The Carrot Yumster Reads Again

No, I'm not dead yet. It's just that sometimes, weeks go by when absolutely nothing happens. In times like this, my Today Cafe life seems like an endless Ganges of lukewarm conversations and empty coffee cups. Or empty conversations and lukewarm coffee cups. Take your pick.

The Today Cafe's last noteworthy event was the Carrot Yumster reading incident, which I most definitely should have reported in this blog, but didn't. I'd like to be able to blame this bloglessness on The Singularity Is Near, but I didn't start reading that brain-buster until last week.

So I'm going to blame it instead on acute cognitive inflammation resulting from reading The Annotated Flatland, The Novel and My Life in Orange all at the same time. You try that and see what happens. For me, it's been waking up in a sweat after dreaming (not the same as a wet dream) about the best-selling Pennsylvania Dutch author of a novel in which a two-dimensional Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh is visited in a vision by a happily three-dimensional, happily orange, happily one-eyed breast. Same dream, three nights. A first.

So when the Carrot Yumster slinked into the near-empty Today Cafe just before closing last night, I had to wonder if there was some kind of Mystical Orange Thing going on.

"Why don't you just close up early and come see me?" When the Carrot talks, her lips move the way snake charmers would move if they were lips instead of snake charmers.

My thumper did one of those metaphorical backflips, but I just metaphorically buttoned it back in place and stayed calm. "See you? You mean see you someplace other than right here? Like where?"  I can hope, can't I?

"At the Tree, Mister Smartass Counter-Wiper. I'm on at eleven-thirty."

"I thought the Tree had given up on live entertainment, except for tea leaf and poetry readings…stuff like that."

"It has. I'm going to do a reading from my new memoir."

"Oh. You have a new one? What happened to the old one?"

"My agent didn't think she could sell that one. She said somebody already wrote 'The Happy Hooker'. Zav..."

I decided to demonstrate how savvy I am about historical fiction. "Xaviera Hollander. With an 'X', not a 'Z.' These days it would have to be called 'The Happy Sex Worker,' wouldn't it?" I could see somebody like James Woods delivering a line like that and making it work. Even Bill Maher. But not me.

"If you say so." The Carrot rolled her eyes.

"Oh-kay. Is the L4D going to picket this time?"

"You know, I don't think it's right for them to do that. They don't even live here. The last time they came up on a bus all the way from Las Vegas."

"But the Tree invited you back anyway?"

"Promotes constructive interchange with morally-stunted morons. That's just a rough translation, of course."

In other words, it's good for the Crystal Tree's business. Leave it to Solly. I changed the subject, sort of. "Is that what you're going to be doing the reading in? A fur coat? Aren't you afraid the Mother's Uhgainst Fatuous Furriers will protest?"

"No, silly. My Homies [Ed. Note: The Carrot refers to residents of the Licketyville Home for Retired Eroticians] did me up special, just for this reading."

The Carrot pulled open her moth-eaten mink. Under it was a happily orange spandex bodysuit. "Jesus, Lacie (the Carrot's real name is Lacie Campbell). You don't think a bodysuit is a little radical for a, uh, literary event? It looks like it's painted on." One can dream, can't one?

"It is painted on, silly. That's how we got it to match my hair so perfectly." Totally doesn't-everybody-do-it-like-this delivery.

"Oh. Well. I think I'd better pass, Lacie. I really can't just close up early. And I'm trying to get my novel finished, remember?" What I didn't say was, "And besides, I'm too much of a chicken-shit."

The mink coat swung shut and the Carrot cocked her head in that way she does when people do incomprehensibly stupid things in her presence. "Your loss, Mister Counter-Wiper."

Later, after taking psychic counsel from the spirit of Rajneesh, I decided the Carrot was probably right. No, definitely right.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: "My mother never breast fed me; she told me she only liked me as a friend."  -- Rodney Dangerfield

Go ahead, dream about oranges.

It's a Thong Way Home

It’s well know around Licketyville that Speechless Henry Cavett has always had a thing about puns, which Doug Larson calls “the lowest form of humor, unless you thought of it yourself.” With no larynx, delivering his puns has gotten tougher for Henry. But not impossible.

It’s less well known around Licketyville that Henry also has a thing about leather underwear. His thing is that he crafts it: all custom, one-off items. Sells them on the web, mostly.

Friday, he brought in his latest work in progress. Most of this particular item was a “V” of shiny red-orange leather with a curly letter “H” spelled out in rhinestones and silver studs. The rest of the item was two skimpy bands of same-colored leather attached to the “V” in the usual places.

