Race Car Ricky

Naomi would practically bite her nails down to the quick when each Saturday presented itself. Saturdays were the days Ricky went off to the tracks. Not the Aqueduct, Ricky didn't know nothing about the ponies. Ingrained in his memory was that incident Ricky chooses to forget that occurred at the Happy Mornings Dude Ranch when an angry palomino that didn't get his breakfast oats took out his low-blood sugar issues on little Ricky, no one ever asked him about the blatant scar above his left eyebrow and Ricky never divulged to anyone just how said scar scarred him. No, Ricky raced cars.  He was what one might consider a race car driver, of sorts, if they were to consider him anything at all.  Ricky wasn't the zippiest or the fastest or the savviest little driver on the tracks, he liked to savor these Saturday moments behind the wheel on those precarious asphalts.And if savoring meant ten MPH maximum driven, then so have been that. Albeit, it was the fates looking after Ricky that these quicker cars at the track didn't overtake him. To the gratefulness of Naomi, Ricky came home Saturday evenings in the same condition, sometimes even cleverer than the states he left in those Saturday Mornings for his Saturdays at the Races. No,  it was good enough for Ricky that he was  doing what he loved most. Racing Cars. Racing cars and coming in last. Winning was not everything to him. Except that one time, Bobby Mack suddenly came down with the worst summer cold, Race Car Ricky finished five seconds before Bobby Mack. He treasured his triumph. Ricky studied the sport for a good while before partaking in it,  a few years before he got behind the wheel himself, Ricky spent a king's ransom to be able to attend the 1929 Monte Carlo Rally.

And though Race Car Ricky was hardly the hare , there or everywhere - who vied with the tortoise, Naomi was ever a bundle of nerves, she was kept apprised of the dangers of automobiles and she was certainly no stranger to the weekly accident blotter section in The Halatoochie Crier.

Of the incidents she perused :

INJURED CRANKING AUTO

Cranking his automobile at Hudson ave. and York st., Abraham 

WEINSTEIN, 40, of 71 Spricket Street, sustained a fracture of the right wrist 

when the engine backfired. WEINSTEIN was treated at Cumberland Hospital. 

AUTOS COLLIDE, MAN HURT

Lacerations were suffered by Benjamin KRAUS,21, of 12 Hubbard st., 

when he was riding in an automobile which was in a collision with a taxicab 

at King Avenue and North 10th. st The youth had his injuries dressed and 

left for home. The taxicab was driven by Patrick COSGROVE, of `876 Grove Street. Connecticut.

and

HAS SKULL INJURED

Jacob COHEN, 52, of 19 Baker St., was taken to St. Bernadette's 

Hospital suffering from a possible fracture of the skull. He was crossing 

Blake Road near Jack Street., when he was struck by an automobile driven by 

Samuel GOLDENBURG, of 320 Wyoming St.

And knowing of those that were maimed and harmed as the result of automobile accidents she shuddered at the very thought of Ricky being yet another of these statistics. Naomi paced every inch of their three-thousand and five hundred square-foot Craftsman style home waiting to at last hear the squeaking of the front porch door that was direly in need of attention from a can of  3-In-One oil. On this one particularly inclement Saturday evening, the clock had gone 10:30 PM which was a good hour later than the time that Ricky usually walked through that door (and later than he ever came home to his girl) where he would find his relieved sweetheart after his long hard day at the races. 

Where. oh where was Ricky? Minutes bleeding into hours, time was passing so that Naomi grew more frantic. She phoned each and every area hospital before dialing up the police who informed her that Ricky needed to be missing a minimum of forty-eight hours before they would commence any such investigation. Saturday beget Sunday and Sunday beget Monday. The newspaper arrived on Naomi's doorstep at 8 oclock in the morning. And there it was in black-and-white in Monday's accident section :

SUSTAINS BRUISES. MIRACULOUSLY SURVIVES
Richard STEWARD, known to friends and loved ones as 'Racecar Ricky' 29, of 300 Deacon st., sustained bruises of the head 
when struck by an automobile driven by fellow racing car enthusiast Martin LIEFE of 770 North 3rd. ave who accelerated his vehicle to 110 MPH. The 
accident occurred on Saturday at the Speed Devil Park in downtown Halatoochie.

