Since none of you have probably ever heard of this “Lost” show, let me help you to understand what’s going on. Subsequent to our last discussion, the first thing you need to know is that if you’re an attractive babe…don’t go making any long range plans. You’ll almost for sure be dead by next episode. Only the stars are immune from this sorry plight. That doesn’t mean, however, that you can’t still make a cameo appearance from time to time because ghosts are welcome on this strange island. You should know, too, that cleavage is another welcome sight.
While some people are cured of deadly maladies and want to hang around the island for a while, others are selfishly anxious to be rescued. This creates problems with a pair of couples in particular. This middle-aged black gal with cancer gets re-united with her middle-aged husband who’s a white dentist and who is keen to write stuff in the white sand with black rocks. But he gets no further than, “This unhappy situation that we find ourselves in…” before his wife—who was all sweetness and light before they got reunited, reveals that she is actually Mrs. Satan. And she won’t help at all. They argue and he threatens to drill holes through all of her teeth without using novocain. But she won’t budge. And not just because she’s overweight. Because she's Mrs. Satan.
Then there’s this South Korean couple who were running away to escape their marital problems. She’s a business tycoon’s daughter who wisely married a fisherman’s son with an ugly disposition—even though the gal’s father had thoughtfully promoted him from shoeshine boy all the way up to hit man. Still, neither are satisfied and they fight all the time. She forgets to mention to Jen that her former lover has taught her to speak English so imagine his surprise when he learns of this fact after a couple of months. He’s so embarrassed and disgusted that he helps Michael build a raft.
It’s hard for Michael to find time to do this because he spends most of his time and energy in micromanaging his son, Walt, and Walt’s dog, Vincent. Vincent hates Michael and shows him his teeth. But Michael, being a city boy, doesn’t understand what this means and thinks that Vincent is grinning at him. But finally the raft is ready and will sail the next morning. No it won’t, because Walt has secretly set it on fire during the night and it burns to a crisp. John Locke knows that Walt did it because they’ve played a lot of backgammon together. So John blames it on those slimebally “Others,” the tribe that keeps kidnapping them and killing them and knocking them unconscious.
But it’s not all that uncommon to be knocked unconscious. In fact, all survivors’ job descriptions spell out their duties as: "Argue and throw fits; collect mangos, coconuts and interesting seashells; and prepare to often be knocked unconscious and to knock other folks unconscious." So no one is exempt from plenty of fighting and roughhousing. And all the girls, especially before they die, are exceptionally handy with their dukes and also, amazingly, know a good thing or two about Mixed Martial Arts. Most of them could kick Mike Tyson’s sorry butt in a heartbeat. And several of them prove it by beating up strapping fellows like Sawyer. Sawyer says “aint” a lot and did not attend an Ivy League college.
Sawyer has blackmailed Kate into some lengthy French-kissing but Dr. Jack doesn’t know about it or else there would be trouble in River City. Despite the fact that, early on, Jack didn’t want to be cast in the role of the survivors’ leader, he has become just that. He’s exceptionally smart because he passed his Medical Boards, and to prove it he is capable of making a correct decision darn near twenty percent of the time! This creates more arguing and unconsciousness and allows him to also have a turn kissing Kate. Locke keeps saying that they’re all predestined to be on the island and should keep a good attitude. And he uses this good attitude to knock people who don’t agree with him unconscious.
Just about everyone, after a few weeks, has developed an attitude of: shoot first and ask questions not at all. So Jack’s team and the Others get a lot of satisfaction out of gunning each other down, despite the fact that they need to keep a sharp eye on preventing the world from ending by pushing a button every hour and a half or so. And escaping from monsters.
There’s this Nigerian, Mr. Echo, who was a murdering druglord that coaxed his brother, a priest, into flying out of Africa with 90,000 religious statues filled with heroine. Which is good news for rock ‘n roller Charlie, who’s a drug fiend and sweet on Clair and her baby. But in the end, after the plane from Nigeria crashed on the island, it led in Mr. Echo taking the next logical career step, by himself joining the clergy—even though he didn’t graduate from seminary.
So he gets Charlie to help him and they start building a church but then Mr. Echo develops issues, and these are of a nature that sics this monster on him. And this is where you really have to take your hat off to those animal trainers on the set. It is their job to train nearly 40 million black flies into forming up into this scary-looking cloud that acts sorta like a tornado and is capable of wreaking havoc. Well, it wreaks havoc with Mr. Echo and leaves him to bleed vociferously from his every bodily orifice…until he is quite dead and no longer able to cavort with the ghost of his brother.
Hurley weighs less than a ton and enjoys snacking. One day he ate a whale that washed up on the beach. Also, he is being paid proportionately to the number of times he can say the word, “Dude.” He’s a daffy and fun-loving guy who’s never quite so happy as when he’s incarcerated in mental institutions, where he can laze around all day in a big open robe and pajamas. But he’s a deceptively fine athlete and proves it by smashing first Sawyer’s and then Dr. Jack’s guts at ping pong, and then he teaches Dr. Jack a lesson in basketball by smacking him in a game of ”Horse.” And sometimes Kate sees a horse in the jungle but doesn’t think too much about it. Why should she? This is a strange place.
There’s more, but don’t worry: I’ll keep you abreast of developments.
**********
I was down at the large City Centre Mall on Thursday night and that’s not a good idea, because it gets incredibly crowded on weekends—including lots of Saudis who have driven over from Dharan. I was alone and bored and so I had to devise my own entertainment.
I went into the food court. A lot of Bahraini women wear the black abaya but not so many wear veils. But some do and it’s always entertaining to watch them eat. They’ll jab something onto the fork and then lift the bottom of the veil and thereby guide the morsel secretly to the mouth. Then drop the veil and chew. As one of them was lifting the veil I inserted me hand under it and tickled her chin. Aghast, she allowed a piece of chicken to fall into her lap. Her eyes stared through the slit at me in something between terror and “I’m totally aghast and don’t know what to do next.”
Leaving her to her quandary, I wandered into the entry store of the Wahoo Water Park next and was attracted to the swim fins, sometimes known as duckfeet. I discarded my flip flops and stuck a pair of fins on me feet. Then I waddled around the crowded shop quacking noisily as I slapped the fins loudly on the floor. This totally befuddled both young and old. They observed intently. But I broke their reverie by shouting, “The sharks have gotten loose! The sharks have gotten loose! Run for your life!”