“Very, uh…nice, Henry.” I had a hundred questions, but didn’t ask any of them.

This morning, Henry showed up with a brand new cell phone, one of those jobbies with a built-in digital camera. Hmmm.

A while later the Today Café received a rare visit from Helena, Hell-for-short, Frome, none other. The Demon Stylist of Licketyville was all smiles as she tucked her compact little self into Henry’s booth. Wasting no time on pleasantries, Hell stuck out her hand. Henry nodded, fished something out of his inside pocket and set it on the table. His new cell phone.

While Hell’s forehead went into Heavy Frown, Henry scribbled something on his spiral pad and handed it to her. The frown deepened, but Hell cupped her hands over eyes and allowed herself to be surprised.

The red-orange thong was the next thing to emerge from Henry’s pocket. No plain brown wrapper, no nothing. Henry tapped Hell on the elbow.

For just a moment Hell stared down at the table.

One hand had crept halfway to the thong when Henry’s cell phone went off. I don’t mean rang, I mean “went off”. Henry’s phone has a ring tone that sounds like a string of firecrackers. I couldn’t follow the flurry of action except for the thong flying off the table and into the aisle.

Everyone in the Today Café saw what happened next. Hell slid out of the booth, bent down and snapped up the thong. As she was bending over, Speechless Henry pointed the cell phone at her, clicked it once and then innocently put it to his ear.

Hell stood up, the tiny thong crumpled in her fist. Realizing she had an audience, Hell bowed, turned back to Henry, kissed him on the cheek, dropped an envelope on the table and hip-wiggled herself out of the Today Café. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.

Meanwhile, Henry caught my eye and gestured. On my way to his table I picked up a ginger sesame scone as a Demystification Offering. As if to clarify, Henry held out the cell phone. The tiny color screen was dominated by Hell’s tidy derriere. About the only other thing visible was her arm reaching toward that overdecorated snippet of leather.

“So? What am I supposed to be seeing? I’m lost here, Henry.”

Henry winked and held out his spiral pad. “Hell, bent for leather” was scrawled there in big letters.

Recalling one wag’s definition of a pun as “a short quip followed by a long groan,” I did my very best to stifle a groan. I hope you would have, too. Any of us could be his next target.

QUOTE OF THE DAY:  “The goodness of the true pun is in direct ratio to its intolerability.” -- Edgar Allen Poe

Be good today.

In the Blink of a Nano

On his way out after today's special Peak Oilmen meeting, Fred Hutchins-Licket showed me a new iPod Nano.

I cringed as unpleasant three-part harmony went off in my mind's ear: air raid sirens, ooh-ooh-gah dive alerts and that bleeping noise that ready-mix trucks make when they're backing up. Couldn't have said why at that particular moment, but this one single adverb exploded into my head: "dangerously."

Am I being melodramatic? Possibly, possibly not. The Nano struck me as dangerously petite, dangerously sexy and dangerously powerful. I read Malcolm Gladwell's Blink, you know. On account of that book I've learned to trust my hunches, at least more than before I read the book. That much dangerously in one place oughta be against the law. Or at least have a warning label printed on it. I just knew it.

"Be careful with that thing, Fred. It's got 'dangerously' printed all over it."

Fred gave me his trademark "I'd be scratching my sleek, silver-maned head if I didn't already have my hands full" look and went out the door.

After what happened a little later over at City Hall, I feel obliged to deliver this warning to husbands who have the notion to give an iPod Nano to their wives for a birthday present. Don't. Give her one of the other iPods instead.

Just after 8 pee em, Fred Hutchins-Licket slid between the cracks in the Today Cafe's front door like some kind of ectoplasmic misery. I was telling a booth full of adventurous just-passing-throughers that they oughta leave Anomaly Road at night to locals who are used to strange events, when Fred walked straight up to me, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, "How'd you know?"

How do you explain symbolic nuance or the dangers of spurious perceptions to somebody who is the heir to a concrete fortune? You don't.

On my way to not telling the third husband of the 40-something Mayor of Licketyville about symbolic nuance and spurious perceptions, I got the people at the booth one of those gaudy pictorial maps of Anomaly Road put out by the Chamber of Commerce, excused myself and took the crestfallen Fred to the Privacy Corner.

"You want to tell me what happened?" The usually silver-tongued Fred opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound came out. Just a bubble or two.

