Charlie Rose Central Illinois Program Advisory

Wednesday night, the Charlie Rose show on Springfield’s fine WSEC was garbled for the last five minutes of his super interview with The New Yorker Editor David Remnick. This is the 10th year with DR in that seat with TNY, and though CR had planned to devote most of it to a look back at that excellent decade. a little thing called THIS WEEK’S COVER most of the segment was devoted to . . . . .that.   Sometimes (and sometimes more often that sometimes) the signal as broadcast freezes, effectively obliterating the moving image and the dialogue. Such was the malady during the last five minutes of the Remnick interview. I don’t know why this happens, but it seems to happen only on WSEC. Rusty equipment? Gerbils in the power supply mechanism slacking off on the job? Hard to say. Happily for Springfield viewers who can also tune into Champaign-Urbana PBS station WILL, we can catch the entire interview, unimpaired by sun spots, gerbils or “sinister farces,” because that fine station broadcasts Charlie Rose starting at 11 p.

After watching Roses second interview — another aces encounter with a producer who’s just completed what appears to be an outstanding story about combat in Iraq — I tuned to WILL and savored the ENTIRE David Remnick interview before toddling off to Sleep City about 11:35.
We in Illinois Cemtral are LUCKY to have two excellent PBS stations available to those of us who receive the broadcasts straight from God’s brown air instead of cable and dish. Both interviews last night were “Rose in blooming best”

Not directly connected, but while I’m on the subject, Charlie and his team should consider publishing transcripts of his interviews in titles arranged by subject matter: US politics, world leaders, world economy, television, movies, news media, investment, industry, historical literature, fiction, etc. As much as I admire (and watch interviews with) economists and investment people, I would not consider purchasing a publicatin that follows George Clooney with Allan Greenspan.

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.
   and if anyone can tell me how to discontinue this silly and unintentional  underlining, let me know.

BRAVE-O The New Yorker!

It will seem strange to those who don’t know me well when I say the smartest thing I have done for myself this year is subscribing to The New Yorker. With the publication of this week’s edition — some may call it this week’s sedition — my satisfaction and anticipation of each issue are doubled doubled. The anticipation is because for three days I’ve browsed AM talk radio where the subject of “that outrageous cover” has been the “bilge water du jour” while I wait oh so patiently for my copy of the current example to arrive in my mail box late this week and maybe not even until next Monday. The cover can be seen at TNY web site. I’m not reading the excellent story about Barack Obama inside though I could. I receive TNY e updates and am a member of the publication’s FaceBook community. I want to hold that issue in my hands and turn the pages.

If you have not yet purchased the current issue — if you have found it in your heart to forgive that Texan spin Libra Christopher Columbus for blaspheming the Christian church and good men of faith by proving, to his own uppity self at least, that the planet Earth is NOT flat — I urge you to saddle up and go purchase it today while you can still find one.

The real crux of the inflamed sensitivities has less to do with humor than it has to do with 21st censury hummin’ beans to be offended by almost anything. May even the froggy countenance of yours truly share my disappointment in the nutty bird-brain St. Louis Cardinal’s pitching lineup without becoming a target for brick-bats? Will you permit me to say I like the Cleveland Indians without verbally separating my hair from the top of my head for being deviantly inconsiderate of Native Americans?

When I was in 1st grade, a school acquaintance called me “Kangaroo Rooster,” a phrase inspired by my last name. My mother advised me to remember that “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Later I came to know the college version which more accurately reminds us that sticks and stones may break our bones but names (and epithets and unflattering visual imagery) will never hurt me. OF COURSE words hurt. My prime example: “I’m sorry Job, but I don’t think we should continue dating . . . . . my boyfriend doesn’t like you.” In fact, those words don’t even hurt; it’s the decision made to alter the course of my life that hurt. Epithets, smepithets! You think I’m an arrogant, jabberwreck, loser? Hey, buddy, GET IN LINE!

My dad, also a Job, had no sense of humor about his name. Gentle humor that lessened the dignity of those three letters made him as angry as he’d be if you . . . . . if you . . . . drew a picture of him wearing traditional Muslim attire and showed Mom in an Angela Davis doo with an AK-47 (What happened to all the really good made in the USA assault weapons?)

