Horses and Ass (Foto, Piers)

Dear Piers,
° The other day I sat out the green arrow at an intersection, for I wished to defer to a cavalcade of three equines crossing.
° A big white gelding, draped in redwhitebluestriped blanket, led the parade, well isn’t that always the way.
° There followed a bigassed black mare, bearing a magickmarked posterboard placard: The Commandments.
° Prudent. I mean, not to waste ink on the word Ten. For all but one have been radically revoked.

Non habebis deos alienos--abrogated in the name of circling the wagons after 9/11 by the late, not yet sufficiently sanctified, Bishop of West Rome.
Non facies tibi sculptile--why Moyses himself worshipped a Serpent!
Non assumes nomen Domini Dei tui in vanum--Eric Cartman, 1990’s.
Memento ut diem sabbati sanctifices--cancelled by God, 33 A.D., and by the Church four centuries later.
Honora patrem tuum--or he’ll beat the crap out of yez.
Non occides--why Moyses himself occidised!
Non moechaberis--Billy Jeff Clinton, 1990’s, for sometimes a cigar’s just a cigar.
Non furtum facies--Enron‘s shareholders, following the teachings of Che Guevara, for how can you steal something from somebody who didn’t own it in the first place?
Non loqueris contra proximum tuum falsum testimonium--Johnny Cochran, if the glove don’t fit, you must acquit.
Non concupisces domum proximi tui--for the bank owns more of it than he does.

As for uxorem, servum, ancillam, bovem et asinum, can’t say for sure. The ink was blurred with horsefroth.

§§§§§

° And the Ass? Grizzled grey, sweaty and galled, astride the big white gelding.

° At your command, Giac.

Panama and the Prostitute (Foto, Lad)

Dear Lad,
° The other day, a cool and pleasant morning barely into the 80’s, I went calling for Panama, to give her a snack. (“Her,“ although ever since you distracted her so that I could briefly peer aft, I have had little doubt why she hasn‘t come in heat these last six months.) She came running from behind Bouvier Hall the moment she heard my foodpromising voice.
° What a lovefest, for I hadn’t stroked her in two weeks.
° She followed me into Assumption‘s garden, I spread kitty numnums on the brick sidewalk, then settled onto a teak bench to read the Statesnamean. Chockful of chipmunk, Panama ate a few bites to please me, then flopped full length onto the warming bricks for a nap.

° I hadn’t gotten past Doonesbury, banished to the editorial page by the brownshirts a decade ago, before we were joined by Lena. Panama glanced at her, then dozed on.
° Lena, forty looking thirty, was dressed very conservatively, I noticed, and really only her stilettos, her redbleached jerricurled hair, and mauve and skyblue twotoned eyeshadow could’ve given the faintest clue as to her profession. She sat in the bench adjoining, smiled her toothless smile--actually, only the top four front teeth and two of the lowers are out, but the general impression is of toothlessness.
° “Are you a member here?” she asked. She had forgotten our previous encounter.
° “O, do you live nearby then?” She had forgotten that too.
° “So you live up to Overton?” Wrong again.
° “Is that your cat? I love cats. I just might take me some big black cat home with me,” she purred in Panama’s general direction. Though Lena was looking at me--I mean looking deep into my eyes, then south, then back into the eyes again, very competently done I may say--when she said it.
° I was a little alarmed. For Panama’s sake.

° But what did Panama do, la brava?
° She roused, sniffed the air, smelt something fishy perhaps, and began to junglecat stride toward Lena. I felt jealous.
° But you know what?
° The minute Panama got five feet away from her, Lena suddenly overcame her love of big black cats, leapt to her feet, and blurted out,
° “Well I reckon I be off now.” And so she did be, alla breve.
° Panama purred, unless it was a soft growl, then stretched fulllength on the snoozy, warming brick, curled her toes, dozed and dreamed.

° Pleasant dreams, Giac.

Susan Sought Desperately (Lad)

Dear Lad,
° Have you ever tried to write a personal ad? One, I mean, without antlers?
° I’ve been trying off and on ever since Madonna was Desperately Sought as Susan. But I have failed so consistently, I almost begin to doubt my method. For though I can list several thousand things I like, I can’t successfully boil them down into an attractive appetizer.
° Blogger profiles seemed a breakthrough. Giac’s personal ad:

Io: mi piace The Bride Wore Black.
Tu: ti piace, uh, ti piace, uh--o Rats!

§§§§§

° But if I’m like the shoemaker’s children, I’m still a shoemaker.
° And Leggero’s personal (la sua foto, coi capelli matti, si vede oltre) is simple as pie:

Io: sono Leggero.
Tu: vuoi vivere felice.

O almeno contento e beato.

§

° Not that it’ll do him the least bit of good. For folks want to be popular, or rich, or important, or powerful, or goodlooking, or brilliant, or famous, or . . . .
° Nessuno, sembra, vuole vivere contento.

° Beato, Benedetto nonostante, Giac.