Itʼs a Guy Thing

Our production of One Flew over the Cuckooʼs Nest at The Grand Opera House in Dubuque is past the halfway point in its two-weekend run. The remarkable cast and crews have made us very proud (and themselves, too, I hope)  — so far (I hope I havenʼt jinxed us somehow with this observation before the run is over, but the performances and the technical efforts have been exquisite and amazing).

Although a rehearsal shot (the setʼs not even finished yet) — the moments before Ratched inflicts electroshock, attempting to control McMurphy (and Chief Bromden). I was kind of proud of our electroshock machine and the “crown” which inflicts the voltage on the patientʼs brain. The actual lighting is far better than this posed photograph reveals.

Although the run seems long (the last show in which I was involved with more than one weekend was Gypsy, just after the turn of the century, and the only other production with seven nights of performance to my record was My Fair Lady back in the early Nineties — both starring The Lovely One, coincidentally), the approach of strike after Sundayʼs final performance weighs me with a certain vague dread. However, even if itʼs just a few of us (which, by the way, cast, it will not be), and even if we end up missing the cast party because the work takes so long, it will eventually get done, and all I will have to worry about is returning the two large storage cabinets to Andrew Community School on Monday. Then this production, too, like so many hundreds before it, will be memories. And in this case, almost all will be pleasant and proud ones.

Sitting in the balcony observing the show night after night (and it was Monday through Sunday for tech week and the opening weekend — seven in a row with a break), all kinds of critical and directorial thoughts flicker through my mind. Few of them are critiques on the acting or production. Mostly I ponder the patterns that have emerged in this production, deliberately from the beginning, through one or more actorsʼ inspirations, developing from an almost random observation, or by other confluent synergy or synchronicity. Most of my emotions and intellectualizations are the appropriate consciousness-response (or intuition) to the action and the play, evaporating when I try to recapture that deep insight into the script and/or our production that a particular moment enflamed. (The depth to any work of art is what goes on within the reader/viewer/audience/participant; and the achievement of critics is to objectify and communicate that subjective experience.) So these next three nights, since (I hope and expect) my directorial suggestions or corrections will be reduced to almost nothing, I am going to try to take notes on those fleeting impressions and inspirations to see if I can assemble a set of observations on the play (and perhaps the book if I sit down to reread it fully).

If I succeed, you may have to read about my supposed insights here.

Billy pleads, in the aftermath of the big party, for Ratched not to tell his mother of his moral disgrace — also pleading, whether her no-longer-virginal victim is fully conscious of this truth or not at this moment, for her to spare his life, to rescue him from the suicide into which she has, probably deliberately, cornered him.

One realization arose from last Saturday nightʼs show, when my sister Margaret was watching, and from her responses. When asked, she observed that by far her favorite performer was Nurse Ratched (an appropriate critical stance, as Andrea is wonderful and many-toned in her performance, developing gradually a hardness to Ratched that results perhaps primarily from McMurphyʼs almost pre-adolsecent defiance). When asked to judge McMurphy (whom we all have sat back awed at Danʼs spirited and uninhibited characterization and embodiment thereof), she wondered if she were quite certain if he didnʼt belong on the ward. Both Janet and I felt she really didnʼt like McMurphy (the character here, decidedly not the actor). I think Margaretʼs preference for Ratched might have resulted partly from her response to a male-female, early-Sixties war-between-the sexes conflict in the play that I hadnʼt consciously considered since the earliest days of rehearsal.

It is a show for men, with a woman as the villain (whether Ratched deliberately means to be a bully or not) and the group identity and evolving mutual empathy of the patients revealing a kind of male-bonding (which we did strive consciously to develop) in antipathy to the Big Nurseʼs authoritarianism. But conversing with Margaret, I began to realize that One Flew over the Cuckooʼs Nest is also certainly (at least somewhat) misogynistic. McMurphyʼs alpha-male behavior is decidedly preferred (through the plot and the play) to Ratchedʼs antagonism to everything (male and) chaotic — gambling, noise, physical exertion, game-playing, fraternizing. If the perfect state is achieved for her in the stillness of a lobotomized patient in a post-operative coma (“Thatʼs fine,” she says. “Thatʼs just fine” — her final words in the show, over a motionless and quiescent McMurphy on a hospital gurney), it is Macʼs manic exuberance, violence, rebellion and wildness that have driven her to that extreme.