It seems to me that we, as a rainbow species of beans that (some would suggest to our shame) reveal unmistakably hummin’ traits, have to judge people by what they do; not what someone says they are. For every Methodist I offend with a John Wesley barb, I delight a follower of Roger Williams. Actually, I wish it were that simple. We have to come to a mutual accord across the span of our ultra-sensitive humanity, an accord that includes people with noses that can smell OFFENSE in an apple pie a yard wide and a foot deep and deny themselves the pleasure of consuming their share of it. Epithets and art serve as safety valves on the pressure cookers of our lives. Plug them, disable them, and we explode as individuals and as a society as well.

May we remember this, and may we never blow up over another person’s opinion. May we let a person’s life be the story; not satire and heresay.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

Visit Kim Nixon

I’ve just added a new recommended site to the list on the right. Kim read my Dodging the Candle Light Ooutcome and added a nice comment. I visited her blog The Dailies and was delighted by the profusion of colors and narration of her life. It shines with excellent pictures of nature and history in the Marquette, Michigan area, a lot that will appeal to the Sara Teasdales and “Emily Dickenson Thoreaus{” who read Honey & Quinine.

Shi Tis It? or Shinola?

You tell me.

The president of a neighborhood association I belong to called a board meeting to discuss a report from Leadership Springfield, and contrary to everything I understand about organization bylaws, instructed me that our membership rank and file would not be notified of the board meeting.

– point for shi tis that all affairs of our organization have been open to our membership rank and file, even though only board members vote on motions made. This seems elementary to me; how about you?
- point for Shinola (a popular shoe polish back in the early 20th century whose consistency and color led to the pearl of wisdom, “You don’t know the difference betweeen shi tand Shinola.”) We’re not a registered non-profit organization and therefure, we can do as the president declares. The resemblance between this situation and The White House is purely coincidental.

– point for shi tis that Leadership Springfield group (part of municipal effort to nurture future leaders) asked this “no member notification” of the president, and he, a graduate of that program, complied. That any group fostered by the Greater Springfield Area Chamber of Commerce could sanction or permit this “closed door to civic group proceedings” confidentiality strikes me as brazenly Orwellian, at the least a load of what the bull left behind in the pasture.
– point for Shinola: The neighborhood association is pretty far down the “food chain” of civic machinations. What would not be acceptable for say, a city council committee should be okay for Leadership Springfield and a neighborhood association.

– point for shi tis that leadership who swallows the principle relating to one deception will swallow it for another. Even a neighborhood organization, posed as though it believes in the public welfare and open channels of communication between leadership and rank and file, should not accept the deception and work to prevent a repetition of smilar travesty.
– point for Shinola. Big bleeping deal. If the travesty was such a crime, don’t elect the fellow president next year. In the meantime, put down your indignity and walk slowly away from the corpse. If the issue is that big a deal to you, resign from leadership, let someone else do the newsletter and get on with life. Life is a big pasture. Not all of it stinks.

(sigh)

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

My Month Without Time on my Wrist

It’s been a productive day for blog posting: two here at Honey & Quinine and one at Umbrage Universal. I’m a writer. This is what I do. There aren’t enough “Sorry but”s and sulking apathetes in the world to convince me I’m not, and as always from this desk, money is only gravy; it was never the meat.

Earlier this afternoon I was rearranging mine office, moving the boomin’box elsewhere, when I discovered something I hadn’t seen in more than a month: my Acqua wrist watch, water resistant at 30 meters.

I’ve been without a personal time piece since I started working out east. Since losing it, I just figured it was a “fading old coot” thing that happens to folks like me who are fast approaching commencement of their third score of sentient humanly being. Sometimes I misplace my glasses, occasionally my wallet, and frequently the witticism on the tip of my tongue that I didn’t express because I forgot it and remembered it two hours after I could have used it.

If I had really needed a watch, I could have gone to any Walgreen’s and picked up a Timex for a pittance. One day soon after losing it, I actually looked for a watch in the drug store area of a local grocer. And thus, I saved myself $25 because they had no watches. I bought some bananas instead. Yes, they had some bananas.

At el workplace-o there is a clock on the showroom wall behind my desk. If I’m working outside, one of the nearby shop office crew will summon me to the showroom before the office mangler disappears at noon. And if I’m with a crew installing something in “Richburb Place” I know I’ll always return to the shop and home in time for dinner. Most of the guys at work don’t wear watches either. It may be an income bracket kind of thing.

Shall I wear my watch to work now that I’m reunited and it feels so good? Likely no. I’d just get anxious glancing at it in morning rush hour traffic, and all I need to know about time in transit, Jim Leach (WMAY 950) can tell me in the morning and Steve Cochran (WGN 720) can tell me after the whistle blows.