Bahrainis almost all have a darn good grasp of English and they understood immediately, panicking and running wildly out of the shop. The news of the shark outbreak soon reached through the turnstiles and into the water park itself and soon hundreds of bathing costume-attired fun seekers ran screaming and wild-eyed out of the entranceway and into the mall. Puddles of water were everywhere and some people were slipping and falling into piles because of it. It’s interesting to note that none of these folks had stopped to analyze the fact that there are no sharks in water parks. It’s not an aquarium, you know.
I walked along a ways and was attracted to the Marble Slab Creamery. Expensive ice cream. I watched how the workers dipped a flavor onto the marble slab and worked it with sort of a trowel thing for a while before putting it into a cup. I crowded to the front of the line and ordered caramel pecan. I noticed that the final product, before being put into the cup, was fashioned into a shape that was about as big as your hand. So I stopped the worker from putting mine in a cup and instead told her to put it onto me proferred palm. She was quite puzzled, not to mention reluctant. So I screamed in her face, “Just do it!” She fearfully, with a shriek, complied.
My scream and her responding scream, mixed in with all of the hubbub the other customers were making at my having taken cutsies in line had attracted a pair of security personnel. I hurried to them and showed them the slice of caramel pecan in me palm. I turned and, pointing, shouted to them, “SHE did it!” Outraged, they hustled to her and roughly placed her under arrest amid all the confusing chatter, accusations, and finger pointing (some at me). Cruel and Unusual Punishment would be the charge against her.
After I finished eating the ice cream off me hand (Darn! I guess I forgot to pay for it!) as I walked along, I noticed another familiar sight. Two local women were walking along in front of their combined six young children who were being attended by one of the lady’s harried Sri Lankan maid. This gal was having a devil of a time in trying to keep the unruly kids in control, as they abused her fearfully. I walked up behind one 4-year-old and whacked her loudly three times on her ample backside.
The child screamed in a combination of disbelief and pain. The mothers whirled around to see what was happening. That’s when I shouted “Leesh?!” as I pointed at the maid. Leesh, of course, means “Why?” The astonished mommies raced at the maid and began to beat her soundly. The children were all kicking her. But I didn’t watch for long, choosing instead to move right on along.
I saw a Godiva’s Chocolate shop. Very expensive (and good) Belgian chocolates in a great many varieties. First, I had the Filipina gal give me as many sample tastes of her wares as she would before she finally balked and asked what I would like. So I took about ten minutes pointing out maybe two hundred different chocolates that I wanted packaged up. She set to the task at a rapid pace and soon a large mass of chocolates was accumulating. That’s when I slipped away into the crowd, saying to myself, “Ha! It’ll take her two hours to put all of those back where they belong.”
Then I went out to the parking garage and found me car. I let the air out of all of the tires of the two cars on either side and then drove away. Me hand was steady on the wheel.
**********
I told you we would play Ahli and we did. It was a big crowd and the Ahli throng was rabid in the support of their underdogs. They were underdogs because their American player was suspended for two games for having a physical confrontation the game before, against Hala.
What had happened was that as the game was ending one of the Hala players took a swing at Ahli’s point guard, meaning to loosen several of his teeth. But this player, Shakur (an excellent point guard), ducked in the nick of time. That’s when teammate Johnny rushed over and pushed the Hala player. The Turkish referees hadn’t seen the swing, but saw the push and Mr. Taylor was ejected…drawing an automatic two-game suspension. Pretty tough break.
So they played us short-handed but I knew they, the defending league champs, had enough good players to make a tough game of it. We led by six points at half as Ahli was competing strongly. Then we opened up a 22 point third quarter lead and I was hoping for an ending with no drama. But it wasn’t to be. In the fourth quarter Ahli made seven 3-pointers and our lead was down to two. We pulled away a little at the end to win by ten in a game we had to win to stay alive in this Cup. Our local hero, Mohammed Hassan, who had 31 points the previous game, scored 36 points, including six of seven from long distance, and Lamond chipped in 31 points and 23 rebounds.
Tomorrow night we face Manama, who hasn’t lost a game in a couple of months, and we need to beat them in order to qualify for the best-two-of-three final for which they’ve already qualified. But M.H. (just mentioned) turned an ankle in the Ahli game and though he hobbled through the second half he hasn’t practiced since then and told me last night he doesn’t know if he can play or not. We’re in a degree of trouble if he can’t play. The gym will be packed to the rafters and the drums will pound. Hope Manama doesn’t pound us.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Lost and Durians
I finished Season 4 of “24” and had to take a break. Honestly, I had become pretty gun shy and was incessantly plagued with the conviction that if I didn’t whirl around every minute or so then Agent Tony Almeida would jump out of the shadows behind me and shoot me several times in the back.
He has a habit of doing that and I don’t know why the bad guys don’t realize it. For you bad guys out there: when you’re going to shoot someone don’t hold the gun, for no apparent reason, to the intended victim’s head for five seconds waiting to do it. I’m tellin’ ya, pull that blasted trigger! If you don’t, the chances are better than excellent that Tony’s about to fill your backside with painful hollow point bullets.
So maybe I was a little paranoid, but when I turned those tapes in I started looking around the video shop for something a little lighter. I eventually found one dusty bottom shelf and, through cobwebs, saw the following title: “Lost.” I was puzzled. Why didn’t the clerk realize these tapes weren’t lost but were just badly neglected?
“Baboo,” I said, “These tapes aren’t lost. Look, here they are.”
Baboo waggled his head at me, as only Indians with lifetime training can do, and explained that the tapes weren’t literally lost, but that was the name of an ongoing TV series. Not wishing to appear ignorant, I replied, “I knew that.” He waggled his head in response and I rented Season 1.
As I was leaving, I said, “You know, I knew Lost wasn’t lost. It was right there on the shelf, wasn’t it?” Baboo waggled his head. At home, I started watching the tapes.
The story is all about these varied people that have met each other before or are brother and sister or maybe father and son without realizing it, and they catch a flight out of Australia and head to L.A. Well, the darn aircraft gets all zonky and the next thing the passengers know they’re falling 30,000 feet, either onto a beach or into the Pacific Ocean. And this one guy gets sucked into a jet engine and never speaks even a single line after that.
As it, amazingly, transpires it doesn’t hurt all that bad to crash from high altitudes and most passengers sort of shrug it off. Others, however, are dead and play no further part in the saga. Some of the survivors need medical attention and receive it from Doctor Jack, who just moments earlier was boozing it up in the cabin in order to get even with his father for being a boozehound. Soon he’s attending to the injured, especially this U.S. Marshal who has the fuselage protruding from his stomach and is in great pain.
