i am trying to find an email concerning a service i bought i now wish to cancel. This has led to a long morning of cleaning up my emails.

i quickly noticed i had not responded to a number of recent comments on my website posts (still dislike the term “blogs). i have been preoccupied with a number of things and just flat didn’t answer.

i do not like my lack of response. i have tried to respond to all of the comments, and have done a fair job until the last several weeks.

i apologize and will try to be more responsive and responsible from here on in.

Thanks to all of you for your comments.

It turns out in 1970, i was already a pocket of resistance. i was in the South China Sea about half-way between Pusan, Korea and Qui Nhon, South Vietnam. It was around 2030, GMT+8 time. The seas were relatively calm. i was relaxing in my cabin at the aft end of the 03 level.

i was executive officer of the military unit aboard the USNS Upshur (T-AP-198), She had been planned to be a luxury cruise ship for American President Lines by the New York Shipbuilding Company before she was requisitioned by Maritime Administration and configured to be a troop and dependent passport for military personnel. The cargo holds had been converted to troop berthing, about 1500 of them and the dining room and all above the main deck had been kept in the cruise liner configuration, where my cabin was located. By the time i got there, the “troop and dependent” bunch had turned into Korean troops and officers. My detailer had told me they would still be U.S. personnel and dependents, the reason i accepted the tour. i wrote him a nasty letter pointing out that the passengers had morphed into ROK troops and officers and all the major ports in the Pacific were Sasebo, Pusan, Qui Nhon, and Nha Trang.

This particular evening, i had completed my nightly pinochle game with the two doctors and the chaplain. Outside my porthole looking aft were Republic of Korea troops chattering, laughing, and swapping smokes, the variety of which i did not wish to know.

i wrote nearly every night, mostly letters back to folks back in the states. i frequently taped a rather horrible cassette to family or friends — i know they were really bad as i have since had several returned to me and listened to a couple for as long as i could stand, something just over a minute. Rather than write, i was reading a book, probably Vonnegut because i was really into his stuff at the time, and listening to something from the pile of records i had purchased in the Navy Exchanged in Sasebo, Japan, our logistics port for the twenty-two day round robin sail. But on this night, i just got this urge to be whimsical. Don’t know why. It just came upon me.

i took my seat at the fold-out desk with the clothes bureau underneath, lit up a Pell-Mell, and just started.

This early morning fifty years later, i woke long before first light for an inexplicable reason other than i am officially an old geezer (and proud of it). What i wrote back then kept popping up in my head for some other inexplicable reason, or perhaps the same one. So i found it in my files and decided to share it again.

It is pure whimsy. i suspect only the older crowd will catch all of the silliness involved, and those so engrossed with the new, slick, graphically enhanced version of super heroes might get confused.

i would like to think there are some things one might learn from it, but i don’t know. i don’t know. 

As with nearly all of my dealings with folks nowadays, i’ll let you decide.

A Fable

Raga Muffin, the half-Indian, half-British scholar, fought his way through the crowd only to find the bloody carcass of his cat (his reincarnated pet cow).

“What happened?” he asked tearfully.

“A covered wagon driven by a little old lady from Pasadena ran over him,” Billy, the young newspaper boy, informed him.

“From whence did it come and where does it head for?” Raga implored in his best pleading tone of guttural Dutch.

“To the gold rush, obviously to become a tenant farmer raising grapes and sheep in an apple orchard,” Billy said wisely, then added, “I’ll cut her off at the pass and bring back her golden inlays.”

With that, he said “ZHAZAM” (or however it was spelled, and what did those letters stand. for anyway?). Captain Marvel dashed into the sky, barely missing a Boeing 747 returning from a test flight and completely covered with pigeon dung. Later, the runway of La Guardia bloomed petunia and porky pigs because of the extra fertilizer. Even later, the ancient mariner, complete with an over-fed albatross closely resembling a young Jimmy Durante, stubbed his tow on one of the petunias when he wandered onto the airfield after mistaking it for the red poppy field located about two blocks from the city of Oz.

Several weeks after the cat died, Raga received a note sent via pony express through LA. There was no return address, but the typewriting was definitely in Billy’s hand.

Found the good life. Tony B. sings it on Columbia records. Caught her at a pass. We were married in a small mosque, two doors down from the local Salvation Army brewery, by the JP from Ontario. Settled in Death Valley. Traded in twenty mule team for some Dial soap and wish everybody did. Disguised the Conestoga as Apollo 13 and converted it into a streetcar cafe selling pork and beans to Navaho. Her gold inlays were prefab, and she turned out to be Tricia Nixon. I go to RVN as ambassador next month.