"Okay, let me take a wild guess. You presented that dangerously petite, dangerously sexy and dangerously powerful gadget to Mayor Madge at her City Hall birthday party this afternoon. You thought you were going to be a hero on account of her Steve Jobs crush that she's always publicly joking about. How am I doing so far?"

Fred continued to do his imitation of a silver-haired guppy.

"So I'm guessing that Madge opened the Nano package, blushed a little, gushed a little, gave you a perfectly political peck on the cheek and went back to doing Boss-at-the-Party. And after it was all over she refused to speak to you on account of your embarrassing her in public. And now she's at the Planning Committee meeting and you're here."

A sigh, a pair of rolled eyes. "That's pretty close to what happened. Who told you?"

"Nobody told me. Just guessed. A hunch. Gut feeling. Read a book called Blink."

Fred just frowned his concrete frown.

"Let me see if I can put it another way. Petite, sexy and powerful. I think I used those words to describe the iPod Nano gadget you showed me. Right?"

"Right."

"Two out of those three words are perfectly accurate descriptors of our wonderful Mayor." Fred may have concrete in his blood, but I figured that maybe appealing to his arithmetic sense might do it. Wrong.

I gave Fred one last hint. "Our Mayor who is always on a diet..."

Silence drained what color was left in Fred's face.

"Oh."

Fred couldn't bring himself to say anything more on the topic...and who could blame him?

In fact, the only thing Yours Truly could think of to say at that awkward moment was the following item from one of the wisest living men of Modern Times.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: "Here's all you have to know about men and women: women are crazy, men are stupid. And the main reason women are crazy is that men are stupid." -- George Carlin

I wish I was smart enough to believe that George has that wrong, but I'm not.

Junior Achievement for Future Billionaires

"I'm thinking of starting something like Junior Achievement in Licketyville."

That was Big Jim Kandorski's opening volley. It was just after two pee em, which made it just after this month's Chamber of Commerce luncheon wrapped up. If Big Jim is at the Today Cafe after a C of C meeting, it means he's too aggravated to go back to his office and needs to bend somebody's ear. Lucky me.

I metered out a mug of industrial grade Global Warmer Blend and set it down, pretending I didn't hear his opening volley. "You need cream today, Big Jim?," I asked. I've learned from experience that it's better not to take the bait.

"Half-and-half, if you've got it. I'm on a diet today. And don't think that if you pretend not to hear me, you're going to escape. I gotta get this idea off my chest…and you're Licketyville's Official Listener. Besides, you're going to like this idea; it's cynical."

"C'mon, Big Jim. I'm trying to quit...haven't touched a drop of cynicism in three days."

"Cheer up, Shorty. Life's hard, then you die."

Big Jim finds it entertaining to call a six-footer Shorty (probably for the same inversionist reason he calls his Mickey Rooney-sized self Big Jim). "Okay, lay it on me. But don't bad-mouth the C of C today. Please."

"Deal. They're about as much use as a wax teapot in Death Valley, but I'll stay away from bad-mouthing them. I promise."

I rolled my eyes; Big Jim winked. "You gotta learn to accept reality a little better, Shorty. Anyway, here's my idea. It came to me this morning after reading about the Billionaires for Bush organization. After sitting through the Chamber of Cretins rubber chicken hoo-hah, I figured I had to get serious about it." I gulped.

"It's all about honesty. Why be such hypocrites? If we're going to teach kids about business, let's not waste time on trivial nonsense like double-entry bookkeeping, inventory control, budgeting, product development, quality circles...you know what I'm talking about. Let's teach them what REALLY matters if what you wanna do is make big bucks. Let's give 'em workshops on bribery and lobbying, spin-meistering and half-truthing, collusion and creative ethics, plus loophole-finding and legal intimidation. Let's teach environmental degradation for fun and profit, show 'em the ten best places to hide toxic waste, how to blame the victims, outsource customer service to people who can't speak English, get out the axe and do layoffs for instant profits...all the GOOD stuff."

When Big Jim paused to catch his breath, I interrupted. I just had to. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! It's one thing to be a harmless amateur lower case cynic like me, but it's entirely something else to be CYNICAL in all caps. Next thing, you're going to escalate up to being CYNICAL in all caps AND 72 point bold type. You can't let the C of C push you over the cliff like that, Big Jim. It's just not worth it."

He put that Rueful Contrition twist to the left corner of his mouth and dropped his voice down a couple clicks. "You're right, Shorty. Better to do what my grandpa always wanted to do with all the lawyers and real estate agents. Invite 'em on a free cruise to the South Pacific. Free banquets, free drinks, free erotic companions, the whole burrito grande."