Well, Sawyer, this con man hillbilly with big dimples and a ready wit takes care of the pain problem by shooting the guy but Dr. Jack gets mad cuz it was a botched job. But John Locke, lying nearby, doesn’t pay too much attention because he’s busy wiggling his toes.
We learn later than John, inexplicably, has no sense of humor despite the fact that his dad was a great charmer, as well as practical jokester. He did little things to John like thieving one of his kidneys, causing him to be a party to Grand Larceny, wrecking his relationship with his girl friend, and finally throwing him out of an eighth story apartment building. It turns out to be worse to fall from 80 feet than from 30,000, because John’s back was broken in the fall and then he couldn’t go on a “Walkabout” in Australia because he couldn’t walk about. As the travel agent explained to him, “This isn’t a Wheelchairabout.”
So John was ticked. Until he realized that this strange island had cured him and his legs were no longer paralyzed. So he began to teach this little black kid how to play backgammon. But the kid’s father, who hadn’t seen the kid in like nine years, screams to the kid, “Stay away from him!” Yes, dad’s from New York City.
Meanwhile, Kate was proving to be incredibly compassionate in helping those in need. That compassion hadn’t necessarily been in evidence to her stepfather whom she burned to crisp while he was enjoying an alcohol-induced snooze from which he never awoke. Which made the marshal chase Kate to Australia where a widowed farmer turned her in for the bounty. Because he was having trouble with his mortgage.
So Kate was handcuffed to the marshal but she craftily got the cuffs off after the crash and pretended to be not a criminal but a prom queen. Which made both Sawyer and Dr. Jack ogle her and want to kiss her.
Well, there’s also other characters and some of them want to live on the beach while others want to live in a cave near a waterfall and this creates some tension. Also, certain eerie things keep happening. Like the guy found mangled high in a tree, and whispering noises in the jungle, and polar bears roaming about. And strange radio transmissions which even the group’s Iraqi torturer can’t quite understand.
Although this Iraqi guy, Saeed, knows an awful lot about things like martial arts and electronics. He also has an English vocabulary slightly superior to that of Queen Elizabeth. At one point he uses a wire coat hanger and a coconut to make a satellite that they hope will help them get rescued or at least provide entertaining views of outer space, but then these “Other” people on the island start pulling mischievous pranks. Like killing some of them and kidnapping a pregnant woman for sinister reasons best known only to themselves.
And then the sky turns purple and the island starts vibrating. And everything is real mysterious because they can’t figure out where they are and no one else knows either. Which I don’t understand, cuz they’re obviously on Hilo. Hadn’t even a single one of them ever been on the Road to Hana?
I’ll keep you appraised of how things progress.
**********
Last nite we had a hard game against Hala. Midway through the second quarter I was just about to pronounce myself a coaching genius, as we were ahead 34-17 and playing very well. Six minutes later I was preparing to defend myself against possible sandal peltings just before we moped off to the locker room with a five point halftime lead.
In the second half we upped the lead to near a dozen and then it went up and down until, late, it was down—way down. We led by one with a minute to play. A lot of scary things happened before we prevailed, 90-85, while my eyebrows (the shaved one has grown back in) turned white. Or maybe gray.
So now we have two top teams remaining to play in this Cup, as it’s called. We have to win them both to qualify for a place in the finals, which will be a best of three affair.
**********
Remember last time when I asked if you wanted Fadl to send you a durian from Thailand? And you didn’t know how to respond, because you didn’t know what a durian is…? Here’s the answer.
The durian is what Chinese call the King of Fruits. How they love them. I first became acquainted with them when we lived in Malaysia a number of years ago. To my surprise, I found out that Southeast Asia boasts a goodly number of fruits that most Westerners don’t even know exist. And they’re all good. The only iffy one in the bunch is the durian and I was told that it’s an acquired taste. My Chinese cohorts (Chinese make up 40% of Malaysia’s population and comprise the whole of the basketball community there) told me that the third time you try it you will be hooked for life.
I’ve had it twice and the jury's still out. I can best describe it as tasting like sweetish, mushy onions.
The durian looks like a giant hand grenade. It grows on large trees in the rain forests and is especially liked by the elephant. Elephants will butt the trunk of the durian tree until they get one to fall. Then they will use their mighty feet and weight to get the thing open. They’re really hard to open. You need something like a hammer and screwdriver to get at the insides of the things if you’re a mere human.
There’s another distinctive trait of the durian: its smell. Those rascals smell like giant limburger cheeses. Or, put another way, like poopoo. In Malaysia it’s against the law to transport them in taxis, on trains, buses, or airplanes. I mean, these things seriously stink.
Typically, you would see someone with a a big pile of durians for sale by the side of a road. And right next to them, invariably, a giant pile of mangosteens. The Chinese insist that to be enjoyed optimally the durian must be eaten in concert with the wily mangosteen. The mangosteen (looking nothing like a mango) is delicious. About the size of a small orange, it has four quarters inside that taste like sweet rhubarb. I love them and see them in markets here but they’re outrageously priced.
I love rhubarb pie. Don’t you?
He has a habit of doing that and I don’t know why the bad guys don’t realize it. For you bad guys out there: when you’re going to shoot someone don’t hold the gun, for no apparent reason, to the intended victim’s head for five seconds waiting to do it. I’m tellin’ ya, pull that blasted trigger! If you don’t, the chances are better than excellent that Tony’s about to fill your backside with painful hollow point bullets.
So maybe I was a little paranoid, but when I turned those tapes in I started looking around the video shop for something a little lighter. I eventually found one dusty bottom shelf and, through cobwebs, saw the following title: “Lost.” I was puzzled. Why didn’t the clerk realize these tapes weren’t lost but were just badly neglected?
“Baboo,” I said, “These tapes aren’t lost. Look, here they are.”
Baboo waggled his head at me, as only Indians with lifetime training can do, and explained that the tapes weren’t literally lost, but that was the name of an ongoing TV series. Not wishing to appear ignorant, I replied, “I knew that.” He waggled his head in response and I rented Season 1.
As I was leaving, I said, “You know, I knew Lost wasn’t lost. It was right there on the shelf, wasn’t it?” Baboo waggled his head. At home, I started watching the tapes.
The story is all about these varied people that have met each other before or are brother and sister or maybe father and son without realizing it, and they catch a flight out of Australia and head to L.A. Well, the darn aircraft gets all zonky and the next thing the passengers know they’re falling 30,000 feet, either onto a beach or into the Pacific Ocean. And this one guy gets sucked into a jet engine and never speaks even a single line after that.