Love and Kisses,
Capt. Ima Marvel
Israeli Air Force

Raga chucked the intellectual bit and now lives as a hermit on 95th and Park Avenue, eating only banana peels and used gypsies. Marvel eventually made a fortune by turning his old newspapers into paper mache models of Batman and Robin, without tights. The cat is alive and well in Nova Scotia, but it came back as a Brylcream advertisement because a little dab will do ya. The sacred cow, once Raga’s pet, never made it to the rodeo but fell in love with a mink stole in Sears window. The stole stole away with Phinnias T. Bluster during a rain squall over Honolulu, 74 degrees and cloudy.

Mesopotamia rose again under the leadership of little orphan Annie and was aided considerably by Xerxes and Damon Runyan.

Heracles left for Homer as soon as he heard the news. All of them denounced Raga as the original instigator of the plot, and he was picked up in the Bronx for littering.

Moral: A rainy day brings a little sunshine into everyone’s life, but bicycle spokes do not good guitar strings make.

Your local terror firmer
South of the North Pole
Midnight, two minutes past sex (dreams of)
Wednesday named after Tuesday, 1970

From my “Murphy’s Law” desk calendar archives thanks to Aunt Evelyn, Uncle Pipey, and cousin Nancy:

First Law of Procrastination: Procrastination places the responsibility for completion on the authority who imposed the deadline.

Goofy guy’s admission concerning the First Law of Procrastination: Since i must be the authority on imposing the deadline for posting “Murphy’s Law” daily, i haven’t been responsible for about a month, and neither has the goofy nut who is supposed to post them…or some lame excuse like that. BUT i am an excellent procrastinator.

After my rambles yesterday, we sat at home trying to be cool and continue to observe energy conservation to avoid rolling brown or black outs (i don’t guess you can have a “white out” except in company of the not so polite of which i’ve been included for a large portion of my life). Between three and nine post meridiem on a rare day where the thermometer reached 101, Southwest corner residents were urged to keep the air conditioning up to 78: no problem for us as we only have a small portable one which we turned off, to minimize water usage because of the power required to run the pumps, keep the refrigerator and freezer doors closed (hmm, wonder who leaves them open?), turn off pool filters (again no problem: we don’t have a pool), and turning off all unnecessary lights off: guilty as we left several on to read and walk safely.

We never really got hot. Of course, we weren’t too cool either.

We were a bit worried about wildfires, and one lit off about three yesterday afternoon. Jatapul Valley is about twenty miles northeast from us. As i write, the “Valley Fire” has burned 4,000 acres with no containment yet, primarily due to the rough hill, mountain, and dry terrain makes access difficult, especially in heat reaching well over 100 degrees in that neck of the woods. Mount Miguel blocked my view from seeing flames reaching 80-feet high yesterday, but i saw plenty of smoke, dark menacing clouds rising above the crest of my Mount Miguel.

We are safe for now. The winds are blowing north to northeast, away from us. Our home is situated where a wildfire would have to be weird and huge to get to us. Nearly all of these conflagrations start in the east and move westward. It would take some powerful gymnastics for embers to leap from the east to our home due to all of the houses and infrastructure between us and a fire from that direction. We have open space, high desert vegetation (a culprit to abetting these fires) to the west but any fire would have to do some very strange things to get to our property. It could happen, but it’s not likely.

Today is a repeat of yesterday, supposedly cooling down will begin late this evening. Fire season is upon us.

A danger to put up with in the Southwest corner, and a lot of California.

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While in this keep-cool stage, Maureen found a Netflix movie last night. i was reading and writing but stopped to watch. The Way brothers directed the documentary, “The Battered Bastards of Baseball,” the story of how Bing Russell, an actor known mostly for his “Bonanza” role as Deputy Sheriff Clem Foster and the father of Kurt Russell, created the Portland Mavericks, the only independent baseball team in the country at the time (1970’s).

The story is captivating on its own. i kept shaking my head as it kept demonstrating the greed and pomposity of Major League baseball, something i’ve been ranting about for several years.

It is also heartwarming with a sad ending and then a good victory before the actual conclusion. i won’t divulge too much here because i think all of you should watch it. In addition to bolstering my complaints about MLB, it just flat made me feel good, it actually happened. It also is pretty much a commentary on how we operate today in our country.

However, i will point out the Sonoma Stompers (wine country, get the name?) are in the mold of the Mavericks. i sure wish i was watching them today with Alan Hicks and our score cards.

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To get some exercise and not melt on the road, i went for my run/walk a.k.a. fartlek (i love that name) early this morning. It was pleasant. But it also made me scratch my head.

The neighborhood watch bunch decided to run a contest for the area’s most beautiful yard. They have put up signs in the yards of “contenders” for the final award at the end of the month. We were already aghast when a home on our cul de sac sported a “contender” sign. We have always considered it garish and looking fake.

Then on my journey this morning, i took stock of the contenders. At least 90% of the contenders sport artificial turf: you know, fake grass. Those without the fake stuff boast plants not native to the area and certainly not in keeping with water conservation. There are no contenders with native plants or drought tolerant (called “xeriscape” around here) landscapes.