A grim mother-figureʼs quiet home versus an overgrown boyʼs testosterone-driven, no-holds-barred frat party. Iʼm glad our production (perhaps unconsciously, possibly as a result of Janet and me cooperating as directors) gives expression to both sides.

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Cur•mudg•eon

(noun)  — bad-tempered or surly person

(with my most insincere apologies, of course)

Maybe this post results just because I have had time, with our production of One Flew over the Cuckooʼs Nest up and running — beginning its second weekend tonight — but I have been astonished and annoyed by unimportant things lately. Like commercials. And Facebook links.

Having been able to watch a little TV over the past few days,* I have again realized that commercials not merely appeal to the stupidity in us all but actively cultivate vapid witlessness (the most egregious examples being the selfdestruction-instructive “Do the Dew” series from the late Nineties and early Aughties and the interminable Hardeeʼs ads from the last few years that presented consumers at those restaurants as moronic males with severe limitations not just in taste but all matters beyond the selfishly animalistic**). Admittedly, studies have shown that it is far easier to sell stuff to folks who have shut down their higher-order thought processes, thus the historical stream of “entertaining” and/or amusing commercials over the history of TV. But do advertisers have to cultivate imbecility?

Hmmmm…

I think I may have, if blogs must discover such, found my niche for Wakdjuknagaʼs Blog… and an apparently endless stream of future posts: advertising analysis and criticism. The Old Curmudgeon rides again?

But first, for today, a really minor annoyance from Facebook (yeah, the ultimate time-waste of my mostly doltish existence), which I think results from the powerfully promoted “live stupidly”*** culture of consumer commercialism.

Lack of thought enters into many phases of ordinary life, even as television casts its dull glow into every cranny of existence. And Facebook is one of those forums**** for dim-wittedness. Just in the past few days, a supposedly cute bit of humor (check the picture, above us here, to see it) has been making the regurgitation circuit in the Newsfeed. I think I have witnessed its appearance about a dozen times from as many friends.

Ignoring the subtle antiCanadianism***** of the concept, the problem with the joke is simple geography. Mt. Rushmore is in South Dakota, kids…

“A” marks the spot, with the Canadian border near the very top of the map

Imagining the enormous length of the unseen torsos between those famous faces and that quartet of historically inaccurate asses (not to mention the lack of continuous mountain between Rushmore and wherever in Canada… unless, of course, the torsos are wormholed into some alternate universe between the two distant sites…) kind of saps the laughter.

Geography — itʼs reality.

Ah, but geographical ignorance ties in so well with (evolves so neatly from?) the Dextremeʼs Big War (of lies) on science… Doesnʼt it? Talk about the power of mindless advertising.

And while I am at it, how about this example, below, of pure non sequitur? Nonsense is nonsense, even if it suggests a political perspective some would like to feel (unconsciously perhaps, probably at the urging of corporate interests, of course) is appropriate.

And so, The Old Curmudgeon raises his grisly head to utter some grumpy commentary into the digital æther again.

* (with no rehearsals or performances to attend, we can make use of the over-priced “services” of DirecTV again)

** Probably I perceive the idiocy of those commercials as a consumer of neither product… ?

*** (Which advertisers and consumers would prefer and falsely believe to be “live stupid”)

**** It still hurts slightly to use that incorrect, unLatinate plural (which should, of course, be fora). But one can only push correctitude so far, you know… After all, data serves as both singular and plural. And donʼt get me started on the loss of medium to identify one of the mass media…

***** How many well-dulled dolts seriously have taken the South Park movie premise to heart?

Map image via Viola from GoogleMaps™

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Summerʼs End

My summer job is finally, fully over. Yesterday The Lovely One and I drove to Des Moines to return the GOV to its real home at USDA APHIS PPQ.* The entire trapping staff was there — seasonal workers (like me), fulltime office staff, seasonalsʼ spouses… everyone.

Each of us received his or her annual work review (mine was quite flattering), reminded ourselves of some governmental policies, and turned in our official documentation and GOV keys. The staff treated us all to a picnic of brats and hamburgers before sending us all home for the chillier months. If funding permits the emerald ash borer (and gypsy moth) survey(s) to continue, I have more short-term work ahead for next spring and summer. Our office head, Rob, also awarded certificates and gifts to memorialize this yearʼs service (and a plaque for one trapper retiring after 21 years and a quarter-million miles in the field). The time spent yesterday in the middle of the state was pleasant and fun.