Thank goodness tomorrow was only Tuesday.

The Boiled Egg Factory

 

It all started with a story about a Scottish guy sort of telling an English guy off, for not putting the egg timer on, after they had put a couple of eggs on the boil, in a small milk pan, disregarding the misnomer. Since that was actually the egg timer's most specific function, it seemed absurd and irritating to the Scot that an item that lay idle during all the times when an egg wasn't being boiled, should remain so during the very process it was designed for.

Late into the dialogue they realized they would cease to exist if they didn't give themselves names. They realized that without names, the author would not remember them  - like those stories where the characters in the story are aware that they are characters in a story. So they settled on Hamish, though due to time being limited, a surname was never established for him, and Rodney. Rodney Bacon. Rodney didn't want to be called Rodney, but he was okay about Bacon. The English guy said that just because he was Scottish sounding, Hamish didn't necessarily have to have a stereotypical Scottish name, but in fact, Hamish was happy with Hamish. Time was running out at that point, so Rodney had to accept Rodney, and besides,  he was banking on being referred to by his surname mostly anyway.

Of course during most of the original conversation, names weren't mentioned up until toward the end. However in the retelling, names were employed pretty much from the get-go. Eggs were a big factor throughout though.

The whole dialogue from the point where Hamish had reprimanded Bacon for not setting the egg timer led up to them realizing they were characters, because it became apparent that something didn't makes sense. Because  at first it subliminally seemed to be that they were two guys living together, that was, until Hamish had pointed out that in fact this was a boiled egg factory, and if Bacon went through that door, he would see the conveyor belts, with all the guys packing boiled eggs into boxes. And he'd see all the other 'kitchens', the doors to them, lining the long wall on the same side of the factory floor as their door, each with another pair of guys also boiling two eggs in a pan just like he and Hamish were. And he'd see the faded red painted steel shutters over on the far right, with the loading bay where the eggs were packed into the vans for transporting far and wide.

Subliminally, the implication prior to the idea that it was a boiled egg factory, was that Bacon had always assumed that the door Hamish was referring to, was just a normal door to some ordinary room. In fact Bacon was scared to open it and see the white-hatted, white-coated egg packers, as if it would drive him mad. As if he had been very secure in thinking that they simply shared this apartment they were in. He thought he and Hamish had just been two regular guys who shared living quarters. 

Meanwhile, Hamish is talking like he can't believe Bacon wasn't aware they lived in a boiled egg factory and 'even if he hadnae seen the other employees packing the boiled eggs into boxes, surely he mustae seen the red and yellow vans with the 'McTavish's Eggs' signs around the town at least?' though that was not really how he spoke at all. It was a much more naturalistic accent than the author was able to relay.

There were discussions about what businesses the eggs would be supplying, and that turned out to be such concerns as pickled eggs in jars makers and Scotch egg makers and mayonnaise makers - and there was a debate about the way mayonnaise was made. 

Hamish insisted that some mayonnaise makers preferred to crush boiled eggs rather than the usual technique Bacon believed was likely to be the case, that uncooked eggs were used, probably just the whites. The transparents.

'And why only boil two eggs at a time?' Bacon wondered. Hamish said that any more in the pan and the eggs just start smashing into each other, whereas only two tend to just dance around each other. And their customers preferred unbroken boiled eggs. 

And don't bother pursuing the line of inquiry about huge pans, or vats of eggs, hundreds, all boiling together tightly packed.

Bacon was skeptical about the whole thing. Surely pickled eggs in jars makers would simply boil their own eggs? And why hadn't this come up before? It all seemed rather haphazard this apartment they lived in actually really being part of a boiled egg factory.

