Rip-oso

Fool and Juggler--in riposo.

° And not on account of Ferragosto.
° Megalomane, my 2 year old HP thoroughbred (fast and big and strong), is in R(equiescat) I(n) P(ace)-oso. Yes, he lost his thread and died.
° At least, Microsoft said he lost his thread. Don’t see how, I know I don’t have it.
° And Symantec swears a Trojan silkworm didn’t devour his thread; but you know what the fake Lorelei Lee said to the French judge, “But your Honour, I never swear.”)
° And HP has moved to India, and wisely and timeously so.

° So, Megalomane died. And the computer geek resurrected him, at the cost of all my recent files.
° And I spent a day restoring all the files and programs and settings.
° And then he died again.
° So I resurrected him by appealing to the Recovery Wizard that dwells across the Great Partition. And just before Megalomane dies again, I did think I would post this summary notice.

° As we prepare to celebrate the great Summer Festival of la Guadalupe, we find that my beloved Piers is in high cotton, with every expectation of next year’s crop being even higher. So there’s my retirement all provided for.
° We find my little gypsy Coz hoeing that very long row called wedded bliss.
° We find the little Lad pursuing his B.A. in Art, minor in Starvation. And yet I do not think he will starve.
° We find Sandy mired down in the molasses of wealth.
° We find Lettye bleeding from her heart like the Pelican, niente da fare.
° We find Julja having done the one thing the French do better than be Rational, but I’m too polite to call its name.
° And Leggero is off to Charleston, for good, in senso doppio.

° Megalomane’s last movie, before he began to make those clicketyclack sounds of incipient cybermadness, was Room with a View.

Truth! Beauty! Love!

If there is Truth, we hominids are too mentally deficient to apprehend it; if there is Beauty, it lies in the eye of the beholder; and if there is Love, it’s worthless in comparison with Lust, with Liking, or with Parental Duty.

° My most recent movie, that made me cry and salt up the inside of my glasses, was Gone with the Wind, on the arthouse bigscreen. For I’m a lot like Scarlett, all Southerners are, even Tonio Scalia. And I wasn’t crying at the end, because I know Scarlett got what she wanted and what she needed and what she was capable of appreciating.
° Namely, she got a Cat and its Kitten to rear (Ashley and Beau), she got Tara (and the money to maintain it), she got a hobby (eating beignets and costillas), and she got rid of that codpiece of a Rhett.
° Who went off to Charleston, for good.--Giac, lo Sciocco di foolandjuggler

Triple Your Money (Lad)

Dear Lad,
° Leggero and I have suffered simultaneous and, as it were, reciprocal disappointments.
° He was mortified that he only brought in $2500.00 for the NEAC (Non Evita Approved Charity) benefit bachelor auction the other night (the crowd had been bled dry in an endless succession of Spring Benefits, and the auctioneeress was inexperienced, in auctioneering at any rate).
° And I was mortally disappointed that I didn’t foresee how it would be, get dressed, attend, and buy him for immediate resale on eBay. Quick triple of capital, NEAC happy with its $2500, Leggero happy with his, Giac happy with his plus vigourish.

° Splitting money better three ways than one, Giac.

Cum puero bello praeconem qui videt esse, quid credat, nisi se uendere discupere?

I’m just saying . . . .

Imagine (Foto--Lad)

Foto: Adamo mangia la Mela--ossia, Leggero lecca il Cocomero

Dear Lad,
° Just imagine . . . .

° “Woody, Muskrat! Y’all breakfusses’s gittin’ cold.”
° “Here I am, Mom, Dad. What a bodacious stack of pancakes, lions ‘n‘ tigers ‘n‘ elephunks, Gosh!”
° “Watch your language, Son.”
° “Gee, Dad, I’m awful sorry. What a bodacious stack of pancakes, and waffles, and sausages and bacon, and french toast, and scrambled eggs just the way I like ‘em.”
° “Wonder what’s keeping your brother? Woody!”
° Silence.
° “Slow down, Son, chew each bite 30 times, that way you won’t ever get indigestion.”
° “I know, Dad, but it’s all just so darn--I mean, Gee, it’s good.”
° “Did you finish your book report before you went to bed? Didn’t misplace it? Got all your books? Well your Father and I are just so proud of you.” Beamy smiles all around.
° “Woody, you’re going to be late for the school bus, don’t make me have to come up there after you.”
° “I’m coming, Ma.”
° “Come to think of it, you’re up mighty early this morning, Muskrat, you’ll have plenty of time to floss and brush your--you didn’t skip any of your chores this morning?”
° Silence. Guilty, shamefaced silence.
° “Son, your mother asked you a question.”
° “O, aw, er--.”
° “Did you come down for breakfast again without finishing your masturbation? Answer me, young man.”
° “O Ma, I get so sick of masturbation.”
° “Don’t use that tone of voice to your mother, Theodoric. We’ve had this discussion before, we‘re not having it again. Now go on upstairs and don’t come down till you’re done. And don’t be late for school either. What was that? Do you want me to take my belt to you?”
° “No, Pa, I’ll masturbate all right. Mornin’, Woody.” Exit.
° “What’s up with the Muskrat, Ma? Looks down in the dumps.”
° “The same old story. I’m thankful there’s one of my sons has an obedient disposition.”
° “Thanks, Mom. Sorry I was a little late. Couldn’t decide between videos of Angelina Jolie--I know you think she’s too old for me, but she’s really hot. Isn’t she, Dad?”
° “Yes, Son, age isn’t everything, lips have to count for something too.”
° “It was between her and that old internet video of Tommy Lee and--boy o boy, I just wish my penis was half his size.”
° “I heard that,” replied Mom.
° “Humph!” snorted Dad.

