Wee Hour Ramblings

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It’s just shy of 4am and here I ponder. I obsess. And I explore the metaphysical haze that rises from the February dew and the balmy breezes that stage my fictional village settings.

My beloved and I usually watch television at night. Downton Abbey, Call the Mid-wife, Doc Martin, Sherlock Holmes, Elementary, Mr Robot and an increasing roster of guilty pleasures. I enjoy crime shows (Criminal Minds, Law & Order: SVU). Jon enjoys science fiction dramas (The 100, Expanse, Extant) that follow absurd storylines and Telenovela-like spaceship shows.

Oy. We both mumble a bit and slip into a hoarse Sotte Voce derision of each other’s choices. Why don’t murder victims stay dead? Half the time we are told ludicrous backstories.

It must be hard out there for an assassin. It happens so often that one of us always predicts: Oh, he’ll be back. Years ago, on One Life to Live, there was once a long-lost brother to a Llanview Grande Dame.

Half a year into his storyline, he was killed off. He drove his sport scar into a the side of a big “Big Rig”. His fate? He was decapitated, reminiscent of Jayne Mansfield’s end. A few years later, that very character just rolled into town to liven up those lost scenes.

Yes, I must be strong. I best avoid CNN. Those 10pm shows of yesterday still prompt my viewing:

Monday was Medical Center Night. Tuesday brought Marcus Welby MD. Oh, how I am indeed becoming my parents with their Hal/Margy peccadillos. Sure, I claim all the differences, improvements, and more recent popular trends. But Polly and I are so much like our parents … except for social skills and temperment.

So, in closing, I confess my more casual trespasses. But I’ve already deeply-analyzed my issues. And that’s when I fall into the Persian Blue abyss that holds my dreams.

I may study the sky … imagining a kingdom of clouds. I seed turrets, fountains, and windows. I find myself trying to peek in. And therein my blog post begins to take form.

And as I stand up erratically, I see faces in the turret.

(Image: by Alan McDonald.)

Is Manderley Still a Polling Place?

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I dreamt last night that the November ballot for President had Democrat Martin O’Malley facing Republican John Kasich.

As I rolled over and returned to a deep sleep, my dream at once continued, without so much as a pause or a recount. Rahm Emanuel, Sarah Palin, and all of the obvious suspects had all been slapped with a lifetime ban on holding elected office. Further, they were no longer permitted to appear on any television program.

However, if they were clever enough to design their own jewelry, they could apply for a limited waiver to appear on QVC.

Although my dream offered no specifics as to potential VP candidates and so on, I could hear the Democrats theme song in the background: a tune penned and performed by Taylor Swift, Bruno Mars, and Shamir.

In contrast, the Republicans had soundtracked their campaign with an Engelbert Humperdinck duet with Anne Murray. (Hey, I’m only the messenger here.)

Well, it all could happen. Couldn’t it, Mr De Winter?

(“Spread your tiny wings and fly away!”)

Three Regrets: My Heart’s Latest Disconnect

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Wednesday Night, 10:32
UNC has a heart and Dr Sheridan has accepted it for me. It is being flown in during the early, early hours of a wintry dawn.

Transplant time! We are off to UNC Memorial Hospital.
Please take care of Jon and Henry.
Oh. Oh. Oh. What should I pack? Can I keep my own socks on?
“Rush. Rush.”
Oy ve.

Thursday Morning, 9:07.
Update:
The surgeon, Dr Brett Sheridan, and the transplant team on duty did not think the heart was up to par. It just wasn’t viable. My cardiologist, Dr Rose-Jones concurred, in abstentia.

So back, back to the wait. A mere “DAMN!” is inadequate. Very. And the nurse even shaved me from neck to knee. Under and over, in and out. Oy.

It is what it is. And don’t say a Fire Drill.

Sign me:
Sleepless and Heartless … and not quite “en route” yet to Raleigh.

Thursday Afternoon, 4:52
I do not know what to think. All I know is that I’m thinking it.
We are still not home yet. And we are now unprepared for this alleged and possibly most wretched winter advisory.

I stand corrected: It is what it isn’t, neither less nor more.
“Earache, My Eyes.” Actually, it’s my neck. Six attempts to place a Swan Catheter into my Carotid Artery have left two bruises and various pricks. They will, however, place “among my souvenirs”.

A Cheech & Chong reference means absolutely nothing these days. Don’t worry, Lillian. And please let Cousin Eve know. She has yet to open Facebook’s window for a peek.

Bowie Memories : Aurally-Speaking

The week’s unfold was certainly unexpected. The world recklessly flew by. The future, however, still has yet to play any cards. And iconic David Bowie passed away. He died. In an instant.