And the raison d'etre behind the Scot's irritation that something rarely used was lying fallow during a process it was made for, had now been undermined by this boiled egg factory development, since no doubt, eggs were on the go constantly, and egg timers were routinely activated now this wasn't simply an apartment. Now, the Scot's irritation had to be rationalized as being over a co-worker's neglect of a repeated part of the factory process.

So it was around this time that it started to dawn on them that it seemed Hamish knew a lot more about what their existence was about, and Bacon seemed almost like an amnesic,  which was when they'd begun to realize they were simply ciphers for a weird script about boiled eggs. All underscored by the egg timer ticking ticking ticking.

Bacon asked if they were in fact a couple, and Hamish said that they weren't, and as this was going on they realized that even though Hamish seemed to know more, in fact neither of them knew very much about themselves or their lives at all. It was questioning that,  that led them to realize that they barely existed at all, and were in fact in danger of ceasing to exist completely very promptly. 

There was a brief discussion concerning some attempt at blackmail, but that turned out to be a dead end. Other possible ways to finagle the author into giving them an existence beyond the egg timer's bell were all proposals that were easily quashed with simple logic. Pay him off? Threaten him? Appeal to his mercy and compassion? That was, until they hit upon the name idea.

By inventing names for themselves they would stand a better chance of ensuring that the author would remember them and they would therefore continue to exist. There wasn't much time however. They could see how close the ticker was to zero.  So they set about making names for themselves. Well in fact it was more Hamish that did the making there. Bacon did more of the complaining. He didn't think 'Hamish' worked because of the pronunciation, but Hamish insisted people would 'get it, nae worry,' though he didn't quite put it like that. The ticking somehow seemed louder. Bacon was satisfied with Bacon in good time. Well he had no choice really.

So the egg timer's alarm? It finally rang. And by the time those eggs had boiled, and the author had eaten one of them with some soldiers, saving the other egg for later,  Hamish and Bacon had firmly established themselves as fictional characters.

Marina And Bradley

Marina never danced with anyone if she wasn't dancing with Bradley. There was a certain contract that the pair, though they never signed any official papers, were to be honor bound together. Marina and Bradley always partnered together. It was gospel. It was the way it was and never wasn't. At the Night Star Ballroom. All the couples that came to wiggle their pins to such routines as the Lindy Hop, The Balboa and The Carolina Shag would come over envious green as they watched this inimitable pair. Marina and Bradley, oh they were fashionable, with the times and the nines were the only way they would come clad but what made them stand apart from the other hoofers was that they devised their own dance steps. And these steps were nothing if they were not elaborate. Eyes would always widen and just about everyone stopped to marvel at such a display as this. 

Someday In The Future....

The Coffee Clutch Conundrum

Richard Ferrum had everything you could ask for, by the time he was the tender age of sixteen, at the same time his school chums were fretting over which gal they were going to take to the Martinwood High School formal, or how they will explain all those C's in Geometry and Earth Science, young Richard was by now acquiring major shares of his family's nationwide Iron Works business. Richard would not have to don any such cap or gown to be in like Flynn and to sit pretty on luxury's lap;  one of the plethora of perks of being born into money, old money, blue-collar money but it was $$ alright. At the time of his seventeenth birthday, Richard was about to inherit this veritable family empire. And although Richard would never have to get his hands or any part of his person dirty and the fact that you would never find a solitary bead of perspiration atop his brow, he did have the arduous responsibility of dropping off his company's takings at the local bank. The parking was just terrible. How much can a mere mortal endure? Richard owned both underpants and  cars that represented each day of the week - Tuesdays were  faithfully assigned to taupe colored y-fronts and a 1934 Ford Window 3 Coupe. How he just j'adored that Ford - which was practically a jalopy in comparison to his other more extravagant vehicles that he would sport Mondays. Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.