"I guess I don't follow you. You're saying turn the other cheek?"

"Hell no, Shorty. I'm saying you pull the plug right around the Tonga Trench. Except for the crew and the erotic companions. They get airlifted to Samoa."

"Oh. Dare I ask what the C of C wanted to do that got you so aggravated? They trying to persuade Madge to subdivide the Eight Farms for tract housing again? Repeal the No Franchise Ordinance?"

"Naw, nothing like that. They were just being THEM, you know? You oughta go to these things, Shorty. You're still a member, right?"

"Yeah, the Today Cafe is still a member. But my heart can't take all that much concentrated excitement in the middle of the day."

"Got it. You're a coward. But don't you like my cynical idea for educating our youth about REALITY?"

"There you go, speaking in ALL CAPS again."

"Okay, go ahead: stonewall me, Shorty. I can take it. But at least go back in your office and check out www.billionairesforbush.com. It'll brighten up your day. And along those lines, I've got a rampartism for you: A penny saved is worth two in the Bush. Capitalization intended. Think about it."

QUOTE OF THE DAY: "Any fool can criticize, condemn, and complain; and most fools do." -- Dale Carnegie

Just foolin'.

How I Learned to Sniff the Blue

The Today Café’s extremely popular scampi recipe is called Don’t Call It Scampi. If it had been up to me, I would have called it something fancier. Something like, like…damn, I’m drawing a blank here. Maybe I’ve been in Licketyville too long. Maybe I need to go scampi-hopping in Beverly Hills with a fist full of Franklins.

No matter. This recipe is called what it’s called because I promised Louie that’s what we’d call it. It’s his recipe, after all. I just transcribed it between bug-eyed gurgles. For the full story, you’ll want to consult your handy copy of Recipe Rangers in the West, starting on page 164. Don’t have one? Or your old copy has been rendered illegible from loving overuse? No prob. You can get a fresh copy at Amazon.com. You know the drill.

But if you’re not yet an adventurous Type 3 type and need your book-buying pump primed (and because I have more heart than brains), you can download the recipe and the whole remarkable tale for free at www.reciperangers.org. It's number 9 on the free samples page, which also has a link to Amazon.

But this isn’t a commercial, after all. This is a mystery.

In our restaurant-sized recipe for Don’t Call It Scampi, we don’t just use white cooking wine. We use Liebfraumilch...Blue Nun, in fact. Why? How about the possibly provocative fact that it literally means "milk from the Virgin," "milk of our Lady" or "milk of our Blessed Mother" in German? Not culinary enough for you? Maybe it's that we like the sweet, fruity bouquet that brings the stronger, sharper flavors together in joyous ecstasy. Or something like that.

One of our cooks had an emergency a while back and I had to make up the scampi sauce myself. I was in a hurry, but I did all the right things right…except sniff the Blue Nun before pouring just the right amount. That’ll never happen again. I promise.

Lillian Gaspode was the first to comment. “Did you change the scampi recipe? Something seemed…different.” Lillian is nothing if not diplomatic.

Hank Mendoza’s comment was more direct. “Wal, podnuh, I b’lieve some critter mighta done somethin’ unpleasant in your scampi today. I hear the greasy grunts in the Corona brewery used to…”

“Thank you, Hank. I know where you’re going, but this is a G-rated blog. I’ll check into it, though.”

Both Lillian and Hank got marked down for free meals. You don’t like it, you get your next meal free. Whatever you want. That’s the official, unwritten, known-by-everybody-in-Licketyville, Today Café guarantee.

When three other regulars got free meals on account of scampi, we “ran out,” meaning that what was left of that batch was history, not food.

Yeah, the customer is always right. But in this case, they actually were. The scampi just didn’t taste right. Not gut-wrenching awful, but not right either. Definitely missing something. Every ingredient in that recipe checked out…until I gingerly put my lips to the Blue Nun. Nothing but about a cup of fragrant water in a magnum bottle.

I’ve heard of establishments watering their wine, but really! This was almost like the Holy Savior’s trick of turning water into wine, but done in a mirror, or by a dyslexic, or by somebody standing on his head.

Do I know who did it? Yep.

Do I know why? Yep. A certain somebody felt an urgent need to down the contents. And in the barely half-lucid state that followed, this certain somebody figured water would cover up the crime well enough. I’ve seen that somebody pull the wool over his/her own eyes like that way more than twice. Mystery solved.