As it, amazingly, transpires it doesn’t hurt all that bad to crash from high altitudes and most passengers sort of shrug it off. Others, however, are dead and play no further part in the saga. Some of the survivors need medical attention and receive it from Doctor Jack, who just moments earlier was boozing it up in the cabin in order to get even with his father for being a boozehound. Soon he’s attending to the injured, especially this U.S. Marshal who has the fuselage protruding from his stomach and is in great pain.
Well, Sawyer, this con man hillbilly with big dimples and a ready wit takes care of the pain problem by shooting the guy but Dr. Jack gets mad cuz it was a botched job. But John Locke, lying nearby, doesn’t pay too much attention because he’s busy wiggling his toes.
We learn later than John, inexplicably, has no sense of humor despite the fact that his dad was a great charmer, as well as practical jokester. He did little things to John like thieving one of his kidneys, causing him to be a party to Grand Larceny, wrecking his relationship with his girl friend, and finally throwing him out of an eighth story apartment building. It turns out to be worse to fall from 80 feet than from 30,000, because John’s back was broken in the fall and then he couldn’t go on a “Walkabout” in Australia because he couldn’t walk about. As the travel agent explained to him, “This isn’t a Wheelchairabout.”
So John was ticked. Until he realized that this strange island had cured him and his legs were no longer paralyzed. So he began to teach this little black kid how to play backgammon. But the kid’s father, who hadn’t seen the kid in like nine years, screams to the kid, “Stay away from him!” Yes, dad’s from New York City.
Meanwhile, Kate was proving to be incredibly compassionate in helping those in need. That compassion hadn’t necessarily been in evidence to her stepfather whom she burned to crisp while he was enjoying an alcohol-induced snooze from which he never awoke. Which made the marshal chase Kate to Australia where a widowed farmer turned her in for the bounty. Because he was having trouble with his mortgage.
So Kate was handcuffed to the marshal but she craftily got the cuffs off after the crash and pretended to be not a criminal but a prom queen. Which made both Sawyer and Dr. Jack ogle her and want to kiss her.
Well, there’s also other characters and some of them want to live on the beach while others want to live in a cave near a waterfall and this creates some tension. Also, certain eerie things keep happening. Like the guy found mangled high in a tree, and whispering noises in the jungle, and polar bears roaming about. And strange radio transmissions which even the group’s Iraqi torturer can’t quite understand.
Although this Iraqi guy, Saeed, knows an awful lot about things like martial arts and electronics. He also has an English vocabulary slightly superior to that of Queen Elizabeth. At one point he uses a wire coat hanger and a coconut to make a satellite that they hope will help them get rescued or at least provide entertaining views of outer space, but then these “Other” people on the island start pulling mischievous pranks. Like killing some of them and kidnapping a pregnant woman for sinister reasons best known only to themselves.
And then the sky turns purple and the island starts vibrating. And everything is real mysterious because they can’t figure out where they are and no one else knows either. Which I don’t understand, cuz they’re obviously on Hilo. Hadn’t even a single one of them ever been on the Road to Hana?
I’ll keep you appraised of how things progress.
**********
Last nite we had a hard game against Hala. Midway through the second quarter I was just about to pronounce myself a coaching genius, as we were ahead 34-17 and playing very well. Six minutes later I was preparing to defend myself against possible sandal peltings just before we moped off to the locker room with a five point halftime lead.
In the second half we upped the lead to near a dozen and then it went up and down until, late, it was down—way down. We led by one with a minute to play. A lot of scary things happened before we prevailed, 90-85, while my eyebrows (the shaved one has grown back in) turned white. Or maybe gray.
So now we have two top teams remaining to play in this Cup, as it’s called. We have to win them both to qualify for a place in the finals, which will be a best of three affair.
**********
Remember last time when I asked if you wanted Fadl to send you a durian from Thailand? And you didn’t know how to respond, because you didn’t know what a durian is…? Here’s the answer.
The durian is what Chinese call the King of Fruits. How they love them. I first became acquainted with them when we lived in Malaysia a number of years ago. To my surprise, I found out that Southeast Asia boasts a goodly number of fruits that most Westerners don’t even know exist. And they’re all good. The only iffy one in the bunch is the durian and I was told that it’s an acquired taste. My Chinese cohorts (Chinese make up 40% of Malaysia’s population and comprise the whole of the basketball community there) told me that the third time you try it you will be hooked for life.
I’ve had it twice and the jury's still out. I can best describe it as tasting like sweetish, mushy onions.
The durian looks like a giant hand grenade. It grows on large trees in the rain forests and is especially liked by the elephant. Elephants will butt the trunk of the durian tree until they get one to fall. Then they will use their mighty feet and weight to get the thing open. They’re really hard to open. You need something like a hammer and screwdriver to get at the insides of the things if you’re a mere human.
There’s another distinctive trait of the durian: its smell. Those rascals smell like giant limburger cheeses. Or, put another way, like poopoo. In Malaysia it’s against the law to transport them in taxis, on trains, buses, or airplanes. I mean, these things seriously stink.
Typically, you would see someone with a a big pile of durians for sale by the side of a road. And right next to them, invariably, a giant pile of mangosteens. The Chinese insist that to be enjoyed optimally the durian must be eaten in concert with the wily mangosteen. The mangosteen (looking nothing like a mango) is delicious. About the size of a small orange, it has four quarters inside that taste like sweet rhubarb. I love them and see them in markets here but they’re outrageously priced.
I love rhubarb pie. Don’t you?
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Memory and Barefootin'
Most of you will remember that a fair number of years ago I took a Jerry Lucas weekend seminar on memory training. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what year that was, but so what? The important thing is that the seminar greatly inhanced my memorization abilities. Whereas before the presentation my memory was just good, afterwards it was, and remains, great.
I’ll always remember (you see, it worked) that he opened his presentation in the Anaheim auditorium by asking everyone that had introduced themselves to him just before the course started that morning to stand up. So about thirty people, men and women, stood. Then he asked them to sit if he correctly called out their names.
He started pointing at people and calling out their names and they began to sit down. In the end one guy stubbornly remained standing. Jerry said to him something like, “Ben, isn’t your last name Brombaird?” “No, it’s Brumbard,” he said smugly. What kind of idiot parents name their kid Brumbard? Anyway, notwithstanding that one near-miss it was still an impressive performance and there was much more to come. All of which I was fortunate enough to grasp with relative ease.
So when I recently read in the Bahrain Daily News that over 100,000 visas had been issued to foreigners, from 46 foreign countries, who would descend upon this island to witness the annual Formula One race an idea entered my mind. I decided to meet this vast and varied horde at the airport and get to know them. At least by name--since I didn’t feel I’d have time to have lunch with them all.