In the autumn of 1940, a great influenza epidemic was spreading furious and fast, a local plague infecting all of the employees at the local Ferrum and Sons branch who in turn would take sick leave en masse and now young Richard who was in his latter Twenties now, unmarried but in contention with a couple of gals he had on the go. A murder investigation commenced the summer before when Richard's father Alfredo was found dead of a questionable overdose. Alfredo was discovered by his faithful maid of thirty years, Beatrice Johnson, slumped over his morning coffee on June 3, 1939. There was nobody at the office to brew a pot at the time of the great flu epidemic. Richard at last realized the value of a good cup of coffee. 

In Theatres Now...

Soap Oppers

Always Keep A Song In Your Heart

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Benjamin Bogeys

Poor Benjamin. Benjamin was the most revered caddy at Quickwind Harbor Golf Course, he knew every square inch, every bird and every insect that landed on the greens at the 18-hole beaut that was situated at the outskirts of Tallahassee. Benny set his alarm for 4:15 in the A.M every morning ever since he could remember, in weather inclement or suns that shone, Benny would always be the first to arrive at the  grounds. He was by far the most sought after caddy at the club. Benjamin had an uncanny knack for predicting the wind days before the radio forecasters gave their weather itineraries, he knew just when you needed a 7 iron or a 6 and Benjamin was the eyes and ears of all the members. He had to be. Only the deaf and blind were what you'd call card-carrying members at the Quickwind Harbor Golf Course and thanks to caddies like Benjamin, who was sighted and certainly had no problems with the 'ol lugholes, could be relied upon for helping anyone achieve their finest rounds, and there was never anyone at the Quickwind that carded anything under 130.

On Monday mornings it was normally downtime at Quickwind, Benjamin would bring out his cleeks. mid-mashies, mashie-irons and pitching niblicks and try his hand at the course that was more familiar to him than his one room apartment. But fate's finger could certainly not be any more fickler than it was when it came to Benjamin and his game. He exhausted the whole kit and kaboodle lexicon of golf techniques, followed the footsteps of all the contemporaneous greats and knew every move outside and in, alas  Benjamin was always short on his long game and long on his short game. No one could have given more college tries than Benjamin. Consequently, the only birdies he would come to know were the rambunctious little fellows in the two-grandfather clocks he had in his one room bedsit. Benjamin loved clocks.

Benjamin still attempted to each  Monday  better his golf game to no avail.

Then one Monday an extraordinary event took place.

36-22-34, no those weren't her statistics posted on the front nine, but they were damned well near, for this dame was a dynamo, and no one on the course had the slightest inkling as to how this formidable creature actually did end up at Quickwind, the elusive blonde bore a striking resemblance to Jean Harlow in Dinner at Eight  and she had the kind of swing, Bobby Jones wouldn't have minded borrowing. Benjamin and the groundskeepers were the only ones at Quickwind Harbor that could physically see her. By hook, or by crook Benjamin was going to impress her , maybe she would also take a shine and he could take her out on the town, ( hot dawg)! - what he wouldn't have given to have sported this lovely on his arm.

A cadre of caddies that were never seen before stationed themselves like a taxi line awaiting the next fare - they all disbursed the field and made their way to the Quickwind clubhouse, strategically timed after the bombshell finished her round that came replete with an albatross, and a two-hundred hand clap salute. She posted her score. In the book it went. Officially official now.  The name she signed was Millie Taylor, Benjamin thought it but didn't exclaim it, that the name Millie just wasn't a right fit for such a va-va-voom vixen like her. 

And all it took was one coquettish smile from Millie who was too vivacious a dame for that name  and to that one wee wink and back to the ol' driving board went Benjamin, his first tee-off was an 180 foot power shot, he would make one most colorful eagle followed by a series of pars and a hole in one on 17 and so Benjamin Bogeys bogeyed no more.

Steve The Horse

Ounces of Prevention...

Ladies,Beware!