Rain set in, heavy and ominous amidst the speeding semis on Interstate 80,** as I drove Janetʼs car back eastward — although blue skies popped out, at first just off to our left, north, as we drove in downpour less than a mile from the sunshine, and later, briefly, overhead in Jackson County. We might have missed some of the precipitation if we hadnʼt had to leave Polk County in order to return as early as we could for Janetʼs job, from which she had taken a day off just to drive me home. Once snugly in our house for an evening, we reveled in the novelty of that domestic experience.

Celebration on the Ward — the men joyously imagine a home run, assisting McMurphy to undermine Nurse Ratchedʼs fatal authority.

We hadnʼt had an evening at home since early August, with play practice for One Flew over the Cuckooʼs Nest every weeknight until now. And I spent just about all of September, once the EAB traps had been all taken down, working onstage for former Grand technical director (and general genius) Keith through most of the day.*** With about four or five brief but important exceptions, I was his only volunteer, unhelpfully unskilled as I am. Even with my fumblefingered carpentry, Keith put up an amazing set for opening night last Friday.**** He also crafted outstanding sound effects that really fulfill the wonderful performances of the hugely talented (and hardworking) cast — not to mention Melissaʼs delicate lighting and Dougʼs startlingly perfect special effect.

The wonderfulness of this production is almost enough to keep me thinking about future theatrical endeavors.

My sister Margaret came for the opening weekend, and I hope she enjoyed the show, even with her inefficient hosts being utterly preoccupied and too busy for a proper visit (our conversations mostly stranded during the hours around midnight). We all really should just get together to visit without special events, glad or sad.

However, as the dire gales of autumn wail grayly around the house, thrashing treetops and bushes into barely constrained gyrations and scattering batches of freshly torn-away leaves everywhere, summer things are definitely drawing toward an end…

(Maybe Iʼll find/take the time to write something, finally, now.)

* We both had to go, of course, so that I had a way home once the vehicle I had driven out there was no longer mine to drive. Also, the office staff likes to meet the spouses of the seasonal workers.

** (I-80 really should be three to five lanes each direction all across the county, I sometimes, even often, think)

*** (with rehearsals continuing until sometimes nearly the next day, thus suggesting a reason for the lack of posts to the blog lately)

**** The performances continue and then conclude this coming weekend — Thursday through Sunday.

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Corporate Con Games

As our play, One Flew over the Cuckooʼs Nest* at The Grand Opera House in Dubuque, draws very close indeed — opening night is this coming Friday —, my life headed in a very distracting direction, for no good reason except corporate greed and intentional defrauding of customers (like me).

First about ten days back, FedEx delivered an empty box. Really, a box containing nothing but air, two shock-absorbent layers and a sheet of paper (oh, yes, and a strip of packing tape that could not be separated from the backing paper). The sheet of paper instructed us on how to package our DVR receiver(s) to return them to DirecTV.

What?!! No explanations, no cover letter, no nothing but the formulaic instruction sheet (which also mentioned how to include the remote controls in the separate plastic bag — we had no plastic bag enclosed).

Besides being typical of DirecTV (I would call them by the name by which I have come to address these sordid corporate evildoers, but it isnʼt sufficiently sanitary for these confines), this latest affront only caps a miserable summer of incorrect and devious misbilling, followed by lengthy and angry phone calls to DirecTV customer service centers (an ultimate misnomer) around the globe — all precipitated by a mandatory “upgrade” of our receivers in order to maintain reception of our local channels. Each and every month since June, I have been forced to find (not an easy task on the DirecTV website) and call the customer service number to complain, forcibly and sometimes very angrily, about what they have done to our bill following the receiver-replacement incident.

Among the bookkeeping wrongs inflicted upon us (all of which I am sure some elevated corporate coward believed we would, accidentally in our busy lives, ignore and thereby considerably overpay), was a third receiver we did not have, request nor use. Month after month.