And so I spent a good many hours over several days at the Arrivals Hall collecting these folks’ names and making the necessary picture-association with each name that would later allow me to remember the identity of each and every person. This would be fun. And pretty darn impressive.
The big day came and there I was, roaming before the massed grandstands armed with nothing but a megaphone. Thousands and thousands of my new friends gazed at me with wonderment. I boomed out instructions to them about first standing and then sitting as they were correctly identified. They stood right on cue and, coincidentally, the race started at that exact same moment. The roar of the many powerful engines was deafening. I mean, REALLY LOUD.
Nevertheless I started pointing and calling out names but two things went awry. First, no one sat down; second, after 30 minutes of screaming into my megaphone I was so hoarse that I could barely croak. Plus my ears were ringing, being so near the track. So, mystified and a little frustrated, I made what maybe in hindsight could be termed an error in judgement. What I did was, that I had become so miffed that I turned and hurled my megaphone at the nearest racer to me…and he swerved sharply.
I thought these guys were supposed to be highly trained professionals. So how do you account for the fact that this clown managed to take himself and seventeen other cars out of the race? The caution flags were out and, as I was being escorted away by overly-angry course marshals, I happened to notice that a great many of my new friends were somewhat overwrought as well, and were making menacing gestures towards me and shouting out various cuss words in their mother tongues. All of which I understood, through lip reading (I was stone deaf by this time), as I’m also something of a linguist.
As I watched the replay of the race on TV the next day through the bars of my cell my greatest feeling was one of puzzlement. First, what’s wrong with the human race? Second, why hadn’t anyone sat down? After all, I had called out well over 200 names. It was pure happenstance that every single name was either Baboo Singh or Apu Indiri. Not my fault. That’s just how they happened to be seated.
Let me be perfectly candid with you and admit that I am not opposed to your contributing to the Free Coach Pat Fund. But don’t bother to call because the warden says I probably won’t regain my hearing for another three months.
**********
Good news for all you folks who read last week’s blog and plan to arrive here and take up careers in Food Delivery. Not only do you get to ride your scooter a lot, I found out the other day that you also get to FIX YOUR VEHICLE should it weaken!
What happened was, I was walking on the narrow street to the Al Jazira market to get some pomegranate juice and ground rhinocerous horn, and in so doing walked right by the adjoining Hardee’s and Al Kabara Restaurants. And delivery persons had taken up about two curbside parking spaces in front and were working on about six different scooters.
These people were performing differing cures upon their transports but the one I found most interesting was the fellow who had a wheel off and was walking, barefoot, around on the rubber part of the tire, trying to get it to pop into place on the rim. I mean how many jobs out there (even if you could get them, which you can’t) allow you to work barefooted any time you deem it necessary?! How many Wal*Mart Managers do you see walking the aisles without shoes on? How many doctors do you observe listening to hearts through stethoscopes while unshodden? What a great perk. Remember how great summers were when you were little and went barefoot all the time? And do you remember the song, "Barefootin'"?
Also, in the few minutes that I stood watching (work has always fascinated me) I noticed that not a single passing car hit any of the delivery persons or their scooters! Oh, sure, there were some close calls. But let’s keep those close calls in perspective and just call them exciting workplace challenges. Think of the gratification and sense of accomplishment when you nimbly leap aside at the last possible second and that Lexus misses you by a good three inches! Yet another perk!
**********
What do you think the Pakistanis and Indians in the Gulf do on Friday, their day off? Your first guess was dead-on! Yes, they play cricket! In the various Gulf countries there are always vacant lots to be found and great numbers of these serve as cricket pitches for these cricket fanatics. No, you are not justified in labeling them as “insane” for loving cricket. Let’s just say that it’s a “curious” phenomenon.
After all, you can stay at bat for like three hours and score maybe 300 runs before having your wicket knocked off or something else as bad—like having a defender catch your fly ball. Barehanded, but not necessarily barefooted, of course. They don’t use gloves in cricket. Also, all balls are fair, even if they go behind you. Which of course sends you sprinting, your bat in hand, to what we would call second base. There, you leisurely wait at that wicket until another batsman eventually does something or other.
Games only last a few days, if you happen to have that much time. These guys don’t of course and have to play hurry-up seven-hour matches. It’s an exciting affair and no wonder they love it.
Finally. On defense, which would you rather be: a fast bowler or play silly mid-off? Those things are both real.
You’re wondering how much a cricket bat costs? Sun and Sand Sporting Goods in City Centre Mall was having a big sale recently and I went inside and mosied around, finally buying some red flip flops. But I saw some cricket bats and, curious, had a look. Not bad. On sale, you can snare one for about eighteen bucks. Shall I order you two?
**********
Less than a week ago I was shrouded in doom and gloom. You’ll remember that I told you our first Cup opponent, Nuwaidrat, was dangerous. Well, we stunk up the gym and lost to them. We had a game when not a single player had a good game, plus we were still without our leading Bahraini scorer. In the locker room after the game I didn’t even get to scream at the players, because both the Shaikh (who’s normally mild mannered) and Manager Hussain both did that very capably. It was neither pretty nor fun.
Last nite we got the yucky taste out of our mouths for the time being by beating Sitra by 25 points. We played well for three of the four quarters, which, for us, is improvement. We also had Mohd Hassan back and he scored about 25 points. I’d like to watch you try and guard him. Lamond also played with good energy and that always help. Though 36 or 37 now, he’s still talented. Played in NBA nearly 13 seasons.
We play Hala next Sunday. One very welcome development is that our Federation has brought in three very good referees from Turkey to work this Cup. Consequently, there are way fewer fouls and traveling calls made, and the players/coaches don’t have to worry about the usual stuff that happens in games here when locals do them. Also, stinkin Fadl—our old nemesis—is enjoying himself of late in Thailand.
Would you like me to arrange to have him send you a durian?
I’ll always remember (you see, it worked) that he opened his presentation in the Anaheim auditorium by asking everyone that had introduced themselves to him just before the course started that morning to stand up. So about thirty people, men and women, stood. Then he asked them to sit if he correctly called out their names.
He started pointing at people and calling out their names and they began to sit down. In the end one guy stubbornly remained standing. Jerry said to him something like, “Ben, isn’t your last name Brombaird?” “No, it’s Brumbard,” he said smugly. What kind of idiot parents name their kid Brumbard? Anyway, notwithstanding that one near-miss it was still an impressive performance and there was much more to come. All of which I was fortunate enough to grasp with relative ease.