Here at home I have all the clocks I need, but they’re not essential equipment. Without them, I’ll always know when to eat: when I’m hungry and go to bed: when I’m very tired.

My bedside clock-radio alarm is set two and a half hours fast. During school days, it was set an hour fast. After a brief power outage early June I mis-set it because I was guessing. The TV wasn’t on, and besides even if it was, on a Sunday night (as it indeedly was), if Nature isn’t on WSEC, I don’t know what time it is within an hour at least, because that’s all I watch on Sunday night and sometimes, not even that. Since re-setting it 2.5 hours ahead and getting used to it, I’ve been afraid to set it back to actual time. If I do, in my morning state of mind, even with my watch joined at the wrist, odds are I’d arrive at work two and a half hours late!

As #43 might say, I believes “Chicaga” said it best: “Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care?” Espikkin’ for my own self, I don’t have to know what time it is, and that’s okay. When I earnestly need to know what time it is, I’ll boot the computer and look or I’ll glance at the clocks the kitchen or living room and hope the batteries are still good. Or I’ll open my eyes, look at my clock radio . . . . and subtract two and a half hours.

Live long . . . . . and proper.

Two Poems of Painters and a Plug

Kudos to Prairie Art Alliance and Sangamon Watercolor Society for their fab reception July 12 at Hoogland Center! The PAA exhibition Memories features the painting of Pam Miller of Springfield and the steel sculpture of Darren Miller of Decatur. The variety of techniques and media so competently and delightfully engaged is a rainbow inspiration. Darren Miller’s steel works are deceptively simple and profound, haiku in hard metal. Because of the many activities this night at Hoogland, the Sangamon WS exhibit was relocated twice from its usual third floor meeting room, landing in a second floor location late in the day. Both receptions were exceptionally well attended, given how the thunderstorms which had mightily soaked the city had moved east just half an hour before opening. The PAA exhibit, sponsored by Heartland Credit Union and Semans Dermatopathology Service, continues through August 22. Be sure and catch it if you can.

I wrote the following two poems after I was invited to entertain during a 2007 Sangamon Watercolor Society. The fastest way to get me writing a poem or song is to invite me to play and zing for you. These two poems were intended from the start as songs, but as long as the invitations continue as they have in recent months, their future is probably most permanently linked to printed and pixeled pages. I hope you like them.

The Painters
By Job Conger

Life is a panoply of colors
for all who care to see,
with simple hues, harmonious
and clashing cacophony.
The painter shares a special gift
of captured ebb and flow
in portraits of this world
and worlds beyond we’ll never know.

What moves the brush on canvas
and blends the pigments fine
is the love that transforms summer grapes
to cherished, vintage wine.
The heart behind the vision
pays the artist’s traded toll
of hours spent in solitude
to reveal the kindred soul.

The paper is a metaphor.
The brush strokes are a song.
The colors are the attitude
for feelings nurtured long
from just a hint of what could be
to a finished painting, true
to the artist’s warm desire made real:
time’s ancient urge revealed anew.

If Pigments Had Wings
By Job Conger

Life is full of strange cacophonies
From tin-cup prominades:
Lovers who love too much, then
Too little when the passion fades.
Sometimes it’s good to get away from
“pleaase please PLEASE” and “rush rush RUSH!”
I commune in quiet times
With pigments, easel and a brush.

I’m going to paint a leafy trail,
A curious squirrel in a tree,
I’m going to paint a heron in a pond;
Show how much they mean to me.

Please don’t get me wrong; I love my
Friends and city life, day by day,
Symphonies of harmonies
That bless my world at work and play.
Even so, there are times when I must
Disappear without being rude,
Take my canvas and my gear
To reflect in quiet solitude.

I’m going to paint my Uncle John and Aunt Margaret
Posing in a picture on my knee.
I’m going to paint Mayor Timothy J. Davlin;
Show how much they mean to me.

So when you think the sky is falling,
Heed my words and take a break.
Walk away from raucous rhythms;
Stroke your soul for heaven’s sake.
You will find joys unimagined,
Little dreams that blossom bright,
Destined to shine in frames on walls
And all because you saw delight.

Paint the carillon and garden,
Life’s grand beauty old and new.
Paint the world you cherish dearly.
Show how much it means to you.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

Support WSEC PBS Television in Central Illinois

I’ve had a minor epifanny (as #43 might say) regarding WSEC, the Public Broadcasting System television station serving the Springfield, Illinois area. It occurred the night of July 4 at their fundraiser at Pasfield House.