What am I going to do about it? Nothing…except make sure that all of us cooks check the bottle before pouring.

Yesterday, I asked Hank Mendoza to test our latest perfect batch of Don’t Call It Scampi. Naturally, I also had to tell him my little detective story.

If you don’t know Hank, he’s a Licketyville old-timer. Used to be a real cowboy, and he’s got way more than his share of cowboy anecdotes. Hank leaned way back in his chair, tipped his battered straw hat forward, stuck a toothpick in the gap between his front teeth and gave me that one-eye squint of his. “You know, podnuh, us ol’ cowboys have this sure-fire method for tellin’ a horse from a jackass. Works like this. You go lead the critter down to some water. If it drinks, you got yerself a horse. If it don’t, it’s a damn jackass.”

Sometimes I hope I get reincarnated as a cowboy.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: “Talk sense to a fool and he calls you foolish.”
- - Euripides

What can I say after that?

Why Hell Still Hath No Soap

Hope your Thursday is calmer than our Wednesday was.

Henry Cavett’s corner is over by the front window. Right now his face is hidden behind this week’s Licketyville Atom. In a few minutes he’ll fold the paper neatly, wipe his brow, shake his Einstein-like salt-and-pepper mop twice and make to get up. Then he’ll sit back down and look over at me with that raised-eyebrow look that means he wants something.

If Henry points a finger at his mouth, that’s a signal that I’m supposed to tempt him with something from the bakery counter. Henry’s not too good with decisions. I’ve seen him take ten minutes to decide whether a ginger-bacon scone or a peach and cream cheese Danish would be more to his liking. So we have this unspoken agreement now that I just bring him whatever I feel like bringing him. Nine times out of ten, that’s the way it goes.

But not yesterday. Yesterday Henry knocked on the wall behind him. That means he wants me to bring him the Wall Street Journal. Wall, get it?

Henry’s on disability and he’s got time on his hands. Pretty much every morning in that easy-going time between about nine and eleven he’s in his corner. Likes to leave before the lunch crowd comes in. If it’s a Wall Street Journal day like yesterday, it might be 11:15 before he heads out.

I had the impression that he was a little nervous about something, so in addition to the Journal, I brought him a mug filled with something we call Old Sourbean around here. Ugh. Imagine the overcooked stuff from the bottom of the coffee pot doctored with a jigger of an off-the-menu locally-made liquid which shall go nameless. Double-ugh.

Not two minutes later, the door banged open and Hell walked in. That’s Hell, as in Helena, the so-called Demon Stylist of Licketyville. Unlike most of us urban escapees, Helena was born in Licketyville. And forty-something years later, she’s still here. Hell is hard to miss: flaming red curls and a temper every bit as short as her person.

Hell didn’t even look at me. She walked straight to Henry’s corner and whacked the Wall Street Journal all the way to the window. Hell has a wicked backhand…and a wicked pair of barber shears, which she jabbed in the direction of Henry’s grizzled face. She let out a hiss worthy of the Great Snake: “I KNEW you were going to stand me up! It is SO like you. You are SUCH a coward. Think about it realistically. The chances I'll snip your ear again are very, VERY small. If you were THAT afraid, why make an appointment?”

The Today Cafe’s Rules of Deportment specifically disallow yelling, but hissing is still permitted. Remind me to change the Rules one of these days.

Henry, of course, said nothing. Henry hasn’t said anything since they removed his voicebox on account of cancer, on account of too many cigars. That was five years ago. Long time to not say anything.

The door banged open again. Unfortunately, it was NOT a vacationing family of twelve stopping by on their way to Lake Bigollie for some of our famous Birdcage Chicken Take-Out.

Looming in the doorway was a well-known, well-fed physique. At the end of a meaty arm was a fist that sort of reminded me of a withered cantaloupe. In the fist was an oversized spoon carved out of soap. Yes, soap. There stood Licketyville’s answer to Martha Stewart: Aunt Marge, owner of Aunt Marge’s Soapcraft Gallery. You wouldn’t believe the stuff she makes out of soap.

I noticed that something was out of place and it was Aunt Marge’s hair. Her head was about a quarter inch of stubble away from being a bug-eyed pink bowling ball. Yikes!

“Helena Frome, you have a great crime to answer for!” Aunt Marge was yelling at the top of her overample lungs, but I was not about to enforce the Rules. Maybe if Officer Weeks emerged from his daily hibernation in the men’s room, but certainly not unassisted.