So when I recently read in the Bahrain Daily News that over 100,000 visas had been issued to foreigners, from 46 foreign countries, who would descend upon this island to witness the annual Formula One race an idea entered my mind. I decided to meet this vast and varied horde at the airport and get to know them. At least by name--since I didn’t feel I’d have time to have lunch with them all.
And so I spent a good many hours over several days at the Arrivals Hall collecting these folks’ names and making the necessary picture-association with each name that would later allow me to remember the identity of each and every person. This would be fun. And pretty darn impressive.
The big day came and there I was, roaming before the massed grandstands armed with nothing but a megaphone. Thousands and thousands of my new friends gazed at me with wonderment. I boomed out instructions to them about first standing and then sitting as they were correctly identified. They stood right on cue and, coincidentally, the race started at that exact same moment. The roar of the many powerful engines was deafening. I mean, REALLY LOUD.
Nevertheless I started pointing and calling out names but two things went awry. First, no one sat down; second, after 30 minutes of screaming into my megaphone I was so hoarse that I could barely croak. Plus my ears were ringing, being so near the track. So, mystified and a little frustrated, I made what maybe in hindsight could be termed an error in judgement. What I did was, that I had become so miffed that I turned and hurled my megaphone at the nearest racer to me…and he swerved sharply.
I thought these guys were supposed to be highly trained professionals. So how do you account for the fact that this clown managed to take himself and seventeen other cars out of the race? The caution flags were out and, as I was being escorted away by overly-angry course marshals, I happened to notice that a great many of my new friends were somewhat overwrought as well, and were making menacing gestures towards me and shouting out various cuss words in their mother tongues. All of which I understood, through lip reading (I was stone deaf by this time), as I’m also something of a linguist.
As I watched the replay of the race on TV the next day through the bars of my cell my greatest feeling was one of puzzlement. First, what’s wrong with the human race? Second, why hadn’t anyone sat down? After all, I had called out well over 200 names. It was pure happenstance that every single name was either Baboo Singh or Apu Indiri. Not my fault. That’s just how they happened to be seated.
Let me be perfectly candid with you and admit that I am not opposed to your contributing to the Free Coach Pat Fund. But don’t bother to call because the warden says I probably won’t regain my hearing for another three months.
**********
Good news for all you folks who read last week’s blog and plan to arrive here and take up careers in Food Delivery. Not only do you get to ride your scooter a lot, I found out the other day that you also get to FIX YOUR VEHICLE should it weaken!
What happened was, I was walking on the narrow street to the Al Jazira market to get some pomegranate juice and ground rhinocerous horn, and in so doing walked right by the adjoining Hardee’s and Al Kabara Restaurants. And delivery persons had taken up about two curbside parking spaces in front and were working on about six different scooters.
These people were performing differing cures upon their transports but the one I found most interesting was the fellow who had a wheel off and was walking, barefoot, around on the rubber part of the tire, trying to get it to pop into place on the rim. I mean how many jobs out there (even if you could get them, which you can’t) allow you to work barefooted any time you deem it necessary?! How many Wal*Mart Managers do you see walking the aisles without shoes on? How many doctors do you observe listening to hearts through stethoscopes while unshodden? What a great perk. Remember how great summers were when you were little and went barefoot all the time? And do you remember the song, "Barefootin'"?
Also, in the few minutes that I stood watching (work has always fascinated me) I noticed that not a single passing car hit any of the delivery persons or their scooters! Oh, sure, there were some close calls. But let’s keep those close calls in perspective and just call them exciting workplace challenges. Think of the gratification and sense of accomplishment when you nimbly leap aside at the last possible second and that Lexus misses you by a good three inches! Yet another perk!
**********
What do you think the Pakistanis and Indians in the Gulf do on Friday, their day off? Your first guess was dead-on! Yes, they play cricket! In the various Gulf countries there are always vacant lots to be found and great numbers of these serve as cricket pitches for these cricket fanatics. No, you are not justified in labeling them as “insane” for loving cricket. Let’s just say that it’s a “curious” phenomenon.
After all, you can stay at bat for like three hours and score maybe 300 runs before having your wicket knocked off or something else as bad—like having a defender catch your fly ball. Barehanded, but not necessarily barefooted, of course. They don’t use gloves in cricket. Also, all balls are fair, even if they go behind you. Which of course sends you sprinting, your bat in hand, to what we would call second base. There, you leisurely wait at that wicket until another batsman eventually does something or other.
Games only last a few days, if you happen to have that much time. These guys don’t of course and have to play hurry-up seven-hour matches. It’s an exciting affair and no wonder they love it.
Finally. On defense, which would you rather be: a fast bowler or play silly mid-off? Those things are both real.
You’re wondering how much a cricket bat costs? Sun and Sand Sporting Goods in City Centre Mall was having a big sale recently and I went inside and mosied around, finally buying some red flip flops. But I saw some cricket bats and, curious, had a look. Not bad. On sale, you can snare one for about eighteen bucks. Shall I order you two?
**********
Less than a week ago I was shrouded in doom and gloom. You’ll remember that I told you our first Cup opponent, Nuwaidrat, was dangerous. Well, we stunk up the gym and lost to them. We had a game when not a single player had a good game, plus we were still without our leading Bahraini scorer. In the locker room after the game I didn’t even get to scream at the players, because both the Shaikh (who’s normally mild mannered) and Manager Hussain both did that very capably. It was neither pretty nor fun.
Last nite we got the yucky taste out of our mouths for the time being by beating Sitra by 25 points. We played well for three of the four quarters, which, for us, is improvement. We also had Mohd Hassan back and he scored about 25 points. I’d like to watch you try and guard him. Lamond also played with good energy and that always help. Though 36 or 37 now, he’s still talented. Played in NBA nearly 13 seasons.
We play Hala next Sunday. One very welcome development is that our Federation has brought in three very good referees from Turkey to work this Cup. Consequently, there are way fewer fouls and traveling calls made, and the players/coaches don’t have to worry about the usual stuff that happens in games here when locals do them. Also, stinkin Fadl—our old nemesis—is enjoying himself of late in Thailand.
Would you like me to arrange to have him send you a durian?
Monday, 1 March 2010
News Flashes
In speed walking (I calculate that I go about 42 mph) through both Juffair and Amwaj Island I very often see vacancy signs, as both areas have a great number of apartments that need tenants.
Some of the signs say “For Rent,” but at least half use Brit-speak and say something else. You know that this area’s first foreign influence was British. And every one of you remembers that what are now the United Arab Emirates were previously the Trucial States, under a British Protectorate. So there are still a lot of British reminders throughout the Gulf.
