Bennie the Bunny. That’s the name I’ve given this fine fellow who, for the second year in a row as the weather warms, comes out of the forest late afternoon and early evening and amuses me as I have a beer or gin ‘n’ tonic out back. I had to take these with the long lens because he is extremely skittish.
If things had gone as planned, I would be in Greensboro, NC at this point, likely enjoying dinner or a few pre-dinner beers with a number of others who have stumbled into the beer writing gig. A nice two-day junket was the deal, pretty much all paid for. Family issues caused me to have to withdraw late last week and I guiltily spent most of two days trying to find a local writer who could step into my position and use the airline ticket. When I finally found her, however, it turned out that the ticket could not be transferred.
So here I am,enjoying the first of a five to seven business day re-roofing of our building by management, which means ripping and tearing a nailing and pounding and all sorts of weird, disruptive noises beginning about 7:15 every morning and continuing until late afternoon.
And it’s not always terrible.
The folks in Greensboro were amazingly understanding and even offered the alternative of a weekend trip down at their expense yet again for their summer beer festival in mid=July, a trip that would much better suit me and give me an even better chance of understanding the town’s beer culture.
And that disruptive noise thing? Not an issue. I gots me some serious “block that shit out” skills.
The above is a much over-used cliche which is employed over and over again (probably won’t surprise you that such usage is mostly by political and sports journalists, the most un-inventive and cliched purveyors of words in the know universe), and it has been credited to everyone from Benjamin Franklin to Albert Einstein to Rita Mae Brown, a writer I suspect too many of you, to your loss, are unfamiliar with (hence the link because, lord knows, I was meant to serve).
But it is kinda true.
And I am arguably kinda insane.
I will explain later. Or maybe not. It is what it is (which is an even more awful cliche which essentially means, don’t ask, I ain’t tellin’).
Think of it as coming home, for me, and hopefully for you.
The Mermaid swims again.
And, boy, is she pissed.
Stay tuned (and tell your friends).
Sometimes we make mistakes. Why not fix them if we can?
The person who cuts my hair on those occasions when I have looked into the mirror and been moved to do something about the condition of me is a young woman named Desirée (I am guessing on the spelling and accent).
I am, if I say so myself, the perfect customer because my basic approach is “I kinda want this but just do what you want and I will live with it.” It does cross my mind each time that taking the same approach with some other women in my past might have changed the course of history, but, you know, it’s all worked out okay. For me and for them.
I was a particular horror show this time around, have moved well past my expiration date for a trim and possible hosing down while attending to Buddy the Wonder Dog (he gets the staples in his stomach and that annoying cone thing removed tomorrow morning). To take her mind off the awful task of making me, if not presentable, at least bearable, she told me an amusing anecdote which I pass on to you because. Just because.
Desirée has a very small head and face. So when she was told in her senior year of high school that she needed glasses, she had to shop for a frame in the children’s section, where she choose a Spongebob Bob product. It wasn’t marked as such, she said, so she figured nobody would know. Came the day her glassed were ready, she and her mom picked them up on the way to school. That afternoon, a teacher opted to show the class a video and lowered the lights.
The frames glowed in the dark.
Now there’s the sort of experience that could scar a gal.
Maybe I shouldn’t let her so close to me with sharp instruments.
Which, it also crosses my mind, equally applies to those other women in my past.
While Buddy and I were doing his morning smell walk earlier today, pausing at every tree, bush, light post or wall so that he could sniff out all the leg-lifting news and information that his four-legged brethren had left there for him, he revealed that, in attempt to update their image in this high tech age, the Canine Caucus had recently decreed that ages-old messaging system is not longer to be called P-mail. The terminology these days is Twiddle, a mash-up of “Twitter” and “piddle.” Your dog undoubtedly already knows this but hardly expects you to, so drop “Twiddle” casually into the conversation and perhaps he or she will begin to think you are at least a tiny bit cool, although, of course, you are not.