And now an empty box to return one or more receivers. Unexplained in any way whatsoever — no cover letter, no other communication by mail, no phone call. Utterly mysterious…

Until Janet, cleaning thoroughly around the house, discovered an otherwise equally mysterious object secreted away behind our basement TV stand — a DirecTV receiver, probably the old one from down there that the installer replaced with the required new device and then forgot to take away with him.

And one little mystery was clarified (maybe, two). I concluded that… we were to return the old receiver that the negligent (but very nice and otherwise capable) installer had accidentally left behind, unbeknownst to us.

So I am doing. The receiver is boxed up according to instructions and ready to go into the mail. However, unlike the wickedly lazy and self-indulgent corporate doo-dahs who sent the box out to us, I am enclosing a cover letter. It appears below.

Dear DirecTV,

When this mystery package arrived, without benefit of explanation of anything, I was bemused, to say the very least. However, I figured out over the period of a week, that what your corporation must have in mind was sending back one of our receivers (for some unknown reason). Just about the time I was preparing to make yet another annoyed, angry phone call to your poor customer-support personnel (couldnʼt the rampant and criminal greed of the company just be reduced enough to bill accurately and honestly? Please), to demand (with difficulty, as always) some kind of coherent explanation about this terrible injustice, my wife, cleaning thoroughly by moving our television cabinet out of its accustomed place for the first time since June, discovered that your technician, when installing the company-required “upgrade,” that has caused so much grief for us and so many irate calls to your customer service centers around the globe, had left the original receiver sitting behind the cabinet, unknown to us.

In an instant of realization, I figured out the mystery of the incorrect “third receiver” charges we may still be owed money for, as well as the conundrum of this unexplained package to return a receiver (which a letter of explanation on your part, not done, could have clarified easily — how typical of DirecTV not to do the necessary and obvious step to attempt to keep customers marginally satisfied).

Next time, try explaining whatʼs going on. And I continue to figure that our records with your scheming corporation reflect our belief that DirecTV operates illegitimately and in violation of state and federal laws regulating commercial deception, dissimulation and corporate swindles of all kinds.

Enclosed is the receiver your technician unaccountably (and obviously, incorrectly) left without notification to us in our home. Thank you, DirecTV, for pretty much nothing.

Sincerely and with immense, continuing dissatisfaction,

John Randolph Burrow 

Although I am positive that I will be on the phone yet again in October, attempting yet again to correct the companyʼs deliberate mismanagement of our bill, perhaps the letter might do some good. Unless the flunky at the receiver storage facility who opens our package merely pitches my missive in the nearest garbage can, which is quite likely, I guess.**

…Now on to CenturyLink, the new antagonist on phone service and internet nonprovision. Having bought out Qwest a while back, they have deliberately used the opportunity of this corporate shuffling to pretend a “mistake” as they shucked us twice for the past monthʼs bill, once as CenturyLink and once as Qwest, even though we only recived a single bill from CenturyLink.

Furthermore, the connection failures of that worthless ISP (whether you call it Qwest or CenturyLink) remain unchanged since whenever I last complained on that issue. (I have been keeping a daily record of the repeated and dire interruptions of service, too.)

And some daft fools (and corporate shills in Congress) wonder if corporations in America need regulation. Absolutely and thoroughly! These companies are proving with every swindling, fraudulent move they make the truth of my thesis that capitalism is merely organized crime writ large…

* You have to wonder why the only link about the show is still under “Auditions” and nowhere else…

** Thus my “publication” of the letter here. (And I finally take the time to present a post again.)

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Strange Mix

Little quiches — packaged for freezing and more cooling to be packed

I’m cooking today. Yes, itʼs another mini-breakfast-quiche-making marathon. I actually started on Tuesday, but thawing and wringing dry and separating the chopped (formerly frozen, eight boxes of) spinach, cutting up the veggies (peppers, carrot shreds, mushrooms and onions), and then mixing all that with eggoid (“egg substitute” for all of you not part of this household) and cheese (two parts shredded fat-free to one part simply shredded cheddar) took me just about all morning, once I got myself disconnected* from the computer, so that I only baked four or five batches (twenty-four quiches to a batch, six daysʼ of breakfast eating in a container). The process continues today, starting even before The Lovely One left for work.