And one of them, regarding vacancies, is: “To Let.” So as I zip around I see a lot of For Rents and a lot more of To Lets. But when I see TO LET from a distance, my body, from long years of conditioning, immediately makes a beeline for that sign. It seems that my mind (which is a trickster) doesn’t recognize that there’s a missing letter. Anyway, I get there as fast as I can, anticipation building.
There’s no need to go into detail about what happens once I arrive, but let it suffice to say that there have been some loud and colorful shouting matches. And that I’ve never even once been arrested.
**********
I wonder how you’re doing with your honey and cinnamon regimen. I’ve been on it about four months now and it’s for sure a wonder drug. It cures absolutely everything, and also promotes weight loss—something not relevant to me but which you, Tubbo, may be somewhat interested in. Earlier, I’d told you how I’d seen results within just a couple of weeks: no new outbreaks of acne, plus I’d suddenly gained feeling below my knees.
The list has grown. I was thinking real hard the other day and I realized that I’ve also been free of diphtheria, whooping cough, measles, tuberculosis, insanity, bowlegedness, colic, and swayback. For just a minute there one morning I thought I’d contracted mumps when I woke up with a swollen jaw. But then I thought back to the night before and remembered that when I’d gone in to pick up my laundry around the corner one of the workers (a suspicious sort of fellow by the name of Baboo) had accidentally hit me with a croquet mallet. So no mumps either.
And it gets even better. What with having regained feeling in my lower extremities I, one night, just for the fun of it, decided to put on my cowboy boots. With a tad of effort I squeezed my sausage-like phalanges into those pointy-toed rascals and had a look in the mirror. Pretty darn good. Why stop here?
So I went down to a cowboy place in Juffair, called the Texas Buttstomper, and did a little showing off. At first by just letting folks admire my boots while I watched the line dancing. But then (you decide if it was a miracle or not) those boots suddenly took on a life of their own and made my feet do things they never knew they could do. The bottom line is that I was a line dancing rock star for like three hours. And, more kudos to the honey and cinnamon: I’d never known a single step before that night. I’m tellin ya, it’s good stuff.
**********
We won our last game of the first phase of league play by giving a dose of strong medicine to winless Bahrain Club. Their coach, who until now had invariably worn long baggy blue shorts to go with an NFL jersey, on this night pulled a surprise. He matched up his Isaac Bruce Forty-Niners shirt with matching RED long baggy shorts. One night I asked him how many jerseys he had. He told me, proudly, that he had five—a friend of his in Canada sends them to him. You see how good it is to be well-connected, especially with Canucks? Eh?
The following night, the last game of the schedule was played and we received an unexpected gift, as Hala, playing without two injured starters, upset Ahli. We had been tied for first with Ahli and Manama and this result knocked Ahli down to third while we’re first because of a point difference over Manama; although we have the same record at 15-3. We have not won a championship, but by being first after two full rounds of play have qualified to represent Bahrain next year in the Arab Games. The winner of the grand finale, the Golden Square, will be the rep to the Gulf Games. Meanwhile, we start a new Cup competition tomorrow night, our first game against the team that just finished sixth. We still have three injured players so can take nothing for granted. Except great health, if we take large doses of you-know-what.
**********
Okay, the economy is in shambles. Jobs have disappeared, incomes have shrunk. You’d hoped to make a ton from the comfort of your home by working for E-Bay or Google, but that hasn’t worked out…as you knew, deep down, it wouldn’t. What to do?
Let me tell you about great opportunities in a thriving industry here. Just about all of the fast food places and a great many low budget type restaurants offer delivery service. And that service requires both a goodly number of motor scooters and a delivery person for each. There are swarms of these people on the busy streets.
The benefits are great. You get absolutely tons of fresh air up your nose, as you, excitedly, zip in and out of what might be described as “interesting” local traffic conditions. In addition to your insulated delivery box behind your seat (keeping you warm in winter), you have a horn and get to wear a crash helmet. At any given delivery point you may expect a tip ranging from the equivalent of 50 cents all the way up to a dollar. You will learn shortcuts that will make you the envy of your neighborhood back in India…or in your case, the West. I want you to seriously consider if this might not be the exciting adventure and career move that you’ve been looking for.
The only tiny drawback is that, statistically, you’ll have a life expectancy of exactly 227.2 days. But who’s to say you won’t laugh in the face of those odds, and whiz around a great deal longer?
As the Philosopher said: "It's a great life if you don't weaken."
**********
Well, Jenny the bride-to-be has come and gone. You remember when, three weeks ago, Rick proposed to her in public practically the second she sat foot in the Kingdom…in the Arrivals Hall at the airport? Speechless, she’d nodded her head yes, but I was just thinking. Is a non-verbalism legally binding? Or can she somehow squirm out of it without making Ann Landers mad?
No need to wonder too hard on that though, because she doesn’t seem to want to squirm out. She was here for 16 days and everything seems to have been a real life fairy tale. She likes both Rick and Bahrain. (What do you mean: “Is she on drugs?” Of course not!) And since he’s anticipating a move to Dubai they also took a 4-day side trip to the nearby Emirates and enjoyed themselves to the max while there.
Remember the ring that Rick took ten seconds to pick out…gold with tiny little pearls in a design? Well, at first she pretended to like it. Then she admitted that just maybe they should think about a possible exchange. Then, finally, she admitted that she hated its guts. That surprised me, because I didn’t even realize rings had intestines. But sure enough…she showed me part of the duodenum that she’d ripped off in a rage. Which left Rick, who’s for World Peace, ashen and shaken.
“Get used to it!” she shrieked. And then smiled sweetly at him and hinted that she was maybe just joking. But her college soccer coach at Charleston Southern wasn’t just joking when she reported back after a summer off and he called her Lard Bucket. Or was it Butterball? It was one of those two. Anyway, she admits that she’d gained a pound or two but got even with him when he wouldn’t let her play until she was again svelte. By sulking.
You’ll like this: Rick, in summing up his feelings for her, said to me, “She was everything that I expected her to be…and much, much more.” Okay, when you girls out there have stopped dabbing your eyes, and when the guys have stopped regurgitating, I’ll fill you in on what’s next. So now you’re ready? Okay.
Rick will tentatively fly to North Carolina next Month and the knot will be tied in perhaps a civil ceremony. He’ll stay there maybe a week and then come back here and then…either she’ll come here…or he’ll move there…or they will both move to Dubai…who knows? You’ll have to stay tuned to find out.
Some of the signs say “For Rent,” but at least half use Brit-speak and say something else. You know that this area’s first foreign influence was British. And every one of you remembers that what are now the United Arab Emirates were previously the Trucial States, under a British Protectorate. So there are still a lot of British reminders throughout the Gulf.
