CANINE SOCIALITE

For the last week, each evening except one, Buckwheat has been visited by a cute little girl named "Baby" who wanders around the neighborhood getting petted and cadging treats . . . On our walks we used to see Baby at the Fire Station and thought she was the station's mascot. But, no--apparently she just hung out there cuz the guys were nice to her. Somehow word has gotten out about this household--dog-friendly to a fault--and now Baby comes by and scratches on our front door every evening until we let her in. Here she is waiting for her her treat, as Buckwheat looks on:She's a sweet little girl and makes herself completely, comfortably at home here. She has a real home, but when we called the number on her tag, the lady there was somewhat non-comittal about Baby's wanderings, and I got the impression it's a lifestyle everyone's happy with. Well, almost everyone. We don't like the idea of her crossing the Canyon road without accompaniment. But she seems street-wise, so we simply are enjoying her nightly visits--and Buckwheat really loves it when she comes over; although Baby is not much of a playmate, and has been heard to snap when B. gets too rowdy. Poor Buckwheat. He's neutered, but he still has those adolescent horomonal surges. After Baby left last night I caught him humping an old pillow I'd left on the office floor.

FIELD EXPEDIENT DECORATING

Don and I are lucky enough to "own" a house. I say own in quotes, because the domicile actually belongs to a bank in Michigan; that is, until I win the lottery and pay this puppy off. Meanwhile, not being a renter means I can do as I wish with the place. Unfortunately, we're a little cash-strapped for anything more than my on-the-fly and on-the-cheap decorating inspirations. Current case in point: The kitchen! New stove (birthday present from "we" to me) notwithstanding, our fab kitchen suffers from dilapidated kitchen cabinetry, made of light wood veneers that haven't endured my overall sloppiness too well. The, um, cupboards below the sink kinda rotted, to the point that both cupboard doors had to be removed and tossed, leaving my undersink store of cleaning products fully exposed. Sooooooooooo.... you walk into the kitchen and there in all their glory are two doorless cupboards and bottles of bleach, polish and ammonia, Comet cleanser, old plastic spray bottles and assorted old sponges I can't bear to throw away, since I may need them to clean the baseboards, okay? (Clean the baseboards! LOL! As if!! My baseboards will be grimy until the day we sell this place.) Anyway, unless you're a professional janitor, the contents of that exposed cupboard hardly enhance the overall ambience of said kitchen. In desperation and feeling like I had just mainlined Martha Stewart DNA, I decided to . . . sew curtains! Since we cannot yet weather the cost of replacing the cabinetry, or getting new veneers, I decided some quick cover solutions were in order. I went to Wal-Mart and found some colorful fabric with apples all over it, suitably country cute (even with my currently suppressed metropolitan sensibilities). Voila! But hold on . . . I can only Martha Stewart-ize myself for a short time. I put the other half of the fabric away, somewhere, planning to complete the cupboard covers after a well-earned respite from such forced domesticity. Now I can't find the cloth! I put it somewhere and it is gone. I don't want to go back to Wal-Mart and buy more, because if I do, then I'll find the other piece and that will add up to three unused pieces of fabric in the garage begging for me to do something cozy and cute with them. So I asked myself--what would Martha do? The answer came so quickly it almost knocked me over. Why honey, Martha said to me in my head, get new cupboards! Running back and forth to Wal-Mart and sewing crooked curtains by hand?? Fuggedaboudit! Now, basking in a relieving swoosh of self-acceptance, I am leaving one half of my cupboard exposed to the world. With faith that my lost apple fabric will turn up. You don't like it? Call Martha!!

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BAYBEE . . .

