The Otherwise Picayune Baby Boomer

Boomer is one picayune, fussy, selective, snobby Chocolate Lab when it comes to treats, dog food and all other

dogs toward which he is not particularly picayune, fussy, selective or snobby.  He just avoids them like I avoid

my really obnoxious relative whose really bad acid reflux breath kind of sums it up, especially when

he gets really close with one of his really bad jokes and then guffaws in my face. Then we stopped at the Wednesday

Farmers’ Market in Phoenix where they love dogs as well as every other place in Phoenix as versus every place in our home state

Michigan according to health laws. The uppity Boomer always struts right by the “Doggy Stands” touting their treats

not to mention the doggies themselves except this time when he just flat-out stopped dead in his tracks like he was

sniffing the doggie equivalent of a really, really classy girly butt or catnip, which he was, the catnip that is. The vendor

told us while I tried to control the otherwise totally controllable dog all about the organic, totally natural,

unbelievably wholesome treats while the baby Boomer sniffed, smelled and then slurped embarrassingly at the strands at the end

of the rope and then just grabbed it and pulled it  right off the table without even paying for it.  “He’s normally as

quiet as himself except right now,” I quipped.  He whined, growled, pleaded and cajoled the rope whose

ends hung over the table just taunting and tickling his nose.  He attacked and grabbed the rope and pulled it

off the table about as fast as Kenny Rodgers knew when to hold ‘em, knew when to fold ‘em, knew when to walk away

and knew when to run. He grabbed it and ran, dare I say it, like the wi…that will never be accepted…fast.  Thank God for the leash or maybe not. “Boomer, stop!”

It was then I knew we had a hippy, dippy baby Boomer.  I bought the rope and he wouldn’t let go.  “Drop it, Boomer.

Drop it, Boomer.  DROP IT, BOOMER.”  All to no avail. My sophisticated, uppity, snobby dog made a spectacle

of himself, not to mention embarrassing me when he went bonkers over the rope. “What is it?” I asked.  “Hemp,” he said.

As my dog tugged and all around roared, I, too, an old, hippy, dippy, baby boomer asked,

“Is it smoke-able?”

As She Strolled

As she strolled through the store, all looked up

to see her push the cart.

She wore that which caught the eyes, not just men’s,

but what could stop a heart —

calf high boots, leopard tights and D cup.

Some might blush; some said smart.

Down the aisle in a sway that commends,

Through and through a Phoenix tart,

She had that AZ style, that’s for sure.

A tiny, boy’s butt –

a work of art

and just a great, big, cowgirl heart.

People who drive fast on streets but mostly through parking lots,

lots in strip malls or big indoor malls or any kind of mall, bug me,

but what really bugs me are people who drive fast through my condo

association’s parking lot.  My goodness, there are speed bumps

and association stop signs (which I understand are not legally binding

stop signs as I was told by a young woman who I yelled at who flew

through one of them on her way to fifty feet ahead only to stop on the

road potentially blocking anyone else from getting through in

order to get to the condo mailboxes), but for some of the folk, particularly

young folk, apparently the bumps are just fun to fly over and stop signs

are just fun to fly through.  By the way, the young woman I yelled at for

flying through the stop sign stood there for a moment after she got

out of her car in incredulity and indignation with one hand on her cocked

hip and yelled back at me, “No one has ever criticized my driving

in here before.”  Well, hell, they should have I wanted to yell back but,

after all I had already yelled at her, I thought. But what really got

me was the other night around eight-thirty as I was walking my

Chocolate Lab back toward the condo at exactly the same

place I saw the young woman fly through the non-binding stop sign, I

saw a Mazda 3 just about jump the speed bumps and ignore the

non-binding stop sign, fly up the hill and turn on a dime into a parking

space.  That was it!  After dark, speeding like it was the Indian-

apolis 500.  I charged up the hill screaming bloody murder, dog in tow.

A preppy looking, thirty something kid who emerged from the

car wanted to know why I was yelling.  I kept yelling and he played

mister cool to my raving banshee and then it was a battle of

wits and because I had had three glasses of wine I barely held my own.

Well, in reality, I made an ass of myself and had to put a note

on his windshield the next morning: “I apologize for my behavior.

Please drive more slowly.”  It had been sometime during

the night I realized what was going on.  I have been retired for two

years and in the morning in the bathroom wrap around mirror

(“Damn that mirror,” I said echoing the nasty queen.) I see sagging stuff,

white hair on my head and less of it. People who drive fast bug

me, people who drive fast through my condo parking lot really bug me

but what really, really bugs me is that I feel existentially impotent.