And one of them, regarding vacancies, is: “To Let.” So as I zip around I see a lot of For Rents and a lot more of To Lets. But when I see TO LET from a distance, my body, from long years of conditioning, immediately makes a beeline for that sign. It seems that my mind (which is a trickster) doesn’t recognize that there’s a missing letter. Anyway, I get there as fast as I can, anticipation building.
There’s no need to go into detail about what happens once I arrive, but let it suffice to say that there have been some loud and colorful shouting matches. And that I’ve never even once been arrested.
**********
I wonder how you’re doing with your honey and cinnamon regimen. I’ve been on it about four months now and it’s for sure a wonder drug. It cures absolutely everything, and also promotes weight loss—something not relevant to me but which you, Tubbo, may be somewhat interested in. Earlier, I’d told you how I’d seen results within just a couple of weeks: no new outbreaks of acne, plus I’d suddenly gained feeling below my knees.
The list has grown. I was thinking real hard the other day and I realized that I’ve also been free of diphtheria, whooping cough, measles, tuberculosis, insanity, bowlegedness, colic, and swayback. For just a minute there one morning I thought I’d contracted mumps when I woke up with a swollen jaw. But then I thought back to the night before and remembered that when I’d gone in to pick up my laundry around the corner one of the workers (a suspicious sort of fellow by the name of Baboo) had accidentally hit me with a croquet mallet. So no mumps either.
And it gets even better. What with having regained feeling in my lower extremities I, one night, just for the fun of it, decided to put on my cowboy boots. With a tad of effort I squeezed my sausage-like phalanges into those pointy-toed rascals and had a look in the mirror. Pretty darn good. Why stop here?
So I went down to a cowboy place in Juffair, called the Texas Buttstomper, and did a little showing off. At first by just letting folks admire my boots while I watched the line dancing. But then (you decide if it was a miracle or not) those boots suddenly took on a life of their own and made my feet do things they never knew they could do. The bottom line is that I was a line dancing rock star for like three hours. And, more kudos to the honey and cinnamon: I’d never known a single step before that night. I’m tellin ya, it’s good stuff.
**********
We won our last game of the first phase of league play by giving a dose of strong medicine to winless Bahrain Club. Their coach, who until now had invariably worn long baggy blue shorts to go with an NFL jersey, on this night pulled a surprise. He matched up his Isaac Bruce Forty-Niners shirt with matching RED long baggy shorts. One night I asked him how many jerseys he had. He told me, proudly, that he had five—a friend of his in Canada sends them to him. You see how good it is to be well-connected, especially with Canucks? Eh?
The following night, the last game of the schedule was played and we received an unexpected gift, as Hala, playing without two injured starters, upset Ahli. We had been tied for first with Ahli and Manama and this result knocked Ahli down to third while we’re first because of a point difference over Manama; although we have the same record at 15-3. We have not won a championship, but by being first after two full rounds of play have qualified to represent Bahrain next year in the Arab Games. The winner of the grand finale, the Golden Square, will be the rep to the Gulf Games. Meanwhile, we start a new Cup competition tomorrow night, our first game against the team that just finished sixth. We still have three injured players so can take nothing for granted. Except great health, if we take large doses of you-know-what.
**********
Okay, the economy is in shambles. Jobs have disappeared, incomes have shrunk. You’d hoped to make a ton from the comfort of your home by working for E-Bay or Google, but that hasn’t worked out…as you knew, deep down, it wouldn’t. What to do?
Let me tell you about great opportunities in a thriving industry here. Just about all of the fast food places and a great many low budget type restaurants offer delivery service. And that service requires both a goodly number of motor scooters and a delivery person for each. There are swarms of these people on the busy streets.
The benefits are great. You get absolutely tons of fresh air up your nose, as you, excitedly, zip in and out of what might be described as “interesting” local traffic conditions. In addition to your insulated delivery box behind your seat (keeping you warm in winter), you have a horn and get to wear a crash helmet. At any given delivery point you may expect a tip ranging from the equivalent of 50 cents all the way up to a dollar. You will learn shortcuts that will make you the envy of your neighborhood back in India…or in your case, the West. I want you to seriously consider if this might not be the exciting adventure and career move that you’ve been looking for.
The only tiny drawback is that, statistically, you’ll have a life expectancy of exactly 227.2 days. But who’s to say you won’t laugh in the face of those odds, and whiz around a great deal longer?
As the Philosopher said: "It's a great life if you don't weaken."
**********
Well, Jenny the bride-to-be has come and gone. You remember when, three weeks ago, Rick proposed to her in public practically the second she sat foot in the Kingdom…in the Arrivals Hall at the airport? Speechless, she’d nodded her head yes, but I was just thinking. Is a non-verbalism legally binding? Or can she somehow squirm out of it without making Ann Landers mad?
No need to wonder too hard on that though, because she doesn’t seem to want to squirm out. She was here for 16 days and everything seems to have been a real life fairy tale. She likes both Rick and Bahrain. (What do you mean: “Is she on drugs?” Of course not!) And since he’s anticipating a move to Dubai they also took a 4-day side trip to the nearby Emirates and enjoyed themselves to the max while there.
Remember the ring that Rick took ten seconds to pick out…gold with tiny little pearls in a design? Well, at first she pretended to like it. Then she admitted that just maybe they should think about a possible exchange. Then, finally, she admitted that she hated its guts. That surprised me, because I didn’t even realize rings had intestines. But sure enough…she showed me part of the duodenum that she’d ripped off in a rage. Which left Rick, who’s for World Peace, ashen and shaken.
“Get used to it!” she shrieked. And then smiled sweetly at him and hinted that she was maybe just joking. But her college soccer coach at Charleston Southern wasn’t just joking when she reported back after a summer off and he called her Lard Bucket. Or was it Butterball? It was one of those two. Anyway, she admits that she’d gained a pound or two but got even with him when he wouldn’t let her play until she was again svelte. By sulking.
You’ll like this: Rick, in summing up his feelings for her, said to me, “She was everything that I expected her to be…and much, much more.” Okay, when you girls out there have stopped dabbing your eyes, and when the guys have stopped regurgitating, I’ll fill you in on what’s next. So now you’re ready? Okay.
Rick will tentatively fly to North Carolina next Month and the knot will be tied in perhaps a civil ceremony. He’ll stay there maybe a week and then come back here and then…either she’ll come here…or he’ll move there…or they will both move to Dubai…who knows? You’ll have to stay tuned to find out.
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