems of modern health care, we've fared quite well with the medical miracles.<br />
But--nah--I'm not going to this reunion. I'm going to wait for our 75th, when we can get the whole crowd around one table at Cheers, and I won't have to make much conversation.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-75992016040464057082014-03-16T07:14:00.000-07:002014-03-16T07:16:37.012-07:00The Curse of the Catheter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzsXaQ8yMVMhDFIC6MGo0UEEgHSaNBSujgEow8-YBj5MHh4zrI_AwbLSwwsROhbsoGqO-k6E6eO5QFOzqV314Ng_oHd4ZOSFg7e-oFEyuLrWtJoC5KaH9Cw3I9iOXPA3cDdh2edpolPWD/s1600/IMG_0910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzsXaQ8yMVMhDFIC6MGo0UEEgHSaNBSujgEow8-YBj5MHh4zrI_AwbLSwwsROhbsoGqO-k6E6eO5QFOzqV314Ng_oHd4ZOSFg7e-oFEyuLrWtJoC5KaH9Cw3I9iOXPA3cDdh2edpolPWD/s1600/IMG_0910.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a> </div>
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I underwent major vascular surgery in my pelvis last week, huge stents in arteries to both legs. Now--I understand they had to thread a catheter up my penis so I didn't accidentally pee all over the doctor's gown during the operation.</div>
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But--the operation was over, I spent an hour in the recovery room, ate two meals, had a decent night's sleep, and not even a drug addict would be peeing all over himself on the amount of drugs I had in my system. It was high time this catheter came out. I told the nurse and she agreed to make it her first request when the doctor showed up.</div>
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Okay. But I had periodic burning sensations, and I thought the tube to the urine bag might be twisted or kinked, so I plucked the bag from under the bed and switched it from hand to hand as I untangled the tube with the other hand. The tape holding the tube against my thigh came off so that my penis stood up and followed the tube around like a bird dog on the hunt (a pointer), a very unpleasant sensation--when it didn't involve a woman.</div>
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Finally sick of the process, I carried the bag into the bathroom (just in case I squirted when I yanked out the tube), and gave the tube a healthy pull.</div>
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Yow. That hurt. And the evil tube stayed in place. Something was holding it in, so I went back to the chair in my room and tried to be patient. But, the burning sensations kept coming around and I couldn't tell whether I was peeing or not. Where the hell was the doctor? Where's the nurse?</div>
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Fed up again, I went back to the bathroom with gruesome determination. I grabbed my penis in one hand, the catheter in the other and pulled firmly in opposite directions. Aha, I observed, I could see the tube exiting the end of my penis, so I kept going and it looked like I was making progress. But, ow,ow,ow, no undocking. The only thing I accomplished was to compress my penis into a little stub of wrinkles resembling a small stack of coins (about $3.50 in quarters). At that point, I wanted to go into the hallway and howl like a coyote until relief arrived.</div>
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Luckily, the nurse came. I gave her a grim look and said, "This catheter has to come out."</div>
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She almost smiled when she conceded, "Okay, I won't wait for the doctor."</div>
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She had me lay on the bed and started to manipulate the catheter.</div>
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"What's the trick?" I asked, after confessing that I had tried to pull it out.</div>
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"Oh, you can't pull it out. There's a balloon on the end of it that has to be deflated."</div>
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A balloon!</div>
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"Are you ready? One, two, three...."</div>
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Ahgggrrrr...relief!</div>
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I have never been to a hospital anywhere, at any time, for any purpose, for anyone when I didn't think the nurses were angels. Thank God for the angels, and may my penis rest in peace.</div>
T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6932420261974148927.post-6238693192167567982014-02-13T12:58:00.002-08:002014-02-13T13:11:39.064-08:00Snowy Day.<br />
It's 2 pm, and it's snowing hard. The geniuses on TV tell me this will go on until the wee hours of morning.<br />
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Hmmm, let me think....<br />
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Should I call in to work, sick--for which I will get a full day's pay--or should I go out to clean four inches of snow off my car and brave Interstate 293, like a kiddie in a bumper car, then work four hours on a mail sorting machine so that the folks can get their Walmart flyers and save 19 cents on a quart of milk if purchased by Friday?<br />
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Should I clean another four inches off my car at 8:30 pm to slip and slide over to Dunkin' Donuts to get my customary coffee from some kid whose only purpose in life is to be cool and relaxed--never mind old customers like me who are limited to half-hour lunches--then finish sorting the day's mail so that mail carriers can park in the middle of clogged roads, trudge through the snow and deliver bills? Then, clean another four inches of snow off my car at 12:30 am to get home--only to plow my way into the one parking space left on the street while the predators who own my building clear the parking lot and call the tow trucks?<br />
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Or--should I stay home, bake that strawberry pie I'm planning for Valentine's Day, plus a salmon pie that will feed me for days, and add an improvised pot of minestrone soup while I watch a movie on TV?<br />
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Hmmm, let me think....<br />
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Okay, I thought enough. Get me the phone.T. St. Laurenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01834934390441938075noreply@blogger.com0