Two days earlier, a friend invited me to a small gathering of mutual friends convening on the 27th floor of the Springfield Hilton to watch the fireworks displays from on high. I accepted instantly because though I knew about the planned SEC fund raiser, I didn’t have the discretionary income — not with my gas still disconnected — to attend. The afternoon of the 4th, however, Pasfield House owner Tony Leone dropped by my place of employment during a radio remote broadcast. As he posed for a few pictures that will likely appear at The Granite Guy web site, I wished him good luck with the big event. He invited me to come on over with my camera. There would be no admission because he’d call me “a part of the staff.” I could enjoy a decent dinner, meet some good people and see some fireworks from the west side of the Illinois State Capitol building that faces Pasfield House two blocks away.

I had to cancel my plan to attend the Hilton party, and I really hated to do that. Friends like Joe Russel and the Goddess of Cookies and Wine are worth their weight in Corona and lime wedges, so I truly hated to opt out.
Dr. Jerold Gruebel poses with two happy supporters.

That said, the Pasfield House WSEC Fundraiser was everything promised and more. I chatted with many long-time friends and acquantances, met WSEC CEO Dr. Jerold Gruebel and took a bunch of fine pictures. Needless to say, I did not go home hungry or thirsty.

I can’t begin to tell you what a 180 degree turnaround of attitude I experienced toward Jerry Gruebel. Suffice to say here that I found him to be a truly cool and sharp son of a gun. We talked at length regarding the status of the station, his thoughts regarding mis-characterization of the situation at SEC by some media, and — you could probably see this coming a mile away — his interest in Vachel Lindsay, once I started telling him about the poet and what I do in connection with my appreciation of the fellow. I engaged Dr. Gruebel AND Mark MacDonald in major conversation which I hoped would lead to an offer to do an Illinois Stories about Vachel and my efforts on that dead poet’s behalf. As luck would have it, just as JG was calling MMac over (I am SURE to suggest further discussion of such a possibility), someone with nothing to sell or report interrupted our conversation, and the magic moment was lost, I hope to be discovered again soon.

I often write here at Honey & Quinine how much WSEC means to me. Without Charlie Rose, Illinois Stories, The American Experience, coverage of Illinois state politics (The BEST was Ben Kiningham’s Enlightened Conversations) Frontline, Nova, and Nature, I would be a hollow shell of the citizen I am today. Okay, maybe that’s going too far, but I say truthfully, when I am not committed to a recital, performance, a party or neighborhood association meeting, I build my evening around WSEC. Those programs come first. I can work on AeroKNow or write a poem, or practice guitar any time, but it must be time when there’s nothing I want to see on WSEC.

Their bi-monthly program guide (they were giving away copies at the event) is a first class preview of what’s to come, very well done. Their web site — http://www.tkn.tv — is also a fine site worth your visit. It even includes one of the picttures I took at the fundraiser, properly credited to yours truly.

If you have hot water connected and more than a four year old cantelope and a half a jar of Hellman’s in your refrigerator, you may qualify to become a supporter of WSEC “Network Knowledge” television. Visit their web site to learn how to contribute via VISA or MC, and tell them Job Conger’s Honey & Quinine sent you. This posting is how I am demonstrating my support for this most essential community asset. I hope you will support them as well.

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

Saturday Afternoon at Vachel’s House

On the day I attended Dennis Camp’s fab presentation about Vachel Lindsay and the race riots of 1908 at Vachel Lindsay Home State Historic Site, site Director Jennie Battles invited me to bring my guitar and some poetry to share in the back yard as the site hosted a display of quilts from the its impressive collection. She couldn’t pay me any money, because the budget for the Illinois historic site was pretty lean, so to speak. Not being paid has never prevented me from doing something I believe in (anyway), and I was delighted to be invited.

Poet/folksinger At Play.

A happy outcome was the picture above, taken by Joe McClure who, with his wife Jean, were among the many I met that afternoon. It’s the first picture of me in performance mode a stranger has sent me in the mail.  Decent picture; aye?

The day I was invited was the day I began preparing for hte gig. Over the years, I’ve memorized a BUNCH of poems penned by Vachel Lindsay, but like any instrument that’s not been played for awhile, I need to exercise the voice, practice playing my primary instrument (my voice) and my secondary instrument (my guitar) before unleashing it on unsuspecting strangers. Another factor during prep week was the anticipated audience. Many adults, especially locals, like to make a big deal out of Vachel’s poems intended for children, a take I find sadly dismissive of his many poems which shine even brighter with adults than kids. The Saturday date in the breezy tent outdoors with tea, lemonade, cookies, and arts activity was a kid’s venue, intended to be so from the get-go, and I was happy to plan my program for the anticipated clientelle.