It's actually not until Friday. Glendale, California, June 25, 6:27 a.m., 19XX, er, well, that is, um, heh-heh, only a confoundingly short time after the National Security Act was instituted: Double Cancer, Moon in Aquarius in the 8th House, and a whole s**t-load of planets in the 12th House, including Sun, Venus and Mercury--so who'll trade horoscopes, eh?--but with her genteel permission, I opened my sister's present which arrived Monday and was floored and thrilled to find an air purifier shaped like a UFO! How does she do it? My sister is like the Houdini of gift givers--always magically coming up with the most perfect and unique thing, while sitting in her slippers on the back porch looking at the cool ripples of the "Rivah" in Virginia.
The sleazeballs who've entered our personal zone haven't exactly faded into the background, but things are getting better all the time, so we're able to shove them to the back of our group mind. For now. Last night watched a CD of a movie called "The Cooler." Alec Baldwin was ace, the ending made me feel better, but that's about all I can say for it. Oh, and there was beaucoup temptation to learn to play craps! Much more social than the slots.

HOT TOMATOES!


Well, they're still green, but since we had a couple of years where our tomato plants got decimated by thieving squirrels, just seeing the ripening fruit forming in such lovely bunches, and safely removed from the ground, warms my heart. I have to keep staring at these plants, and Don and Buckwheat and pictures of my grandsons and my smoothe stones to remind myself where the real riches in life are. Not to be too overly detailed, but somehow our sweet and honest family has managed to intersect with some real vile pond scum--thieving people, not squirrels. We're talking completely sentient and educated mammals with large, multi-furrowed brains. But missing consciences. I plan to pray about all this. What else can you do? We're in quite a fascinating and puzzling world.

Sha-DOO-Be...life goes on

The week has been largely smoothe and uneventful so far. One exception might be the channel who came to our Playa del Rey office and had nice things to say about the magazine. In a refreshing departure from the typical channele who seems to lapse into some kind of ridiculously stilted and hopeless faux British accent, Nicolette shared her wisdom in a normal voice. The communicating entity was purportedly an ET named Baktar and Nicolette's High Self, whose name escapes me at the moment. In all, an engaging presentation of some unusual skills.
IN OTHER NEWS, More garden-quality stones are accumulating as Buckwheat and I stay faithful to our morning hikes.

NOW WHAT?

It's taken much of the weekend to decompress from my compulsive (but virtual) participation in last week's ceremonies and honors for President Reagan. I'm not much for pomp and rituals, but this time all the formal military protocols and carefully choreographed acts that accompanied his funeral and other events were comforting and fascinating to me. Of course, I am questioning my own intellectual honesty regarding the political side of the man during his presidency. An unapologetic liberal for most of my life, I now find myself stirred by the words and deeds of unabashed love of country and firmness of vision embodied by that beloved president. Have I forgotten his cuts to federal programs designed to assist the poor and mentally disabled? His presumed approval of arming soldiers of blood-thirsty, third-world dictators in Central America? Alternatively: Do many know that John Kerry supported arch Marxist-communist Daniel Ortega and actually visited him during the Nicaraguan resistance, in defiance of the state department and in apparent support of the Sandinistas? (April, 1985) In sum, there are always two sides to every story, and I am still resisting taking sides. History needs to be perceived and thought about clearly, completely, and without prejudice. Nevertheless, I cannot quell a small voice inside of me that keeps insisting that Reagan's unflagging confidence and positivity about this country and its role in world affairs, it's spiritual foundation and mission, are what count above all. The spirit behind the United States of America seems its most valued strength, all else falls in line with that. Our military strength, our economic strength, our lifestyle strengths. Yet there's a wave of chaotic change rushing beneath today's international struggle to clarify the issue of Democracy as it may fit the poorer, backward nations that make up so much of the world. I'm not certain that preemptive inculcation of democratic traditions upon near-primitive, largely theocratic Islamic nations such as Iraq will ever work. Can you bring farm animals to the table in any other way but than to eat them? But such digression and disturbing metaphors are useless at this time. What's next? For me, it's getting my house in order, quite literally. I can't think beyond that.