The Tuesday Afternoon Story

Today's story is brought to you by our sponsors  - Lucky Brown Products, makers of the fine formula Madam Jones HAIR GLORY, bringing sheen and superior shine to tresses of all textures and complexities since 1891.

Marjorie Sue was married to Jackson Clemens, they had two sons; Darren and Charlie ages 5 and 8 and they all happy familied at 1406 Horseshoe Drive in the city of Arrowsic, Maine; once home to the French and Indian War  a mid eighteenth century civil battle that was one might say  the American rendition of Europe's Seven Year War. Arrowsic would one day be hallowed ground for artists and birding enthusiasts. Arrowsic was a seemingly unremembered place at the time the Clemens family decamped in their symmetrically square Colonial house that was purchased in cold cash during the Prohibition era's last hurrah.  The Clemens liked to keep it under their hats as to not let their less than privileged neighbors feel inferior - but it was true - the Clemens family was doing just dandy in their pockets and mercifully would not suffer the bellied-up stock during the grayest days of the Great D. And how was it so?  Much of contemporaneous America from sea to shining sea barely managed to keep afloat. In the cities those erstwhile shakers and movers, once shining now shopworn - pavement pounders plodding along - cardboard insoles at a threadbare time. But the Clemens, they had new shoes.

It was not from old money, the origin of their riches and it may have been accumulated in a most unconventional manner though not dissimilar to  the more important Rockefeller - the family's main moneymaker,  who confessed years after securing a fortune himself - that it was  simply the retention of nickels and dimes, coins gathered as a child that led to his wealth . And  what  once  began  as a makeshift savings bank conveniently located under a mattress soon was transferred into some very strategic escrow accounts and it was near voila time, ching,ching. Now the Clemens couple, Marjorie Sue and Jackson since the time they were but knee-high on the measuring stick - cosmically shared the same pastime  - furniture foraging. Foraging for any small fortune, to a child a stone nickel may have well been a million bucks after all.  Marjorie Sue and Jackson both precociously aware that when grandma Millie and Uncle Victor came over for their Wednesday night suppers, their pockets would be all but lined with coin. Neither Marjorie Sue nor Jackson would have realized the value of the monies found in the settees and chairs but as soon as their respective beloved family members were kissing goodnight cheeks, escapees of earshot and clear were the coasts, into the cushions they would go.

Sometimes it wasn't domestic pennies that they would find or  nickels and dimes- at times what they excavated was the currency of exotic lands. Both of their families were fond of crossing the sea and keeping remnants.  But that wouldn't ever deter ambitious little Marjorie Sue and Jackson. and into the secret jars that Marjorie Sue and Jackson both coincidentally kept under wraps - under the floorboards of their respective garden shacks they would go - ching ching. Marjorie Sue and Jackson would keep their sequestered stashes secret until the day they turned eighteen - everyone knew eighteen was the age you couldn't get a spanking anymore. And independent of one another because you see - Marjorie Sue and Jackson were not aware of each other's existences until this point - but kismet was just around the corner, in fact it was four calendar months from the day which happened to be the same day  they took their jars to deposit in the Second National Savings Bank on Springsummer Road, when Marjorie Sue and Jackson would meet and sweep each other straight off their feet. And the day Marjorie Sue showed Jackson she had Ten Thousand, four hundred sixty two dollars and twelve cents. in her passbook Jackson showed Marjorie Sue his and the amounts were magically the same.

When Marjorie Sue finally mustered up the courage to confess to her father Murray and her mother Harriet that while it may have been a most naughty thing to do, that she was collecting the dropped pocket change of every family guest that came to visit the Baxters since the year 1919. Surprisingly mother Harriet was not surprised, for Mama H had been cleaning out Daddy Murray's pockets for years, and wasn't she a little entitled too?  After that red lipstick mark she could never completely remove from Murray's best business shirt, where did this stain come from - Harriet's lipsticks were always coral. Only a heathen hussy would sport crimson lips. No one ever mentioned the lipstick mark again - but it was now that  Harriet earned however the hard way - every last crumb that was kept inside Murray's various coat pockets . And wasn't that a mere pittance for the damages the anomaly caused. Finally a rainy day arrived as she presented to her daughter these three saved special jars, the three special jars were decidedly heavier than Marjorie Sue's jars this would require a second trip with some help  to the Second National Savings Bank on Springsummer Road. 