Now we happen to have drought tolerant landscape. i think it’s beautiful, naturally beautiful. i really don’t have any beef about fake grass, it is a good way to conserve water (and mowing). But to me, it still looks fake.

i’m just amazed that these judges think fake is beautiful. It seems to be the wave of taste today in many things.

Guess i don’t fit in, but if they had put a “contender” sign on our yard, it would not likely last more than a couple of minutes.

Curmudgeons rule, at least among some old folks.

And i is one.

There was this feeling of…how do i describe it adequately?

Stillness, maybe. Peace is in there also. It was out there, but i also could feel it inside me innards. That’s not quite it, but maybe you understand. It was one of those times i’m not quite sure if i just thought of it or someone from my life no longer around is really speaking to me.

Peace and calm. Yeh, that may be it.

It was about 5:45 this morning. i had quietly left our bedroom to allow her to continue to sleep around five. She doesn’t sleep as hard as i do, nor does she, or very few people i know ordinarily arise between 4:30 and 5:00: just an old man who went to sea for quite a while, i guess. She would sleep for another ninety minutes or so. Good.

i performed my morning ablutions, fed the cats, organized the kitchen, checked the weather, email, and text messages. Somewhere in there, i began to realize the sun was rising later. i went out to retrieve the newspaper.

It was about 5:45 as i noted earlier, or about five minutes past first light, one of my favorite moments of the day. The day was announcing it presence in a red-orange hue, a shawl over the shoulders of Mount Miguel, my daily reminder of the Navajos’ hogan front doors facing east to worship the sun rising. i looked up at the lightening sky and was surprised to find Venus hanging there east, southeast, high up against the light blue gray. i turned to my right to find Sirius and Rigel holding out against succumbing to the dawn. Turning more,  i saw the moon still claiming its presence and above it,  Mars joining the resistance against the last gasp of summer clamoring to claim its space, clamoring a fierce denial of decline with 100 degree heat projected by mid-day. A couple of days of that last gasp facing us like a bear pontificating futilely, not a great prospect for those who rejected air conditioning.

But the bear had not roared yet. There was a cool quiet breeze. The neighborhood, like Maureen, was asleep. This peace, this stillness came over me like a white organza cloth. With all of the turbulence disturbing my world, it was a wonder to feel the calm in the middle of the storm, like in the eye of the hurricane but somehow above it.

i decided someone was talking to me. i wished it would continue, knowing it would not, for i had things to do.

Like make the breakfast run. Every week or so, i make a run to Donny’s Café, down the hill. The main purpose is to get my whole bean coffee to gratify my snobbish French press coffee fix

Columbian is preferred but Donny’s blend is almost as good: his coffee for Café Moto is roasted fresh each morning. But not today. Today is for Maureen’s sesame seed bagel with cream cheese, Sarah’s everything bagel with cream cheese, and my lox and bagel (onion bagel preferred, everything the norm since somehow onion bagels are dwindling in supply, and the lox is not really, but fresh salmon and with tomato, avocado, and capers). Donny is one of my favorite folks in Bonita. A local, he left for a while to be  a professional bike racer in Spain before coming home and opening a kiosk outside his parents’ bicycle shop. When his parents sold the business, part of the deal was to create a small cafe on the back side of the building where Donny and his wife Rosie have been operating to a large and appreciative group of locals ever since. i first met Donny at his kiosk in the middle 90’s when i would go to work early and get his coffee en route. Donny is a good man. He is friendly, always helpful and a good Christian in the best sense of the word.

i come home to Maureen rising and we eat outside before the bear roars. Maureen fills the birdbath, and the birds in a goodly number began flocking to the nearby coral tree, some already venturing to the birdbath while we eat and read the newspaper.

Sarah rises and finds her cold brew coffee and bagel. Last night, she went to Heather’s house to watch the Disney debut of “Mulan” in a sort of celebration. (Heather and Johnny are engaged. Sarah and Heather have been close friends since high school). Sarah wore her grandmother’s kimono robe to play her part.

We perform our outside tasks before the bear really roars, preparing to hunker down with a closed, wonderfully insulated house (thank to Maureen). AC may not help anyone later today as rolling “brown outs” are more than likely throughout Southern California for the next several days.

And i contemplate, or contemplate as much as an old curmudgeon can contemplate. Yesterday was my nephew’s forty-first birthday. Tommy Duff is as close to a son as i have. i am proud of him. Maureen and i agree he has grown up to be a really good man. Of course, he is into sports journalism, and i did my share of that. This is Tommy and Sarah in 1992, our first Christmas on Signal Mountain, our go-to tradition.

The house is shuttered. Fans and the one portable air conditioner are heaving heartily. We will shut most of them down around three this afternoon to do our part in energy conversation. i have threatened to go shopping at Costco and just wander in the produce section, the coldest place on earth except for San Francisco in July. But it is an empty threat.

i have rambled. i am a curmudgeon. This morning, i had peace, calm.

That’s enough.