I briefly considered making the short drive to Simi Valley to view President Ronald Reagan's flag-draped coffin, but decided it would be more than I could handle. And I was correct--our friend Dwight told us that many of the people arriving yesterday had to wait eight hours--many standing and slowly parading through the long night--before arriving at the Library room where our former President's body was lying in state. I have privately made my tribute. Right after his death I had the profoundly disturbing realization that during his tenure as president, I totally missed out on his charm and adroit patriotism, his charismatic power and influence. In reflecting on my state of mind in the 1980s, I admit that my generally hand-to-mouth existence drove me to resent the president and his "trickle down" theories, which seemed totally irrelevant to those of us who could barely pay the rent. More significantly, I fell into verbal lockstep with the nay-sayers who would put down the confident "California Cowboy" every chance they got. Iran-contra of course fixed the idea in these small minds that Ronald Reagan blithely disregarded the law in his hell-bent desire to suppress communist expansionism. I feel the whole story has yet to be told. But the President had unwavering conviction about the communist menace, and his instincts about the Soviet Union proved correct. He was an articulate, powerful, optimistic, hugely encouraging leader, and I missed it; I missed it all. Swayed by the leftists--and I leaned that way, no doubt about it--his amiability and communication skills smacked of so much right-wing propaganda. In truth, the damaging propaganda came from the left, which still appears to think a conciliatory attitude toward our enemies is the right way to go. Reagan was staunchly against giving in to those who would destroy or demean America, but at the same time honed his performance abilities to present his vision with poise and clarity--and I missed it. I'd see him and Nancy at the ranch, holding hands, and I thought it was fake, a show for the people. Theirs was an exceptional life of love and devotion. I've never liked Nancy, but now I see the grace and steel she is made of--which gave her the werewithal to stand by Ronnie for 10 years as he declined into Alzheimers--surely one of the most horrific experiences a spouse could endure. She never wavered. She saw the horror, and like Chiristopher Reeve is an outspoken proponent of stem cell research. (Is Bush too dependent on the religious right constituency to use his integrity and good sense, and change his position on this vital matter? It annoys me to the point of anger.) President Reagan's passing has given me a greater sense of my own growing awareness about the world--a world I've spent most of my life ignoring due to its insanity. But it's a matter of maturity, and I'm a late bloomer.
God Bless You, Mr. President.

SATURDAY, P.M.

These plus my newly-planted mums are now in honor of the late President Ronald Reagan.

SATURDAY, A.M.

Ran across Bruni and her Rottweilers this morning. She's still a snooty bitch but that hardly affects me anymore. Of course Buckwheat wanted to play, not realizing who he was dealing with! So we spent most of the time on the leash.
I bought some rather listless looking mums at the 99-cents store yesterday and plan to plant them. I have no idea if chrysanthemums do well in this desert-like environment, but at least I know how to spell the word! Dogs, flowers, words, computers . . . ain't life wonderful?
BEFORE

AFTER

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER ATTITUDE

My last post was tres depressing and I plan to make up for it in short order. Perhaps with another poem--this time a verse that inspires rather than crushes. (Last word: I just don't do well in the heat.)
No time to make a poem today. But we got a new battery in the digital camera and I took some pix of Buckwheat on our morning walk. Here he is doing a doggie dance with Nala, a sweet little black girl who also cavorts in the park:
It's cooled off a little, I've cooled off a little, and my world feels a helluva lot more comfortable today. Back to work.

ODE TO SUMMER


Awoke this morning with a mind like mush,
My coffee lacked its usual hefty push.

Two cups, then three--I'm still so enervated,
The drooping of my eyes feels syncopated.

I'm tired, torpid, flaccid, limp and lame,
And think it's summer weather that's to blame.

The heat drips on my skull in molten lances,
Eclipsing my poor brain with hellish trances.

My head is like an ancient corpse's tomb
whose walls give off the fetid stench of doom:

A smell of dead ideas and useless thoughts,
Of long-abandoned dreams and work that rots.

But summer is supposed to be such fun!
So why besmirch this season of the sun?

Nay--'tis not the summer that I dread.
'Tis but the morbid turnings of my head.

I cannot think. I cannot work. I just cannot--
Don't even ask! It's just too hot.