Harriet had her own set of keys to Murray's 1932 Ford Highboy truck, the keys were in her apron pocket since the day of Harriet's other epiphany - Harriet never, not the once sported Caron Narcisse Noir toilet water, for Harriet was more you could say the Giuerlin fragrance type of gal- and besides orange blossom was overbearing. And everyone knew only a whore would festoon Caron Narcisse Noir all over her person. It took a year and a day before the scent of the perfume would dissipate in Murray's truck. This was no hostile takeover and though Harriet would not hold the deed - the truck appeared to be always available for Harriet to use any time she wanted. Any time.

Harriet and Marjorie Sue presented the pleasant-faced teller at open window three at the Second National Savings Bank with the now three overflowing coin jars and after fifty-minutes of tallying its contents -  all was accrued - the amount inside the jars was twenty-nine thousand, four hundred and thirty-three dollars and two cents. Marjorie Sue asked her mother if she was certain she was doing the right thing, handing over all of the savings from the three special jars and Harriet insisted Marjorie Sue keep the cash. Marjorie Sue was the prettiest daughter. Lorraine, though lovely was not the loveliest of the three and Penelope was plain. Poor plain Penelope. Penelope was the spit of Lillian Gish.

And so you see, that is how the Clemens reaped their riches and never had to fret during the time of the Great Depression - and as for Jackson Clemens, well... his earnings once thought in earnest for his years dedicated to rummaging the underneath of rugs and swan-diving into sofas, it would be no serendipity as once believed - as the money was purposely placed there beginning in 1916 by Daddy William Clemens, ten cents left for the taking each day after Daddy Clemens and Marjorie Sue's mama ,who Daddy Clemens knew as Mrs. Baxter, the flame-haired woman who worked as a maid for the Clemens family but it was only a temporary job Mrs Baxter held secretly when she resigned  herself to taking such a menial position with the remit of earning a few extra Christmas dollars. Mrs. Baxter and Mr. Clemens were overheard one night in November by Mrs Clemens, during a Clemens family dinner party making the kitchen table move and shake in a most peculiar manner an act that was followed by a few most peculiar yelps. No, it would never be mentioned again.



                            THE END

Literal Lenny, Literally

Literal Lenny took everything by the value of its face, a face might have well have been an arithmetical equation as far as Literal Lenny was concerned. He saw everything as being the sum of all its parts and everything just added up to exactly what is was worth, no less, not more, no leftovers or leftunders. Consistent. To the penny. Literal Lenny said everything he meant and meant everything he said. When he was out painting the town the color red with a dame, he sported his 9 inch x 3/8 inch high density polyester roller with a certain pride - and like the gentleman Lenny absolutively was - walked his date  home, all the way to her door at eleven o'clock after a night of painting the town red, bowling, dinner and a movie, and the dame that he accompanied to this night of bowling, dinner and a movie - just as the other dames he shared such convivial moments with -  would more often than not  and with spectacular brio - invite Literal Lenny upstairs for that universal offering -  the night cap. Oh Lenny, ever the diplomat did accept these offers but was often left with one agape kisser, flummoxed and frantically scratching his head as he pondered why his current date as fetching as she may have been, would make the invite that more appealing but why oh why had she asked him to come up for a night cap when Lenny didn't notice the slightest lick of liquor anywhere in her joint. And there was often the other types of occasions after a night of dancing in endorphins-fueled abandon with his designated filly at the Moonlight Ballroom that Lenny was asked up for a steamin' cup of Joe and a slice of Entenmann's brand Cheese Crumb Babka  - but how convenient was it that nary a grind or a crumb of a store-bought cake was in the little lady's kitchen cupboard. Second Date ?- No . In Lenny's world people ought to say what they do and do what they say after all.

