Friday, April 11, 2014

Jabba the Hut, Junior 

Pretty soon, I’m going incognito. I’m in the middle of treatments to get rid of pre-cancerous stuff on my head and scalp. The virulent ointment is turning my skin red and the lesions even redder. I’m beginning to look pretty scary.

I think I’ll go hang out at the GOP headquarters and see if I can suppress the vote.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

This is how I roll 

After years and years off my bicycle, I got back up a few days ago. I managed to eke out a paltry .8 of a mile before my legs turned to J-E-L-L-O. I was grateful for every stop sign.

Today, I nearly doubled that with a total of 1.4 miles. Mountain miles, remember.

I hope you are laughing with me. Those are not big numbers. Paltry is too kind. But they are my numbers – and they feel gooder than hell. And here’s the thing – the endorphins came back.

My new pacemaker battery has five and a half years. Wonder how far I can get in five and a half years…

I’m outta here.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Do – try this at home:

Three divas, two glasses of wine each, stir gently.

One book: Runny Babbit by Shel Silverstein. It’s a children’s book. A billy sook, as he says. Written in pig latin. Now, begin reading out loud. Tait your wurn. This is bow shiz.

Runny Babbit lent to wunch
And heard the saitress way,
"We have some lovely stabbit rew --
Our Special for today." Caution: don’t order the pea soup.

Amazon says: Taken in dall smoses, this self-proclaimed "billy sook" is a fun-filled new (posthumously published) offering from children's poet Shel Silverstein, creator of Where the Sidewalk Ends, A Light in the Attic, and other favorites. Completed prior to the poet's death in 1999, Runny Babbit was a work in progress for more than 20 years, and is populated by the likes of Runny Babbit, Toe Jurtle, Ploppy Sig, Polly Dorkupine, and Pilly Belican (who owns the Sharber Bop), all denizens of the green woods where letter-flipping runs rampant. In this madcap world, pea soup is sea poup, Capture the Flag is Fapture the Clag, and snow boots are bow snoots. Each poem incorporates the same kind of switcheroo wordplay found in "Runny's Hew Nobby:" Runny Babbit knearned to lit,/ And made a swat and heater,/ And now he sadly will admit/ He bight have done it metter."

Try it. You'll gust a but.

Friday, April 4, 2014

Like riding a bike, uh-huh

To my knowledge, there is not one single level street in Hendersonville. And that brings this story into context. That and the fact that multiple surgeries caused me to stop riding my bike for years and years.

The drought ended today. I cruised up and down the streets looking like I remembered how to gear a bicycle. Not at first. But soon the mountain air was filling my tortured lungs in a desperate attempt to awaken muscle memory in my legs. J-E-L-L-O.

Eight tenths of a mile. That is not a typo.


At the seven-tenths marker, I met a young student pushing her bike up the hill. We nodded the secret bicycle nod and I blurted with pride: “First good bike ride in nearly ten years.”

She shared the accomplishment: “You go, mister.”

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