Tuesday morning Dr. Feldman removed the pin from my previously broken finger. To me, the movie’s a bust. I expected more drama, but then, maybe less is a good thing.
The surgeon is such a good sport he tries to direct my filming. It’s his voice asking that I pause, because he’s worried I’ll run out of film time. And it’s his scream at the end.
A Window’s friendly .AVI version
Dear Bill,
So, how are we coming? I’m assuming you’ve finished your downstairs bathroom, but still have to tile upstairs. The chopstick comes out of my finger tomorrow so I’m ready when you are.
Say, when are you going to write another story for the blog?
Michael
Dear Mike,
When the chopstick is out, and you can hit the right key on the billing data base, please send me the correct bill. Granted, the Christmas gift I gave John was pretty weak. But still and all, I don’t feel like paying his bill for his garage leveling and siding. I do owe you a sheckle or two, but even as you come from the John Joyce school of billing, I reject paying for someone else’s job. Ya know, 15 years ago, when we were trying out the name TGH, Inc, (Two Guys Hammering), I told you I could devise a computer program to do the billing. It might have been better, on the 256K, Lotus 123, DOS based program PC I had. Maybe not, but it would have been able to tell the difference between I lewis and B lewis. I figure I owe more like $75. Or maybe more. Let me know.
Our Xmas card delivery was pretty sketchy this year. And my best intentions, unrealized, were to visit or at least call you guys on Christmas morning, but it didn’t happen. I missed our annual visit; seeing your holiday house, trying to level the pool table, listening to a new CD, having a taste of whatever new single malt you were serving, and most of all, having a traditional time to catch up with you.
I got a chop box, home owners 10″ size, for Christmas, so I can now go back and refine the shaky angles I cut for the ceiling trim. Almost done. Seems like the oomph is gone, as the bath is functional and as I sit on the pot each morning, not bad to look at. Can’t seem to finish.
I’ll write the story, you tell me what to write about.
Bill
Dear Bill,
One year, many years ago, which wipes about the senior moment excuse, I sent a bill with a date like 1968. The customer saw it as more evidence of my incompetence and fired me. I trust you can differentiate between my window trim skill and my billing program and continue to hire me for your fun two man jobs. Especially those which require working in your attic on scorching summer days, or in the way-to-close confines of your bathroom where I’ll wonder why I can’t pick up a hammer until I realize I was trying to use your hand, not mine.
Mike
P.S. How about your yearly student story which begins, “Have I ever told you about the time I almost died?”
Welcome to WordPress. This is your first post. Edit or delete it, then start blogging!
I cleaned out my attachments folder and found these two which should have been posted with their entries.
From birdbrain’s trip to Morocco. Incidentally, her next destination – Botswana.
Full Photo
And one that makes me laugh everytime I look at it. Rakkity in Japan.
Full Photo
Taken during our (Adam, Mark S and Dan) last lunch at La Provence in Concord. The glass table provides the reflective surface.
View image
And this is a perfect segue into my plea for anecdotes. I’ve gotten a few but not as many as I’d hoped for. It’s not too late to send me yours. I’m going to post the ones I’ve collected early this week (see how smart I am not to give an actual date?). And since Diane stole the one I was going to use, maybe I should have saved the one above, but they are so easy to collect.
And one more thing. The blog is changing addresses and design. I hope to have the new one up on or before Friday.
More wild and crazy people from Ginger’s sister’s wedding.
View the whole kit’n'kaboodle
Christopher, Cole, Mark, Molly and Cole’s mom, Kay
View All
From today’s Book Section in the Boston Globe.
Art that baffles and Exhilarates
By James Sallis
The beauty of the novel, the great fascination of it, I often proclaim, shoehorning my words into a space taken up by sputtering attention spans, the latest celebrity news, and remakes of films that apparently (though who could have thought it?) were not bad enough upon initial release, is that it can do — can be — anything.
And is that, I wonder, looking out into the classroom, a vague terror I see in the eyes of my postulant writers? Nietzsche (I might continue) observed that every philosophy, every great summation of thought, however grand its intent, finally comes down to ”a confession on the part of its author and a kind of involuntary and unconscious memoir.” The same may be said of fiction, another, more modest summation of human experience.