More than one way to skin a cat?

Literal Lenny, though he never saw anyone committing such a contemptible act as that - wondered how there could
 be so many imperviously cruel people, even though this was decades, some forty-five years before PETA came into the picture, people oughtta have known right from wrong and  how could select individuals have had such very little compunctions about skinning felines and in more than one manner at that. He knew to keep well away from that reference thankfully even with his lack of grey matter understanding because Literal Lenny so did have a big ol' soft spot in his heart for all four-legged beings, even if all the fellars Lenny was acquainted with at Fast Johnny's tavern thought it none too manly to take such shine to little foo-foo house-pets and Literal Lenny was negative on the fondness front for engaging in any such contretemps, an incident that may have well resulted in a broken beezer and kept his philanthropy for puddycats and poodles all to his lonesome.

Lenny knew that he should never watch his kettle, for pots don't really like having voyeurs do they ?And as a rightful reward for Lenny giving his kettle some much-needed space, tried and true - his cups arrived efficiently and at the appropriate heat setting thus never ever not even the once was Lenny tardy - he even made employee history - Literal Lenny was never, not the once absent or tardy, for  he showed up right on clock each and every day for his Eight O'clock in the morning shift at The Everlast Fabric Company, no Lenny would never mar his record on the account of being belabored by an unruly teapot.

In 1950, Literal Lenny retired from the Everlast Company, he was exactly sixty-five years old to the day and gee, that's the age you oughta be when you retire, not fifty-five or eighty-two; and Lenny decided he had more than enough of living in the township of Scranton, Pennsylvania and although the grass may have been greener it was only greener because Len had invented an early form of Astroturf , consequently as a result of Lenny never patenting his invention - would receive no credit for such but peculiarly or maybe not so peculiarly, Astroturf would surface one year after Literal Lenny's demise. 

And yes although Lenny believed his whole life in the credo that one can catch more flies with honey than vinegar and though he really didn't have much desire to preserve in his pantry these jars of honey once some mighty inclined flies took residence, he would keep hold of his vinegar, for it's perennial shelf life would accommodate Methuselah's tortoise and he was a Great Depression alma mater after all.  Lenny's life was not without its fair share of troubles and strifes but Lenny was as optimistic as he was verbatim about all things, held on for dear life with the  belief that it doesn't rain every day  and it was high time Lenny would require a change of pace, new scenery - did I mention Literal Lenny moved to Seattle - each year there are still seventy-one days out of  the three-hundred and sixty five of  pure unadulterated sunshine there. literally.

