1:00 AM -- FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY THE FRIDGE

 

Remember Dagwood and Blondie Bumstead?

Their children, Alexander and Cookie?

Don't forget the dog, Daisy.

You're seeing this because last night, at about 1:30 AM, I awakened with a driving hunger pang.  I ran out to the fridge, opened 'er up and the first thing that flashed before my imagination's eye was this:

Once I got over the shock of the first wave, the first thing that came to mind was, "I wonder how many millennials know who this is?"

Then I started to muse about the value of such a memory.  Why was I covered by a cloud of "Dagwood-ism?"  What was the value?  What was the Lord Almighty trying to tell me?  I was really mystified and I am still digging around in the spiritual centers of my being to see if I might find something important to learn about this experience.

In the fog of reflection and quasi meditation, I never got an answer to my mental probing about how Dagwood ever did get to wrap his mouth around the monumental sandwiches that he was fond of contructing.

One thing did come to mind:  The difference between Daisy and Snoopy.  Daisy never did quite make it the exhalted level of Snoopy.  She never strutted around on two legs like that most famous of all Beagles.

Finally, as I was going about the business of taking the lid off the agenda of the new week, all the while reminiscing about Dagwood, I began to try to count the number of jobs I have done in my lifetime.  

Now, that, as you may all imagine, is a story for another day.

SEASHORE, and MORE, -- VOICE OF GOD

 "DOES THE SONG OF THE SEA END AT THE SHORE OR IN THE HEARTS OF THOSE WHO LISTEN TO IT? 

Kahlil Gibran

This is one of those thoughts that made me shake my head when I read it.  The person to whom it is attributed is a favorite thinker/poet/guru whom I have followed for many years.  It is a fascinating reality that after having dedicated so much spiritual energy basing my personal meditations on Gibran's thoughts that I could have been confronted by this one out of the blue. 

Besides the fact that this thought is engendered by the soothing memory of music, I have to confess that I have been reaching inside of myself to make sense of the rages of water, fire and innimical viruses as they have become rather prominent factors affecting our human situation of late. 

One of the facts that have been lingering around the edges of my meditative nature have been the memorial celebrations surrounding the obsequies for my godson, Hadjr.  The deepest solemity was celebrated on the breast the Pacific Ocean, in many ways, the soul of true San Diegans. It was there that the Song of the the Sea swallowed our hearts and minds in the unison of love. The Song of the Sea did not stop on the sands of the beach on that day...Not for me.  How about you?

You were not there, you say.  Ok, let me ask if the rage of the fires in the northwestern corner of our country end when it runs out of fuel or does it continue to make our soul shiver even long moments after we have been freed of its infernal fury.  

These are just some musings concerning the impact that lingers in the spiritual corners of our being as a result of what we experience in their presence.

MY MADONNA, by Robert W, Service

 How many of you have a favorite poem?  Think about it. You must have one.  From           Early to bed, Early to rise,  Makes one happy, healthy and wise ,  to “The Song of Hiawatha” or one of my favorites,  “Evangeline.”  

Each poem is like a little piece of time travel. That’s really the beauty of poetry. It has the ability to take you back to that very sparse moment that the poet experienced. A true poet can capture both massive and microscopic events and portray them in words with the same vibrancy and grandeur. One man writes about the tragedy of Gettysburg, while the other muses on the delicate way Autumn’s first leaf touches the ground.  One makes me cry as Evangeline’s canoe slips past the one in which her beloved is sleeping while another one reflects on the bygone virtues of the anonymity of those who fill the graves in a small country churchyard.  This is why I love poetry. All moments, both large and small can be captured the same.  Think of national anthems. Some are loving and sweet and some are bellicose but, in every case, they become the core of the citizenry.                                    