§§§§§

° Imagine . . . no more desperate, pregnancydriven marriages; no more AIDSy lastcall “well he’s starting to look halfway doable now that the bar’s fixing to close;” no more Ennis del Mar Presidents . . . .
° No more war.
° For, as the bibles do say,

Train up a child in the way he shall go, and when he is old he will not depart therefrom.

° Seeing it all now, Giac.

P. S. If you want to see the expurgated lyrics, click here. Wonder who granted permission to censor this song?

66% (Coz)

Dear Coz,
° I’d just finished bushhogging the Downs, newly sharpened blades, slick cut. I’d reset the mowing height for Path maintenance. And I was cutting and tugging and unwinding the tough stalks of fescue and orchardgrass that had entangled themselves about the pto shaft. All neat, all clean. I moved to replace the secateurs in the toolbox and--
° --and found myself rooted to the ground!
° No, I hadn’t had a stroke. Instead, the hydraulic system had slowly and naturally bled and had gently settled the edge of the halfton mower onto my right foot. What a place to be marooned, no one ever comes to this barn, I could call and call and only the North Hill would echo me, and--well what a place to be marooned, is all.
° So I decided then and there that it was time for me to pass down to you all my lore.
° And here ‘tis:

How to Predict the Future with Unfailing Accuracy

° Simple as pie. Whenever a Plan of Action is presented to the American People by the American Media on behalf of the American Ruling Class, watch for the poll numbers. If 66% of the American People favour the action, you can not only predict eventual disaster then and there, you can, Rhett Butlerlike, buy the appropriate contrarian futures.
° Moreover--and this is just cream--you can also predict with unfailing accuracy that within 5 years 66% of the American People will not only oppose the Plan of Action, they will everyman Jack of ‘em swear they always had opposed it.
° And that is all I know, Daddy taught it me, I teach it thee.
° (The theory is, of course, that 33% of the American People have so little prudence and foresight that they will keep on hammering their own thumb forever, once they’ve started, they don‘t connect the pain with the metal; and that 33% of the American People have so little prudence and foresight that they can only recognise pregnancy after the delivery of a squalling infant; while the remaining 33% of the American People have so great prudence and foresight--no, it must just be simple contrariness.)

§§§§§

° Yes, you might object that no sooner had the Media announced on behalf of the Ruling Class the Plan of Action to attack Iraq than precisely 80% of the American People were polled as favouring the Action. 80%, not just 66%.
° Well I reckon you see what that portended.

§

° Would it be a good idea to take an opinion poll as part of the electoral process? So that any voter who supported a Plan of Action that subsequently led to a VietNamlike disastrophe would be disenfranchised for life?
° Couldn’t hurt.

° Prognosticatorially, Giac.

Ventil 8 (Foto--Lettye)

Foto: Don't Try This at Home--L'Orgue Mystique, Communion (L'Ascension)

Dear Giac,
° The wedding countdown is going about as expected. The caterer hasn’t declared bankruptcy, the seamstress hasn’t cut up the gown irreparably, and the church hasn’t fallen into a black hole, but otherwise . . . .
° And then there was that late call, and I found myself playing Sunday, times 2. I felt a little stupefied that morning. But everything went pretty well until I got to the offertory in the 11:00 service. I didn’t push the piston. So after the 2 clarinets started and it was time for me to come in there was no sound. I had the wrong number in mind and pushed the piston for the sortie (loud trumpet blast) instead of the quiet accompaniment I should have pushed. But I still had that number in mind and just thought that I’d mispushed. Another push of Gen. 8 elicited the same trumpet blast, and finally I looked at my notes. By that time I was so aghast I hardly knew what I was doing. Fortunately the choir sang faithfully along and the clarinets were undeterred, and we got through it somehow. Believe me, I didn’t listen to the tape of that service!
° Well here comes the bride, clarinets by her side, the choristers hide, the organist’s fried.

° Ingemisco tamquam reus, culpa rubet vultus meus, Lettye.

° Ah that could never have happened to me.
° Once upon a time I was unwisely selected to turn pages for Laine’s graduate recital. And no, I didn’t turn two or three at once during the 50page 5/4 vivace. She was still officially in warmup, the sprightly opener was yielding to the lyric mood piece. Peeters. A mountain evocation, mists, shepherds’ horns, bleating. I set the music on the stand. She gazed upon it. She pressed the correct general piston.
° And I stood in wonder as the Tuba Mirabilis popped out on the Choir. Surely the Cor de Nuit, said I to myself. What can she have been thinking? But who am I to interfere?
° Now the Oxy Wesley Tuba Mirabilis is not one of these modern lavenderpantied English Tubas, nor one of those pale pansyassed French trompettes en chamade. Oxy Wesley’s Tuba Mirabilis was in fact the discarded prototype for the Last Trump of the Apocalypse, discarded on account of the harshness of its tone.
° Well the effect was just astonishing, kind of cleared up the mists with one blast. Laine handregistered.
° And ever since then, so have I.--Giac.