It Wasn’t a Safe Way

The parking lot at Safeway wasn’t a safe way for an outdoor, town hall meeting featuring the enthusiastic, outgoing cowgirl who loves to ride her bicycle sans cowboy boots all around town to stay in shape and get out and about. The Saturday morning

crowd walking their dogs and drinking their coffees and lattés to go gathered to greet the semi-blue dog democrat and hear what she had to say about such things as the economy, when the semi-shaved headed, schizophrenic kid

Glocked her right in the skull and turned the rest of the automatic, 30 bullet magazine on a little girl, judge, assistants, oh, hell, just about anyone and everyone who now was out of safe’s way at the Safeway. About fifteen seconds in all before the instinctually

(Yes, there is something in us that just does this kind of instinctive thing.)  brave souls jumped his bones and thrust him to the ground.  It was a blood bath, a massacre, it was the modern day mostly white version of Wounded Knee

where my wife and I took communion of orange juice and crackers out of the back of a pickup truck many moons ago and walked through the run down cemetery with the broken arch entrance and no exit except the backside of the arch.

I walked to the edge of the valley where the Lakotas had gathered and I heard the screams and saw the dead bodies covered with frozen blood and blowing snow and the carbine, which had been conveniently placed in the hands

of the chief. The bodies were covered with blood on that relatively warm January day in the still Wild West in the parking lot of the Safeway Grocery with a miracle story to be told about the survival of the blue dog

democrat who now is not thought of as partisan but just a very brave survivor of a bullet that ripped through her brain who probably yearns for the day she can climb back on her bike for a ride around town. A few months later an Arizona state legislator

suggested that for a party money raiser they offer a drawing for a nine millimeter automatic Glock 19. When told that was one of the most insensitive (Did someone mutter dumb ass?) things anyone could possible think of in light of the massacre,

for about the same fifteen seconds for the Glock to go off, I’m told, he just stared them in the eye looking tilt headed and less than the sharpest tool in the shed, kind of like the one and only photo of Billy the Kid. Billy’s girl friend said it didn’t do him justice.

It just sort of made him look a little crazed.

Just a Short Hike

Just a short hike

to get my legs in shape,

I cut my nails

so not to rub my boot;

wrapped the gimp

ankle with some tape,

grabbed the hiking

stick to assist my foot-

age on the rocky trails

That led to Piestewa Peak,

a far cry from where

we’ll turn back arriving at

the condo no worse for wear

just a block off the street

on the first hike of that

season to work off fat.

A Travelogue

Nine days on the road, three thousand miles north to south and west

along the coast, in the French Quarter, into Texas through the most

horrendous rush hour traffic imaginable to the friends

hadn’t been seen since the memorial service eighteen

and a half years ago,

wife of sixteen years went over

like gangbusters, had a ball for a day

and got on our way

through what had been a closed highway

the day

before due to snow and ice on the way

down south on into New Mexico and then the copper mining

town of Bisbee after Douglas and before Patagonia

where we met a fly fishing guy with a tie

to Michigan and the north branch of the AuSable and Lovells and Grand

Rapids and knew

Holland and the big lake who knew Jim Harrison and drank with him

in a local bar but hadn’t seen him lately, in fact, maybe a year or two,

to Nogales and finally Phoenix.

Four days to recuperate,

clean the bikes, ride to the grocery store stop in the bike café

to have them check the brakes, chitchat and drink a cup of

fresh Americano. Bikes sat on the balcony for eight months

through the really hot, dusty season. Not a good idea.

I think we will put them inside when we leave in April.

Three Checked into an Inn on Christmas Eve

We three checked into an inn, a La Quinta to be specific, on Christmas Eve, five-hundred-plus miles in one day from Saint Anthony to the Crosses –

a lot farther than Joseph, Mary, the baby and the donkey had to go, but we were on good roads and driving a Camry.  Communion which will be celebrated

shortly consists of low carbohydrate bread, turkey slices, radishes, really fresh tomatoes and avocado purchased earlier in the day along the way at a grocery (near where we

thought we were going to have to stay for the day because of dire weather predictions) frequented almost exclusively by Hispanics so, I figure,  the avocado

will probably be smooth, creamy, soft, but not too soft, and really flavorful and the last day of the hearts of Romaine that lasted eight days in an iced down,

red cooler not to mention a few glasses of the $9 one-and-a-half liter Sauvignon Blanc from a Texas vineyard (our salute to the Lone Star State).

That was for the two humans.  The dyslexic gift from God spelled dog, otherwise known as Boomer, the pastoral Chocolate Lab, had really expensive dry dog food (recommended

by our vet because it helps his football player knees and arthritic hips and, as a side benefit, makes his coat a lush, thick, dark brown

which is really pretty and nice for the winter) topped with a half-can of beefy dog food in sauce. We checked into the inn (They didn’t have to offer us the cattle yard down the

street which looked really crowded.), had a quick drink and went for a Christmas Eve jog in the quiet, industrial park across the street.  For the first time in forty-some years,

formal worship will be midnight mass on the TV from New York if we can keep our eyes open at 10 p.m. New Mexico time. I think I will because

I have to take the dog out around then. I’m giving thanks this Christmas Eve to be in the inn and not leading worship somewhere else.