Think of religious hymns. They are poems that proclaim what we believe.  The following poem is one I picked out for its sweet cynicism and poignant humor.  It is one that makes me think. I have visited it and revisited it many times over the years.  It always takes me from the surface to the depths.  Hope you enjoy it too.                                          My Madonna – by Robert W. Service                     

         Let me suggest that you Google  "Robert W. Service"

I discovered him some 20+ years ago.  His work is vast and varied.  I am a "mood" reader of his.  

Enjoy.

 

REPORT THI

LEARN TO SPEAK ENGLISH (Originally published in mid 2015)

 

I keep getting these moronic emails that keep yelling at people to learn to speak English.
To all you sweethearts out there who want to force anyone in the United States to speak English, there will have to be a law that allows you to apply that force.  So far, you're out of luck because the United States has no law defining an official national language.
Then, all of you bright luminaries surely don't think of the many variations of "standard" English that you have to choose from.  Which one(s) are you going to allow to exist here in the United States before you start arresting people for not speaking the legal form of English?
Think of it as an expression of our highly touted freedom. Yes, indeed.  We are free to do so many things.  We are free to move around at any time of day or night; free to stand on a street corner alone or in a group of five or fifteen; free to write nasty things about our government; free to say nasty things about the government in public; free to espouse the religion of our choice; free to marry the person with whom we are in love, even one who does not speak English for crying out loud!  Maybe worse yet, one who only knows how to speak Nigerian English.  Oh, pain and suffering! I've been living with a loving spouse who only knows Filipino English!  My children are irreparably damaged by the mental confusion caused by this horrible disability.  They may not even be truly American with this built-in speech warp!  
And what about me?  I was reprimanded the other day for a translation from French to English because it was rejected for being US English instead of UK English. That ignorance took $50 out of my wallet!  
So, all you freedom lovers out there, just what version of the English language are you going to legislate for our fair country?  Will my Scottish friend have to fear imprisonment for his total inability to speak US English?  What's going to happen to his freedom of expression?
So, dear linguists, enjoy the freedom that you have to write what you want about the language(s) we speak or don't speak in this country.  As for me I am going to speak whatever language it takes for me to get fed and/or find my way to the men's room.

Note:  The initial publication in Krussty Kurmujjin evoked a comment from my Scottish friend: "When I go to visit family in Scotland they repremand me for speakin US Emglish and using US slang terms.  Scottish English is the purest form of English."

FRONT PAGE NEWS -- HOLYOKE DAILY TRANSRIPT TELEGRAM -- MASSACHUSETTS

 Those were the days when we had real money.  That 50¢ was enough for five days round trip bus fare from home to school.  Truth to tell, that was the student discount fare.

The bus company was local.  The Holyoke Street Railway Company was the name.  

My favorite story out of all that could be told about that period of notoriety is one that didn't make the papers.  It is the story of the doctor who owned and operated an x-ray lab.  His services were required because after about two weeks the coin proved to be too heavy and too large to be expelled from my stomach to the outside though the bowels.  I was being poisoned by the digestive process taking place in my stomach.

The surgeon who was going to perform the invasive extraction needed an x-ray of the situation.  My father, EFR Dion and I went to the x-ray lab.  The doctor there did not believe my father (no one was about to believe a nine years old miscreant) that I had indeed swallowed that size of coin.  After a short back and forth the doctor said, "If he did swallow a half-dollar coin, I'll pay the tab."  

Click, click, whrrr, whrrr, clunck and hold the x-ray up to the light and...Whooaa, that looks like a half buck!  Reach into the pocket, put a coin up to the screen and the Doc had to pay.  My father and I laughed all the way home.

The next evening they took me to the hospital.  I was there for a full week.  I was on a baby food diet for 8 full weeks.  I missed nearly four weeks of school.  I studied at home after the hospital and passed all the final tests so I did not have to repeat the grade.

The coin?  My father ordered me to give it to the church in the form of a candle offering.  There was no way he was going to allow me to glorify my imprudence.

That was 1946.  I haven't seen a 50¢ piece in decades.  No, I never swallowed another one!