This morning, I am four batches in, with most of a huge bowl of mixture to go, each baking (at 375°, or as I am doing today, 380°) requiring my attention twice, once at the twenty-minute mark to remove the two muffin pans from the oven and tenderly extract the metal muffin tins of little quiches onto cooling pads before inserting new cups to fill with more mixture and place back in the oven for the next twenty minutes. And once mid-baking-cycle to remove the twenty-four cooled quiches from their tins and place that batch in a plastic container for freezing.**

So why not finish yesterday/Wednesday, as I had the whole humongous four-mixing-bowls of (I am not sure… what would you call it?) batter prepared and partially cooked already on Tuesday? Why not? Because yesterday was my first full day at the Grand Opera House in Dubuque, working on the set, props, special effects, lights and whatever-else our scene and lights designer/technical director Keith could use me for. I left here at 8:00, arriving in Dubuque not much more than a half-hour later, around a massively piled-up detour to avoid five ethanol-filled, overturned, derailed train cars right off downtown.

Muh-muh-muh — my Makita (three jokes — okay, perhaps not funny, so: three “allusions” — in one package there)

I brought along my big red notebook, but there was enough to keep me busy, even on my own at first — devising a special prop/set piece, the electroshock machine, and switching out some furniture. I roamed freely through the basement bowels of the building discovering usable stuff and even almost wrestling a large electronics housing module (destined to become the electroshock machine) out of its storage spot and upstairs (it was the upstairs part that made my efforts there “almost”) until Keith arrived with a load of lumber and we set to work — him cutting boards and me utilizing both the Grandʼs and my own (nearly identical) Makita powerdrivers*** to assemble some Hollywood-style flats to then attach those into a unit for the Up Center wall, a section between two yet-to-be-finished windows. Keith also had me help create an oddly shaped platform to finish off the front end of the nursesʼ station Up Left. In the pre-Keith hours, I also developed the list of sound-effect cues and a list of those sounds for Keith (a sage and crafty sound designer/technician as well). He also used the midstage lift to elevate my potential electroshock machine and a big, heavy dentistʼs chair from the basement to stage level — pretty cool.

It didnʼt feel like much when we were done for the day, but my body knew how many hours and how much effort I had exerted crawling about on the stage drilling holes and driving screws. Today my hams are feeling the effects.

I also handled rehearsal on my own later on, last night. The Lovely One, having injured her back over the past weekend, finally took off a bit early from work to head for home and seek medical attention. Even though we took the two acts in reverse order (Two, then One), the cast sparkled brilliantly. We had felt awed by the outpouring of excellent talent at auditions weeks ago, and the cast Janet and I selected has amazed us ever since with their astonishing prowess, flair and panache.**** I left for home last night excited and delighted, optimistic that the group had some special insights and new performance twists to exhibit to Janet tonight.

And now I am nearly finished with the quiche-baking procedure. The composition of this post has been a four-batch process, and I hope to have this online before the last batch is done.

Then maybe I can get myself back to Dubuque to spend more time in an ill-lit auditorium preparing for our show.

One Flew over the Cuckooʼs NestSeptember 23 through October 2 (with the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday in between off, Sundays at 2:00 PM) at the Grand Opera House in Dubuque, tickets available at the Grand ticket office and online, www.thegrandoperahouse.com/tickets.cfm).

* Rather than the wrongly regular disconnection from the internet that bad old CenturyLink¹ provides on such an irregular but frequent basis — roughly eight to more times a day nowadays.

¹ For those like me, not quite in the know, CenturyLink bought up rotten, lousy Qwest Communications some months back, so now itʼs the miserly, scrounging, despicable CenturyLink CEOs and out-of-touch Upper Management dweezils that I curse so often every day.

** And I just took off to do exactly that in reverse — pack up the cooled ones and then immediately pull the hot ones from the oven to to cool and then refill the muffin pans to cook again.

*** (Are they just power screwdrivers now or still considered a cordless power drill, too?)

**** Yeah, I know: all three of those nouns that conclude that sentence are mere synonyms. But synonyms donʼt have to slave identically in meaning, “synonym” just indicates similarity, and those three words each suggest quite different possibilities. The wonderfulness of the English tongue isnʼt that we have twentyteen ways to say the same thing, but that each synonym has shades of meaning missed by any other. Usually, not invariably.