Hell hissed back. “You’re the one who said she wanted it ‘short and carefree for the rest of the summer’. If you didn’t want it that short, you shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the chair. You know how much I hate snoring. Actually, I think the Sinead O’Connor look suits you. But if you really don’t like it, sell some of your soap trinkets and buy a wig.” Hell has quite a tongue on her…and more guts than a troop of sumo wrestlers. But as for common sense, I dunno...

First time I ever saw Aunt Marge unable to speak, but she sure wasn’t unable to move. Couldn’t have been five seconds before she was roosting on Hell’s midsection with her big soap-spoon trying to worm its way into Hell’s mouth.

I’m relieved to report that Officer Weeks emerged from hibernation in the nick of time. When the lunch crowd hit, all was back to normal. Whew.

Speechless Henry had the last word on yestersday's incident. This is what Henry scrawled on a napkin and left on the table: “Hell hath no fury like a woman shorn.”

QUOTE OF THE DAY: "I take the view, and always have, that if you cannot say what you are going to say in twenty minutes you ought to go away and write a book about it."
- - Lord Brabazon

No Giraffes in Yosemite

Slow Tuesday. I blame it on the Giraffe Party picnic.

I made the mistake of saying something along those lines to Keela Towne, who isn’t one. A Giraffe, I mean. Keela’s not a Donkey or an Elephant either. She's just about as independent as water.

“Blame, schmame! Anything goes the least bit awry and you gotta blame it on somebody or something. It’s a goddamn blame-a-thon these days.” I’m guessing that if the sun wasn’t already long gone, the Today Café sundial would be reading about nine-thirty pee em. Keela had just plunked her lanky frame down in the corner with the window that let’s you see a smidgen of Lone Raven Park. She’s a Licketyville native, among other things. One of those other things is that she’s a teacher at Licketyville High School. Yet another is that she’s a dyed-in-the-angora spinster.

“How about some fresh Cantilever Pie, Ms. Towne?” Maybe I could distract her and avoid a lecture on blame. Maybe I’ll win the lottery without ever buying a ticket.

“Since it’s such a blame-ishly slow Tuesday night, Mr. Table-Wiper, how about you stop wiping the table and split a piece with me? That way I only have to pay for what my diet will allow me to eat.” I was about to make a tepid protest about the bookkeeping difficulties of half-portions, when Keela winked at me, metered a dollop of honey into her voice and semi-whispered, “…AND, you’ll avoid my standard Blame vs Attribution diatribe.”

I believe I grinned out of sheer relief. “How about a whole Cantilever Pie? On the house? Hell, how about a dozen? Free delivery.”

Just so you know, in addition to her day classes in Applied Thinking, Keela Towne teaches a popular “History in the Making” continuing ed class, which is what she was doing a little earlier. About halfway through her half-slice, Keela said “I hear your sorry excuse for taking a weekend off was some silly writers conference in Yosemite.”

“Um-hmm,” I mumbled. The home-made caramel that glues the layers of Cantilever Pie together had momentarily glued my tongue to my front teeth.

“I also heard you came back full of piss and vinegar about writing more of that out-and-out nonsense you call fiction. And you took a nice literary agent named Kathleen to dinner. And that some cute-as-a-button writer-blogger who calls herself Edgy Mama put you up to starting a Today Cafe blog. Any truth to any of that? Do I need to get worried about having my sterling reputation as the oldest female curmudgeon in Licketyville tarnished, misapprehended or otherwise besmirched in your new blog? And how was Yosemite? I heard you rode your old motorcycle through Yosemite National Park and up over Tioga Pass on the way back to Licketyville.”

“Did you also hear I had to pay ten bucks just to ride through the park?”

“Nope, I didn’t hear that. But if that’s all you had to pay to see so much magnificent granite, don’t complain. As I remember it, Yosemite is humble-pie for the human soul. Much needed as a curative for the hubris that plagues humankind. And don’t go blaming the high price of Yosemite wayfaring on anything or anybody.” Did I catch a crinkly wink from one of those steel-gray eyes?

“No Giraffes in Yosemite, no blaming in Yosemite. That’ll be my motto for the rest of the evening, thanks to my favorite female curmudgeon. And the writers conference wasn’t any sillier than anything or anybody else I’m not blaming tonight.”

That stopped her.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: "Everybody lies, but it doesn't matter because nobody listens."
- - Nick Diamos

Enjoy Wednesdays. Always.