had to look up spelling for exquisite – I knew there was an eXe in there somewhere. What a good turn I did, giving La Nina to us on the lower southeast so you could have washed windows. The ‘ku makes it worthwhile, even though Inow must drink extra beer to provide water for my hot pepper plants.
(October 17, 2021)
wish I to wrest reins
of these ungentle powers
come: nature commands
to lead well first one must know
the ways of service and serve
(October 17, 2021)
I got promoted
to “Freakin’ Idiot” more
times than I could count
and fell back to mere “Lance Fool”
on memorable occasions
(October 17, 2021)
today’s new cars, trucks
squeak and rattle more than old
my old pickup quiet*
steel stolen to fake gas milage
and mere ‘benders’ more crucial
*(My ’71 VW Super Beetle ran forever and even survived an I-4 “On-Ramp” rollover: passing p/u trucker stopped and he and I righted The Blue Bug and off I putted from a real wet rugby practice in South Orlando back to Lake Mary (before it became too toney), its 133 ppsi manifold pressure across the board unaffected…and the new dimples on top sort of complemented the ones front and rear. But the champion was the ’68 Chevy C-10 six-cylinder flathead (type) 160 horse champion: it required three replacement freeze plugs and a new water pump well into the 1980s. Oh, yeah, a milled flush exhaust manifold. The Bug could hit 93 mph on a flat surface after a downhill start (Savannah River Bridge, for example – going north into the Francis Marion (Swamp Fox) National Forest in S. Carolina – but the White Shadow never asked for much: just new oil every 1,500 miles (lots of it run on dirt roads), new oil and air filters the same time and clean and regap the spark plugs every 10-20K-miles. About the same distance required for brake fluid top-up and a treanny fluid checkup, and the regular check of tire air pressures at each pump stop. WHAT!? You don’t carry a tire pressure gauge with you when you gas up? For shame. That topper pickup had a mil-surplus stretcher inside and a nice comfy sleeping bag mattress, along with much of my fishing gea, charcoal filled habichi pot with newspaper starter material, r and the cab-topper pass-through windows provided easy access/egress for chow and throat-wettners as well. Today’s squeakers shimmy easing off a low curb and quail like eight-year-olds at a still-bumpy and lumpy clay road in the rainy season. I’ve had dirt bikes give smoother rides. And big bikes with much better mileage.)
(October 17, k2021)
goes shopping for sweets, visits
renown for her acumen
she finds herbs in bloom instead
(which maybe is what THEY wanted all along)
(October 15, 2021)
By J Kirk Richards
IRS and I are engaged…and it hurts. Tried to do a non-filer signup for the so-named Stimulus Number 3 and boy, was the bog ever thick. Think I shall seek professional advice. But in the meantime, this:
My response to pal Bruce C. Jewett on his admission that he knew not ‘what the heck” the riddle “tidd” meant on a previous posting and he forgot what he wanted to say. A typo, “Juice” said. No available decipherment.
So I returned to another enigma, decipherable in its simplicity and elegance all at once. The Late Donald E. Westlake, upon receiving an award was expected to say a few words. He did:
“I do not speak,” he said. “I write. Thank you.” And then, presumably he sat down.
I wrote to Bruce: (in paraphrase now because I do not recall the exact words). Than man of many words, Don Westlake as he signed his letters, had Brevity’s Soul by the Short Hairs, neh?
He mostly signed off his missives with just “Don.” Rather a confirmation of his speech to the assembled patrons of his art.
I, however, am a glutton at best and cad with no redeeming features I can recall off -toe, -finger, or even -hand. My sins were written down in two books once. Rather complete, that. Not proud, especially, of that; but, I find comfort in saying to a fellow miscreant: “I can empathize.” I am not sure if the fellow offender is comforted by that comment: sometimes I am, though.
I leave now to search for a suitable soul to ‘splain to me how to get my lucre (filthy or washed) from my faithful government which wants me always to wear a mask designed to disabuse a bacterium or seven from crossing its blocking path as a safety shield for a virus which is near infinitely smaller than the warp and weft alleged to keep a surgeon’s slimy exhalations off a patient’s incision.
Which explains why I find no joy in exposing the Eternal Repeat (after me) Service as a sham and canard. Seems WHO and CDC beat them to the punch, no? Being second – or third – is NOT like kissing your sister (if you have a sister and she’s slow enough to be caught): it’s more like holding her vomit pail when she ate those Steak-N-Shake burgers just before her spinal tap.
And with that I shall don my safari jacket, my calabash-shaped Sherlockian pipe and sleuth out a suitable ‘splainer of all things appertaining to my quest.