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Past Blast

As the dextremist Enemies of Americans at Fox News attempt (tiresomely, repetitively, again) to distort real news/events for Their own smarmy purposes (abetted by that shady and seditious shark, Andy Breitburp), I, who have mowed the lawn today (such a major accomplishment, we must say), feel the best post I can make for this Labor Day is the one I published one year ago. You may read it here.

Our Iowan 2011 Labor Day brings/continues the midwestern coolth we first experienced yesterday, and, even as I type with sweatshirt and long pants upon my body, the temperatures are a pleasure. The Lovely One and I traveled on Saturday to Mt. Pleasant to visit Dawn and Kevin (she has been suffering from chicken pox, a truly unpleasant experience as an adult), returning yesterday. Dawn was pretty completely recovered (even being permitted back into her elementary art classroom this past week), and (I think) all four of us enjoyed a good time together.

I came home a bit lighter in the head (very marginally) when my just-more-than-a-week-old crown fell off the stump of my tooth about 11:00 AM Sunday! Fortunately, I wasnʼt chewing anything, and the $1000 misinserted (or failed) part is nestled in my vest to be restored for free (or so I presume) early tomorrow (or so I have requested). Happy holiday to me. And I certainly hope you, gentle readers, have enjoyed more fully your three-day weekend (which corporate powers and the dim Dextreme, along with their utterly mindless Teabots, would like to render more meaningless than the day has become).

By the way, the birthday bash for my mother-in-law at Timmermanʼs Friday evening was very fun. Janet brought home a full meal of leftovers from her order (Chicken Chardonnay with added artichokes), while I consumed both of my Greek-style pork chops. My Beloved is right now on the phone with her sister, but that call is probably drawing toward an end, so I should cease saying somewhat less than nothing here and be ready to actually speak with my spouse.

So thatʼs the news for now. Power to the People, and welcome back to work tomorrow.

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Retrotemporal Celebration

Happy Birthday, Betty!

I drove Janet to work this morning, an unusual event (I think in the eleven years sheʼs worked out of town I have driven her to her job only a handful of times,  by which watery metaphor I mean:  “probably a half a dozen or less”). Once or twice my up-and-back auroral trip was caused by vehicle malfunctions, but usually we plan for me to chauffeur so that only one car is there when I drive up at the end of her work day — sometimes so we can head out on a little trip, other times, like today, so we can go together to dinner somewhere.

The supper club atop the bluff in East Dubuque

Today weʼre crossing over into Illinois in order to celebrate Janetʼs momʼs birthday at Timmermanʼs, the kitschiest eatery we have encountered near us. A visit to the supper club is a temporal backstep directly into, say, 1962. Especially their cocktail lounge,* which is where weʼll meet the parents(-in-law) at the big almost circular bar. I used to experience the same bygone-looking, epoch-evoking sensations about the Iris in Mt. Pleasant (sadly defunct nowadays), but in the days I was thinking that, the time dislocation was only a decade or less.** With Timmermanʼs weʼre at the half-century-back mark!

Thereʼs a contemporary term for such an experience as we are anticipating for this evening, but as I have already used/alluded to it in the title of todayʼs post, iʼll pass on the opportunity to take the lazy route toward expressing the Timmermanish ambiance.

Their food is good (not our personal favorite styles, but Bing and Betty like it a lot) if very filling and hugely caloric. And the views from the big windows out over Highway 20 at the watery lagoon off the Mississippi are spectacular, particularly at sunset, the most desirable time for a windowside dinner, even if you get the seat with the sun right in your face.

Getting together with the Nortons for a festive occasion (holiday, birthday, anniversary) has become a minor tradition among that family (well, Janet — and therefore me — and her folks, although sister Diane and Steve were there to complete most of the family right after The Lovely One had her emergency retinal surgery a few years ago). The ʼrents often bring along their closest pals, who are good fun, and the waitresses probably grin behind their hands at the flirtatious old guys (who after much self-amusing banter will be leaving old-fashioned — and to some of us, embarrassing — minuscule tips) having a grand time.

Now if we all were dressed in sharkskin gray suits and flouncy or Jackie Kennedy-slim evening dresses… (In this heat, I intend to go in jeans shorts but with a short-sleeved and collared shirt.)

* A time-trippy term in and of itself!

** However, at the age I was in the earliest Seventies, the dislocation in time was subjectively as large in portion of lifespan.

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.