Sadly the local adult “take” on Vachel’s poems, saves grownups who pass Vachel off to the children, the bother of what most anticipate as a BORING presentation of Vachel’s best poems. Why do they assume a BORING presentation? Because most adults have never HEARD Vachel’s poems recited as they should be recited. AAAAYAAND, they don’t have to consider the real MEAT — tasty meat, timeless meat, nourishing meat — of what Vachel said in his adult poems. , , , , , not that there’s anything wrong with it.

The nagging problem with the “kiddie take” on Vachel’s poems is that any six year old in 1910 knew what an eye of a potato is. Kids in 1908 knew what a wood match is. They knew what a fairy was then and is today if your parents don’t listen to Billy Ray Cyrus tunes. When I recited Vachel’s The Potatoes’ Dance, I explained the fairy part to the kids in language that would not offend Billy Ray fans or anyone else. The rest of the antiquarian aspects to the children’s poems I assumed the attentive parents would explain after they departed. No one tires faster than I of reciters/readers who spend more time in preamble than poem. The fine people who came out to the tent were essentially visitors in transit: not inclined (and appropriately so) to a “concert;” glad to sit for some cookies and lemonade, to chat with the bloke with the guitar and let the kids decorate some paper-plate-turtles inscribed with Vachel’s fine poem The Little Turtle. In two aspects, it was the PERFECT arrangement for me to share song and poetry.

The first was that more adults visited than kids, though the kids who did come out had a fine time with the arts after I sang and recited. I enjoyed learning about them in friendly conversation. The second was that the timing, duration and content were up to me. There was no one tapping a watch in back when it was time for me to stop. I know enough about audiences to see when I’m boring them; ceasing to entertain, and I know enough to  conclude my presentation when THAT time comes.

A volunteer at the Home had done a fine job preparing the art projects, and the kids who engaged the project, which they took with them, had a fine time. Visitors came from Cahokia, Illinois, Chicago, Springfield and Arkansas. Everyone left with my Vachel Pages web site card. In addition to the adult poems I shared, I also sang some acoustic Bob Dylan with the Chicago couple, and absolutely everyone who came out to hear me smiled in the right places, were pensive in the right places and all left with something many visitors to the meticulously restored and maintained home never leave with: the memory of hearing poems written by Vachel Lindsay recited as they should be recited.

Though there was no “pay” in dollars, the reactions of the fine visitors whom I met, some excellent conversation with one of the voluteers, and a generous sampling of the lunch I had enjoyed earlier sent home with me were more-than-ample reward. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Thanks to Jennie Battles and Vachel Lindsay Home State Historic Site and the fine visitors for a most enjoyable Saturday afternoon!

Live long . . . . . . . and proper.

Applique Naivete

I’ve written advertising for funeral homes, a convenience store, and now a granite and other natural stones retailer. When I informally hitched my summer to friendly George Jaworski, owner of The Granite Guy on Dirksen Parkway, I did so in part because I understand the fellow, his take on the creative process, and  he seems to understand me. Better yet, he offered me a job. And I accepted.

One of the first things on my agenda was advertising for the State Journal-Register: nothing major, just a small business card size presentation to run several times and a larger advert to run less-frequently. For the small one, being an acoustic folk singer and Zimmerman fan helped. Maybe you’ve seen it already. The first line reads “Everybody must get stoned!” — Bob Dylan and below it — “We’re here to help.” — George Jaworski followed by The Granite Guy logo, address, web site and phone number.

I thought the connection to BZ, a/k/a BD, would “register” with folks of my age and slightly younger, making the kind of dollars requisite for serious renovation with natural stone. I showed it to the printing business owner next door. Was it TOO “hip” or did he understand the gentle humor? He “got” the advert and smiled. I showed it to the crew who do the real work, installing it all in homes and businesses. Some were 28 or so. Everyone understood: had a mild but obvious chuckle. THEN I showed it to George, and he “got it” too. I even ran it by the account rep, Holly Satterlee. “I want to be sure that this advert does not imply that Bob Dylan endorses The Granite Guy or even that he endorses granite/marble/onyx or even likes it. Talk to your legal people. Are we okay here?” She replied in due course, we were okay; nice concept, nothing perilous about the words.