I’m looking forward to be getting back on the road again tomorrow, Christmas day, for points west after bowing before the rising sun in the east.

I filled up the gas tank this afternoon just to be sure.

Usually I Sit at the Bar

Asked to do a review of a recent film, I sat in one of the booths close to the door of the really big, two-story, wooden bar and, I think, grill (with an “e” on the end)

although I couldn’t understand why, because I never, ever saw food and the place didn’t rate an “e” if there had been food given every thing else about the place.

Usually I sit at the bar and for a little while I did, but when I wrote, I was in the booth.  I got up and noticed that two, rough-looking guys were coming down the sandy street and

jumped into the back of my 1980 red Mustang.  I rushed across the street yelling, “Hey, no smoking in my car.”  The skinny, scruffy looking guy

with the cigarette dropped it on the seat on purpose, because I saw the smirk on his face, but I grabbed the cigarette before it could burn a hole in the red,

velvety upholstery and dragged the guy out of the car.  The other guy came along. I’m not sure how that happened, because I had to reach over one guy

to get at the guy who purposely dropped the cigarette on the seat. Apparently that was the end of that because they disappeared and I walked home for

some reason leaving the Mustang where it was.  Passing a golf course I saw some golf balls embedded in the sand traps and along the back fence

behind a green.  I stopped and picked up quite a few putting them in my pockets. When I looked up I saw the owners of the bar, a man and woman and someone else, sitting

outside their little row house laughing at me.  I waved them off and continued walking toward home wherever that was.

I don’t know if I was using my computer to write the review, but I didn’t have it with me when I left the big, two storied wooden bar and, for the life of me, I can’t understand why I

left the 1980 red Mustang parked on the street near that really big wooden bar and grille. My pants pockets bulged with sand and golf balls.

At the Wooden House

My old, seminary friend, who was most recently the retired president of that very seminary, and I met at the wooden house

which was my house and located on the top of the hill below which was the very nice home of that old, seminary friend.  We sat inside

and the roof started to leak.  Rain gushed from all kinds of places in the roof and I thought we would be late for the gathering of the seminary

graduates in the chapel near the wooden house which was mine and just to the right of the home of that old, seminary friend.

He told me that I needn’t worry because the wooden floors were really hard and would withstand the water falling on it.  I felt relieved.

We talked for a while and then he said that he needed to go to the graduation. I got up with him and started to go and I think I made it to the

front door of the Grecian building and maybe looked inside and saw all the graduates in their black robes but stayed outside. His wife, who had been a friend of my late wife,

when her husband my old, seminary friend and I were in seminary, knocked on the door of the wooden house.  I was back inside. I saw her but didn’t answer the door.  I didn’t

want to talk to her.  She said a few things through the door and then she left.  I suppose she went to the graduation.  I wiped up the water on the floor.  I wondered why it had

poured through the roof so strongly when it hadn’t even rained that day.  It had rained the day before.  Had all the water just sat there waiting for a while only

to gush through when my old, seminary friend and I were sitting in my wooden house?

We Pulled Onto Basin Street

We pulled onto Basin Street, parked in a tight space and headed west to Canal. Needing to pee real badly, I stepped into a Clarion Hotel and asked to use the bathroom

because I was in a jam. The clerk didn’t deny me the privilege; she just looked at me with disdain and said, “The restrooms are for hotel guests,” while she slowly slid the plastic key

along the counter. “Hey, this is an emergency.”  I grabbed the key and sprinted to the commode. By this time she had collected a crowd behind the desk made up of the

manager and another clerk. Placing the key back on the counter, I said that anytime they were in my town they could use my bathroom. As I walked out the door,

I told her, as she picked up the key, that I had peed on it.  No, I didn’t, but I thought of it later.  We wandered up Bourbon Street and Boomer, the pastoral Lab, was the center of

attention. One barker outside a girly show stopped us and wanted to pet him and talk about his own lab.  Next to him was one of the dancers in a skimpy bra and g-string.

She bent over to pet the dog and said, “Hey, Boomer, come over here and let me stroke you.”  Actually, I think she said “pet you.”    I looked at wife Chris

and tried not to look at the dancer’s boobs bobbing and jiggling around in the little cups.  After trying real hard to look her in the face, I noticed that she had

really pearly white teeth set against her bronze skin.  Chris suggested that we move along to the historic Roman Catholic Cathedral, erected during the French

occupation of what was to become the state of Louisiana because she knew how much I appreciated old, aesthetically, beautiful buttresses. At the mention of buttresses,

I thought it was probably a good thing the dancer hadn’t turned around and kneeled down.