McCay's Marvels

Winsor McCay,1906

Clown: Don't you fool us! Bring Nemo to us, we will take him to Slumberland. Lion tamer: Yes, don't fool us by all means!!! It means a heap to us. Caption: Little Nemo could not sleep. A deep, rasping, noise made it Nemo: What is that awful, awful, noise? Caption: impossible to rest. A large lion had sneaked in, crept Nemo: Is that you snoring that way? Get out from under there! Caption: underneath Nemo's bed, gone to sleep and begun snoring Nemo: Gwan! Get out, I want to sleep. How did you get in here? Caption: fiercely. Whereupon Nemo promptly arose and ordered him Nemo: Well, ah, eh, come back here. Come back to me! Hey you! Caption: out, it surprised him, however, to find his commands Nemo: Come here! I want to get acquainted with you! Caption: so quickly obeyed by the king of beasts, so he called the Nemo: Lay down! Lay down, I say! Lay down! That's it! Down! Down! Caption: lion back. Such a magnificent creature might turn out to be Nemo: Now! I want to see if I can't make use of you. Be quiet, be still, and I'll put a bridle on you. Caption: a grand companion, thought Nemo, and soon after his mama Nemo's mother: Oh Nemo! Where are you going? Nemo: Just for a little ride. Isn't this fine mama? Eh! Caption: saw her son galloping away in high glee. Nemo found, presently, to his great Nemo: Whoa! Whoa! This is far enough! We'll go back now. Whoa! Whoa!! Caption: discomfort, that he could neither stop nor turn the brute. The lion galloped madly in one bee line, as it were. For his home in the desert. Nemo saw Nemo: Whoa, I say! Whoa! Oh! Whoa! Oh! Oh! Geedapp! Gwan! Geedapp! Go! Go! Caption: at a glance that unless he couldn't urge his steed on something disastrous would happen. But he couldn't urge "Leo", as he called him, one inch. The poor fellow was exhausted and laid down to rest. Nemo then, in desperation, began Nemo: Get up, Leo! Get up! Geedapp!!! Come on! Get up! Leo! Leo! Gwan! Getapp come let's go! Caption: to tell for help. Which came just in time, in the form of one of the bravest little men Nemo has ever seen. Lion tamer: Now, all of you brutes, scatter!!! Every one you! Skip! Gwan! I say! Get out, get away! Fly!! Caption: Safe again, Nemo would have surely reached Slumberland had not Lion tamer: Come on, we're off to Slumberland. Hurry! You coward! We are late. They're gone. Clown: Oh, I'm so frightened! Are they gone? Eh? Caption: little Leo meowed so, causing him to awake. Nemo: Hello, Leo! Is that you? Is that you Leo, eh?

May The Horse Be With You

What did the recently rejected horse say to the other horse ?



Foal, if you think it's over.

The Dinner Bell

Evelyn just always had a twinkle in her ocean-blue peepers and she had many other uncanny abilities, like the way she could smile with utilizing the least amount of muscles to achieve such, a gimmick she taught herself by practicing in the mirror night after night right before she would give her terrific tresses exactly two-hundred strokes with her gentle-bristled Victoria hairbrush, a loyal ritual that she was committed to six days a week, on Wednesdays it was time for curlers a discipline she never shirked upon.  Evelyn did so enjoy her ablutions while most people found personal maintenance an absolute bore and chore, Evelyn thought it was the highest point of her days; not that she minded making certain that lunches and dinners were on the table at noon and five-o-clocks, how could she argue this regiment - that was the time that made everybody happy after all, and making everybody happy was what Evelyn's mama and Evelyn's mama's mama prided themselves on doing. And Evelyn, she did feel honor-bound to keeping with this fine familial tradition.

But this Friday night something unexpected did indeed occur, it was 5:08 and dinner hadn't arrived on the table at the Wiedermacher's house. Hank and little Victor tried their best to be patient, but when the long-hand on the clock was now approaching the II , Hank knew it was his responsibility to inquire as to what was belaboring Mrs. Wiedermacher on this fine early-evening in the month of May. Hank tried to open the door but the kitchen was cordoned off for Evelyn propped two chairs from the bar against the door to deny entry to her scullery, it wasn't uncommon for her to forbid the family from peeking in her pots and pans either -  Hank exclaimed "what in good G-d is going on there honey?" Evelyn replied "Give me a moment dear, supper is on the way." And as promised in less than sixty seconds an all the trimmings turkey was proudly presented to Hank and little Victor. The question never would arise as to what the reason was why supper was on the table at 5:12 PM on May the 9th; the night Evelyn dropped the turkey, the first time she ever dropped the turkey and made the decision to quietly serve a meal that landed on her kitchen floor. She did use a little dish towel to reduce dust and debris from these fifteen pounds of poultry and she was really alright with that.  Maybe it would not be the last time the family would have a dinner fresh from the tiles. And so you have it -  Evelyn Wiedermacher, one of the earliest examples of food protocol - the 'five second rule.'

                               THE END