Most of us had no warning. We probably wouldn’t have listened anyway. On Monday, from our mental replays to internet videos, images, commentary, and his often-pioneering, often landmark music, our world became a forum for all things Bowie.

“All the Young Dudes” “A Space Oddity” “Young Americans” “Blue Jean”

My post-puberty life was sound-tracked with Bowie gems.

Henry earlier reminded me of a lighter reference he and I shared in our most respectful of master-pet whispers. Like Robert Palmer and Bryan Ferry, he also aged into a distinguished, elegant, and almost “matinée” music idol. Unlike those two, however, Bowie consistently always reinvented himself and pushed his relevance.

He transcended any mortal discourse on sexuality and predilections. David Bowie became “Every Man” to so many, many people throughout the past half-century of music-listening history.

We will all miss him. And shed a tear.

Rest in Peace and Beauty, Mr Bowie.

He left us when we weren’t looking. We’re never looking.

With the Turn of an ‘E’?

e16bae2c796d3e522c6091412ca44281_fullI obsess about something different almost every afternoon. Today was no different.

Images from TV’s Wheel of Fortune flew past my mind’s eye with puzzles in foreign language. Some were academically terrifying. Others were humorous.

Then there was the endangered Hawaiian, Ōlelo Hawaiʻi, with its repetitive use of both vowels and only eight consonants. I have an admiration for those who are fluent.

And then, for some reason I thought of Wales and Welsh and Torchwood. I remembered those twenty character words with only one or two vowels, and one of them a ‘Y’! Egads and Golly Gadzooks! I just can’t imagine … but I did.

God bless contestants on my imaginary Welsh Wheel of Fortune. And God bless my “make believe” Vanna.

(Image: “Alphabet, I” by Jean-Pierre Alaux.)

The Chess Boys: Everything But Yul Brynner

12289597_1069713003072716_8351927731320183124_nWho among us can forget those Twelfth Night soirées of the late ’80’s and early ’90’s? The limitless Stolichnaya vodka shooters? The dreadful, yet mandatory sing-along with the Original London Cast Album of Chess?

Those, together with a Beluga and fixings station that was not unlike a Wendy’s baked potato bar, made for the merriest of Epiphanies this side of the St Pius X School for the Parochially Enslaved.

Only two of us have survived to today tell the tales, although we dare not phone each other. Even the anti-Christ is long gone. The passage of time has softened the now campy Andersson-Ulvaeus-Rice musical and made it almost listenable.

Except for “One Night in Bangkok”. I imagine it’s in heavy rotation on Hell’s Muzak station. By “heavy” I mean alternated with only “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero”, “Endless Love”, and “Playground in My Mind”.

Speaking of the anti-Christ: He’s probably adjusting to the afterlife regrettably arguing the differences between Chess’s London and New York productions. Ad Infinitem.

(PS: Enjoy a Healthy & Happy New Year and Feel Better Soon, Cousin Eve.)

The Saturday Morning Mirth Makers

12274561_1066983530012330_7503053877539959490_nBy age seven and a relatively new and mature Big Brother, I had tired of most Halloween traditions. The circus always bored me. And those silly physical comedies such as “The Three Stooges”, “Little Rascals”, and “Laurel & Hardy” seemed excruciatingly foreign.

I barely even appreciated any Saturday morning cartoons, except for perhaps a random “Mighty Mouse” and “Fractured Fairy Tales”, which I interpreted as cautionary, allegorical, and rife with symbolism. Of course, I had yet to learn those terms from Sr Edward Patricia. That never stopped me, though, from explaining, deconstructing, and interpreting to/for my cousin Dennis

Yes, I was the epitome of a mid-century nerd, a bookworm, and surely the last one in my class to understand the importance and power of humor.

Of course, now that I am in my fifties (and forever tempted to look back in both regret and resolve), I have finally and safely discovered the types of humor and their forums that “stir both my loins and imagination”.

And while I would fail miserably if charged with the mission, I respect those whose calling it is to entertain, rouse, cheer, and distract.

God bless the mirth makers who, in these difficult times, help us to insulate our hopes. On certain gloomy and desolate Thursday evenings, I am convinced that the impact of the noble clown can be quite profound.

“As I stumble through this life,
help me to create more laughter than tears,
dispense more cheer than gloom,
spread more cheer than despair.

“Never let me become so indifferent,
that I will fail to see the wonders in the eyes of a child,
or the twinkle in the eyes of the aged.

“Never let me forget that my total effort is to cheer people,
make them happy, and forget momentarily,
all the unpleasantness in their lives.

“And in my final moment,
may I hear You whisper:
“When you made My people smile,
you made Me smile.”
(Anonymous)

(Image: Poster by Beppo Lotti, 1925.)