Another person at said establishment, whose initiative, humor and sense of art closely resemble that exemplified best by a mollusk, after the advert had run a few times, not caring to approach me straight on regarding it, used the “banked shot” approach to the pocket. “How long is this ad going to run?” she queried, speaking as though trying to clean her tongue of lemon juice recently deposited thereon. I responded, “Holly’s in charge of that. Ask her. Or look in the newspaper advertising file.” I could hear this incipient train wreck coming a mile away.

“Well all I know is that it’s a terrible ad,” she said. “My friends don’t like it either, and they’ve asked me why we’re trying to get people to use drugs. That’s not a good approach. IIIIIIIIIIIIIII would have said ‘The Granite Guy is the place for your countertops, vanities, kitchen islands and bathroom improvement needs. We have excellent service and fair prices.’” . . . . . words to that effect, a string so long it would not fit in a half page.

i also know applique naivete when I see it, and I have learned there is no way to engage that kind of feigned ignorance. To give the comment the attention it merited would have cost me three ways. It would have required me to offend the person by speaking of my lack of respect for the applique naivete some people wear like ash on the forehead when it isn’t even Advent, or talk and write in greeting card phrases instead of stating what’s underneath the contrived patina that covers their insincerity. I share work quarters with this person. I would not compromise a neutral future of such enforced proximity. Finally, I understood I could not change the person’s mind.

I sighed, and responded “I have to finish some business in back, so I’ll be there if anyone calls for me.”

I expect some readers of this post to respond, “So hot-shot bloggerboy, what the helliss wrong with that other ad, hey?” To them, I reply: Friends, Romulans and countrypersonzzzzzz, I have some business in back. Leave your honest thoughts — no applique naivete, pleessssss — in the comments. I know you’re out there. I can hear you brooding.

My issue is not with other opinions. I have learned that you never ask a jealous associate at work to guide your career with the enterprise. I wanted opinions outside that mini-maelstrom, and that’s why I sought opinions where I sought them. I believe they steered me right; no bum steers, so to speak. But you know, Hosney? If in talking to customers and others who have seen the advert and think it doesn’t hit the target, I will accept their input and act accordingly when I produce our next advert.

As Bob Dylan charged in his classic Masters of War,  “You that hide behind walls. You that hide behind desks (and I would add applique naivete), I just want you to know I can see through your masks.”

Live long . . . . . . and proper.

Dark Streaks on the Carpet

I am beginning to catch up with life and a positive attitude. War with Iran? Before January it’s a foregone conclusion. Bet your house on it if you’re still keeping up with the payments.  Any activity Congress engages before putting #43 in chains and shackles (along with his best buds Cheney and Rove, proves my point. Until they are in a safe place and out of the war business (Guantanamo Bay would work)  our future is as promising as a root canal. Congress (the general idea was called “checks and balances”) is collectively little better than accessories to real lies, high crimes and felonius deprivation. There comes a time when you know you can’t avoid crashing into that semi-truck whose drunk driver just crossed the white line into your lane, so you simply enjoy breathing while you can before the inexorable impact with the next dimension. That’s what I’m doing now, and that accounts in part for my more positive attitude. It only hurts when I laugh,

The neighborhood association newsletter is done, the proofreading of the American Aviation Historical Society Newsletter is DONE, scanning some recently arrived aviation magazines for indexing later today is DONE, and delivering two more recently demised mice to the Vine Street Nature Conservancy to fertilize the green profusion is DONE, and that last item reminds me. . .

Thanks to my gradually fading hearing, and perhaps tecause the mice are wearing socks, I missed the usually aural clues that I was harboring freeloaders, starting about the time I came home after walking out of Kentucky Fried Chicken on Ninth Street. (See How I Saved $11.95…previously posted). COINCIDENTS (as #43 or Dan Quayle might say) ? I doesn’t thank so.

Point ISZZ that because I was not looking for them, expecting them this summer, my first clue that Blogger S’ouse was inhabituated by them was when I watched a dark street sprint from under a big old chair to my record albums. How it squeezed into that tight space between record jackets and speakers is a mystery. I knew right away that I was hosting “meese” as the old Hanna-Barbera cartoon characters said, and as they also said, “I hate meeses to pieces.” It was time for counter-offensive action, and I don’t mean insulting Democrats as much as I insult Republicans. It was time to break out the County Market Split Top Wheat and traps again.

It’s been a bountiful harvest so far. Four and counting. I deposit them on newsprint (only the best: Illinois Times) dump them in the back yard greenery as far from the house as possible, pitch the IT pages in the nearby container, return to the house, wash mon hands and return to normal programming.

The battle continues. I know I’m making progress, and the plants in back have never looked better.

Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper.