I've been fairly good this year. Lady Di has been very good. Is it asking Santa too much for a present that sucks? Maybe Santa needs more information. After all, he can't make his decisions in a vacuum. Alright, Kringle, here are the facts: our current cleaner is old. Real old. It's from Hoover. No, not the company; the president. It's coal powered. Like I said, it's not a new vacuum cleaner.
It doesn't work so well anymore. I use it an appallingly slight percentage of the time that it is employed, but in those rare instances where I'm the operator of the sucker, it feels like I'm pushing around a stick.
Curling sweepers pick up more dirt. Quidditch brooms pick up more dirt. Not effective. Anyway, Santa, if you're not too busy...
We left Ohio and cut through West Virginia. About all I knew about West Virginia until very recently, was that Bobby Bowden coached at one of their universities before establishing his dynasty at Florida State, and that "Devil Anse" Hatfield, of the notorious Hatfield/McCoy imbroglio, and my ex-wife's husband were from there (no relation, as far as I know). My impression of the music scene, before I bothered to look into it, was that the following video was typical of the State:
Turns out I was wrong. We decided to stay overnight in West Virginia, because it is about half way between Lewiston, Michigan and home. We had a tough time getting a room. The place was pretty, and all, but we were perplexed. Turned out that the hotels were packed because the massive storm that bedeviled the East knocked out the power for about 120,000 West Virginians, and as many as could we trying to get away from the stifling heat. We talked to a few of the locals, and they were prayerful, pleasant and long-suffering, and I liked and admired them.
Musically? In addition to John Denver's ode to West Virginia, Country Roads (I was gonna put a link here, but blogspot changed the format on me, and I'm not sure how to do it. Anyway, YouTube's got it), there are a couple of amazing artists from The Mountain State: Country star Brad Paisley shouldn't be a huge surprise, but Bill Withers? Yep, R & B legend Bill Withers is from West Virginia.
One of the things about getting, you know, older that is not all that great is you don't see so well. I've had bifocals for about four years now, but I've only recently started to wear them. Trees, as it happens, have leaves. I knew this instinctively, of course, and I have memories of leaves; however, I've only recently been reacquainted with leaves on account of the glasses. No more Magoo for SuperDave.
Lady Di and I saw two of the plays featured at this year's Spoleto Festival: The Cripple of Inishmaan and "The Understudy". The Irish production of "The Cripple of Inishmaan" has gotten rave reviews in performances throughout the U.S. I haven't checked the reviews for "The Understudy", but I can tell you I enjoyed it immensely. Both plays focus on the absurdity and futility of life. You know: the meaning of life is that there is no meaning to life. That sort of stuff. The Understudy does it overtly, as it is centered around a play about Existentialist writer Franz_Kafka. The Cripple of Inishmaan doesn't refer to Existentialist writers, but, well, it's Irish, and absurdity is sort of in their DNA.
That got me thinking about some of my favorite existential quotes through history. Here is a sampling:
"For who knows what is good for a person in life, during the few and meaningless days they pass through like a shadow? Who can tell them what will happen under the sun after they are gone?" Ecclesiastes 6:12 (NIV)
You think that Bible verse might've influenced the World's greatest playwrite?
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."
William Shakespeare, "Macbeth" Act 5, scene 5, 19–28
Charlie isn't the only of Martin Sheen's kids that's into absurdity and futility: AndyMan likes to quote Emilio Estevez (who was playing the role of William Bonney in Young Guns II, and has this discussion upon being cornered by folks that meant to kill him): "You remember the stories John use to tell us about the the three chinamen playing Fantan? This guy runs up to them and says, "Hey, the world's coming to an end!" and the first one says, "Well, I best go to the mission and pray," and the second one says, "Well, hell, I'm gonna go and buy me a case of Mezcal and six whores," and the third one says "Well, I'm gonna finish the game." I shall finish the game, Doc."
Today's "Luanne" comic strip has a nice spin on team existentialism:
What's the meaning of life? Douglas Adams told us the answer in "The Life, The Universe, and Everything":
You guys do what you like. As for me? I shall finish the game.
Geese have invaded the Boro! Okay, maybe that didn't deserve an exclamation point. Anyway, while I was thrilled to see them, Lady Di informs me that she's watched geese come to and go from her Maison Jaune for years, and for her the thrill is gone. Apparently they leave parting gifts of the less-than-desirable type. Maybe B.B. King and Tracey Chapman were right.
Perhaps the term "silly goose" has become more offensive because of these. Least that's what the folks at South Park seem to think.
Remember the days before "caller I.D."? You actually had to take a chance of speaking to someone with whom you didn't want to speak back in those days. Today's "Garfield" is improbable these days, but I remember when blurting out a greeting that would be perfectly appropriate with one caller- but grossly inappropriate with another- was a common occurrance. I specifically recall my Pop, after spending the day with his friends Judy and Manly Lawson, confidently predicting it was Mrs. Lawson ringing up the house. Doing his best Cary Grant, dad bellowed, "Judy, Judy, Judy" into the phone, much to the surprise of the salesman on the other end. Dad's Cary Grant wasn't that great, but it was, at least, better than that of Gomer Pyle's cousin, Goober.
I was perusing the comics in the Charleston Post and Courier this morning, as I do every morning, and caught this edition of Stephan Pastis' "Pearls Before Swine" (or, if you want to read it in color, you can click on this link). I've previously posted on Pastis' puns. Before you get all "puns are alright, but Stephan Pastis is no Shakespeare", I want to remind you that Shakespeare was a pun guy, too.