In the recent comment section you can now roll over to see email addresses. In the past when this was an option for all comments, folks would make up addresses which would further add to the content of the comment. I suggest continuing to do that, or to alter your email addresses in some other way to thwart spam bots from harvesting them.
Thanks to Dan for pressing me, there is now a recent comment section just below the calendar archives. Now Adam, Rakkity and La Rad can’t have private conversations back in the dusty archives.
Someone wrote to tell me a solitary poker pic doth not a blog entry make. Well, phooey. How about twelve images from the holidays with captions?
These days, my mother rarely sits in front of the computer. I’ll log-on with iChat and she’ll be lying in bed, napping, watching TV or otherwise playing dead. Late Saturday morning I saw her bright face, up close, clicking away.
“Something funny happened last night,” she said as soon as she realized I was watching her.
“What?”
“Do you remember our friend Fred Howard? Mack tutored him in high school and I gave him your aquarium.”
“No memory at all of him. Go on.”
“He doesn’t have a job and what work he gets pays almost nothing. I don’t know where he lives, but Saturday night he knocks on our door. He’s had a fight with his wife Tiesha, over his cell phone. She thinks he’s sold it. “
“Fill me in a little more. He’s beginning to sound like your friend Ron who added a zero or two to that check he begged Mack to write and then ended up dead.”
“No, Fred’s not a drug addict. He’s a good looking guy, he’s big, over six feet tall, and no fat. He looks like he’s capable of doing hard work. You might hire him, but here he is asking for money or a place to sleep.”
“This young guy – he’s in his twenties now? – looking for a handout at what can be charitably described as a private nursing home? He has no one else to turn to? Or he knows he’ll get a few dollars from you?”
“He said, ‘I need ten dollars for a place to sleep.’ I wanted to give him the money, but Mack wanted to give him a bed. The next thing I know, Mack’s rummaging around in the linen closet for blankets so Fred can sleep on the futon in the living room.”
“This story is too good.”
‚ÄúBut it gets better. The next morning Fred gives me this big hug as he‚Äôs about to leave and says, ‚ÄòThank you Mrs. Miller. I tell him, ‚ÄòYou don‚Äôt need to be this homeless person wandering around in the cold rain looking for a place to sleep. You‚Äôre better than that.‚Äô He says, ‚ÄòI‚Äôm never going to be in this position again and he walks out our front door. But standing outside is his wife, Tiesha. She‚Äôs screaming at him about how he‚Äôs sold their cell phone. I can just see the blinds going up in the neighbors’ houses. They walk away together and then the police arrive.‚Äù
“Who called the police?”
“You know I’d never tell your sister this story, or my friend, Phyllis.”
“Who called the police?”
“I don’t know. I guess his wife. Two officers come up to me on the porch and they ask if Henry Howard lives here. You know I’ve never liked the police leaning on me. Anyway, I turned to Mack who doesn’t want any part of this and ask, ‘Is Fred called Henry?’ Of course he can’t hear me. So I tell them no, Henry Howard doesn’t live here, but there was a Fred here. All this time I’m doing everything I can not to laugh. Can you imagine what they’re thinking? Here are these two old white folks and Fred is black of course. I tell them it’s nothing more that a domestic disturbance and they can leave now. “
“And did they?”
“They spoke to each other in some kind of code. And then they left.”
That’s the end of the Fred story, but not the end of the conversation. Helen continues to fill me in on the days events and how happy she is and how much she appreciates her kids. “You know, I really have had a good life. My kids are loving and successful, I have lots of friends Рeverything Is fine. Except for the relationship. Then she laughs loud enough for Diane to hear her in the other room.
As she talks I watch her intently looking at her computer screen. She then asks, “Is that Ginger on the blog?”
‚ÄúNot recently,‚Äù I answer. “You might have clicked on some old pages. She is in there.‚Äù
I log on to her computer using Timbuktu. I look at her screen and what do I see?
The cursor scurrying around flipping solitaire cards.
“HEY! You mean you’ve been talking to me AND playing solitaire at the same time?”
I hear an embarrassed, hand-in-the-cookie-jar giggle and then, “How do you know?”
“What do you mean, how do I know?”
“Oh, you can see my screen. Sometimes you see too much.”