Monday's "Wizard of Id" was a little funny, and a lot true. Here. Take a look. I'll wait.
We all want to be heard, but mostly we don't want to listen to other folks when it's their turn. I remember walking into a house a few years ago, and watching five people all talking at the same time. Five mouths moving; no ears listening. It was beyond chaotic. My pop used to call counselors "rent-a-friend". Now, dad wasn't what you'd call progressive. You got a cut? Put some dirt on it. You got a cramp? Walk it off. You got problems? Well, GEICO kinda summed up his viewpoint:
This "Pearls Before Swine" was from Sunday's Charleston Post and Courier (click on the picture, if you can't read it or didn't already see it in your Sunday paper).
Maybe Samuel Johnson was right about puns. Maybe puns are the lowest form of humor; but, God help me, I love 'em.
My buddy, Phil the Gator Hunter, talked me into entering the lottery to apply for an alligator hunting permit. Looks like I was successful. I've been hunting a few times, but never shot anything. I've seen plenty of deer, but only once when I was looking for them. Good. One episode of the the early 1990's t.v. series Northern Exposure, "A Hunting We Will Go" was about Dr. Joel's first- and only- hunting trip. He shoots, then tries to save, his prey. He comments that he gets the excitement of the hunt, but doesn't care for the result. The killing is good; the dying? Not so much. Anyway, I like deer, and I really have no desire to kill them. Alligators? Them, I could kill. At least, that's the plan. 'Course, I could end up like this guy:
I was born in Montana, raised in Tampa, and reside in a small town in the lowcountry of South Carolina with the Lovely Lady Di, and son Tyler. Walterboro (the 'Boro) has about 5,100 residents. It's a moderately interesting place. I work in the public defender's office representing poor people charged with crimes. Some of them did it. Some of them didn't do it. Some are not very nice, a lot of them are just regular Joes with a huge plate of bad luck.
I'm a moderately interesting fellow, who has the good fortune to know or be related to some very interesting people. Is there anyone out there?
It's from Hoover. No, not the company; the president. It's coal powered. Like I said, it's not a new vacuum cleaner.
It doesn't work so well anymore. I use it an appallingly slight percentage of the time that it is employed, but in those rare instances where I'm the operator of the sucker, it feels like I'm pushing around a stick. 
'Noles lost to a bunch of thugs from Cincinnati. I only wish they'd played earlier, so I coulda got some sleep.
Lady Di and I saw two of the plays featured at this year's Spoleto Festival: The Cripple of Inishmaan and "The Understudy". The Irish production of "The Cripple of Inishmaan" has gotten rave reviews in performances throughout the U.S. I haven't checked the reviews for "The Understudy", but I can tell you I enjoyed it immensely. Both plays focus on the absurdity and futility of life. You know: the meaning of life is that there is no meaning to life. That sort of stuff. The Understudy does it overtly, as it is centered around a play about Existentialist writer Franz_Kafka. The Cripple of Inishmaan doesn't refer to Existentialist writers, but, well, it's Irish, and absurdity is sort of in their DNA.
Geese have invaded the Boro! Okay, maybe that didn't deserve an exclamation point. Anyway, while I was thrilled to see them, Lady Di informs me that she's watched geese come to and go from her Maison Jaune for years, and for her the thrill is gone. Apparently they leave parting gifts of the less-than-desirable type. Maybe B.B. King and Tracey Chapman were right.
Remember the days before "caller I.D."? You actually had to take a chance of speaking to someone with whom you didn't want to speak back in those days. Today's "Garfield" is improbable these days, but I remember when blurting out a greeting that would be perfectly appropriate with one caller- but grossly inappropriate with another- was a common occurrance. I specifically recall my Pop, after spending the day with his friends Judy and Manly Lawson, confidently predicting it was Mrs. Lawson ringing up the house. Doing his best Cary Grant, dad bellowed, "Judy, Judy, Judy" into the phone, much to the surprise of the salesman on the other end. Dad's Cary Grant wasn't that great, but it was, at least, better than that of Gomer Pyle's cousin, Goober.
I was perusing the comics in the Charleston Post and Courier this morning, as I do every morning, and caught this edition of Stephan Pastis' "Pearls Before Swine" (or, if you want to read it in color, you can click on this link). I've previously posted on Pastis' puns. Before you get all "puns are alright, but Stephan Pastis is no Shakespeare", I want to remind you that Shakespeare was a pun guy, too.
This "Pearls Before Swine" was from Sunday's Charleston Post and Courier (click on the picture, if you can't read it or didn't already see it in your Sunday paper).
Maybe Samuel Johnson was right about puns. Maybe puns are the lowest form of humor; but, God help me, I love 'em.
My buddy, Phil the Gator Hunter, talked me into entering the lottery to apply for an alligator hunting permit. Looks like I was successful. I've been hunting a few times, but never shot anything. I've seen plenty of deer, but only once when I was looking for them. Good. 
One episode of the the early 1990's t.v. series Northern Exposure, "A Hunting We Will Go" was about Dr. Joel's first- and only- hunting trip. He shoots, then tries to save, his prey. He comments that he gets the excitement of the hunt, but doesn't care for the result. The killing is good; the dying? Not so much. Anyway, I like deer, and I really have no desire to kill them. Alligators? Them, I could kill. At least, that's the plan. 'Course, I could end up like this guy:
The Kids play rough.
Eventually got to fix this. We'll just cover it for now. Wanna see what I used?
Appropos, no?
