Pre-Politics:CRIME STOPPERS EPISODE #8,939,247 or Life on the Other Side of the Drawbridge

TIMELY REPOST, and remembering how to conduct real political business among real common folk, who rarely hang the day in a coffee shop... and, as I take a breath to fight hypoxia, it is always good to remember Tante Louise.

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As it was a hazy, lazy day and we were in a hazy, lazy frame of mind, La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore organized a hay ride. Sometimes we have to blow this Joint, Manor that it is, and get out amongst the Common Folk.

So Fred gave up dredging the algae bloom that has beset The Moat. The bazillions of pigmented cells have decided to be red, of course, in honor of our politics. We can't, despite the well-worn furrow in our collective brow (Get it? What a rapier wit.), figure how we overnourished this vast body of water. It's not like we have fertilizer run off from "the fields" -- not us! No, we three believe in extending the fallowed nature of The Back Forty to the Entire Property. Honest to God! Hommage to Captain Haddock's Ancestral Holdings Upon Which We Squat! We've not been tossing the phosphorus around all willy-nilly. The Schmitzia hiscockiana, "small, red, and rare," must have an unusual generative source.

As I said, we pulled Fred from the waterworks, and I put aside the last-minute grading from Fall Semester 1992 (Discuss: Lucky and Pozzo, Gay or Gay?). The Feline Four got all doodied-up, which involved straw hats, berets, and breath mints. After much to-do, I was convinced to brush and puff Marmy's tail, curl Uncle Kitty Big Balls' whiskers on the left side of his face (inexplicably, they droop a good 2 inches below the whiskers on the right), trim Sammy's nails -- he suffers from terrible split ends -- and repeatedly reassure Dobby that he would not miss dinner or any substantive snacking.

You've seen nothing until you see The Castafiore decked out in her HayRide Outfit. Think, if you are able, of a sexed-up Little Orphan Annie, although I believe she might have been going for more of a decadent Shirley Temple. Think spandex, think Pepto-Bismol pink. Think ringlets, think peroxide blonde.

Resist the urge to gouge your eyes... it will pass.

We finally made it out to the beautiful, winding country roads in the environs.

We finished the afternoon in town because we needed to pick up a few items at the supermarché, those things that we get in bulk. Having a wagon handy is a rarity. Finally, we are stocked up on my 6.80388 kg containers of lowfat plain yogurt. I like to have at least four of those babies available for midnight-to-4 am snacks, as well as for yogurt emergencies.

Bianca got her bulk mineral make-up supplies:

Matte Mineral Foundation
Mineral Resurfacing Veil (Fred and I chipped in for a few extra vats)
Mineral Eye Shadows (mattes, satins, and pure pigments)
Mineral Blush and Bronzers
Glo Mineral Luminosity Face Powder (Fred and I snuck almost all of it *off* the wagon)
Natural Lip Gloss
Wholesale Kabuki Brushes (to promote that "natural" look she's famed for)

The 12 kegs of Matte Mineral Foundation, alone, tipped the wagon, so we made sure their weight was evenly distributed in a kind of Stone Henge arrangement.

We stopped for ice cream and "parked" in the shade of an elm on a nearby neighborhood road. We were, without doubt, an odd sight, a bit of chaotic rustica mucking up ordered suburbia.

Entertainment happened along within minutes. We would have killed for a video camera. A quick sketch artist, even.

A bedraggled man in his 50s, a fierce look of determination on his face, struggled by us, trying to push a HUGE widescreen television, attached to some kind of -- equally HUGE -- console, down the road. Once upon a time, it must have had tiny, tiny wheels on it.

He stopped in front of a large house, just down from the corner. It dawned on him -- you could see the lightbulb light up over his hatted head -- that he just could not push this thing all the way to wherever he was going. So he left it and went running down the street. He ducked in between two cottages and shortly thereafter he came back with a shopping cart.

Yes, he had the bright idea that he was going to put this HUGE TV/console inside this TINY shopping cart.

We were having hysterics but we also were dividing into camps -- Pro-Dood-Stealing-The-Big-Screen-TV-With-BigAss-Console versus the ever-predictable Anti-Theft Sermonizers. Sympathies shifted back and forth, with each HayRider adopting, however briefly, a fierce law-and-order stance at least once.

The Four Felines are notorious for preferring risky fun to straightlaced behavior. Go figure.

Anyway, it was like watching a cartoon character have a really bad idea -- the coyote ordering Acme products in the vain attempt to blow the roadrunner to smithereens. One cartoon balloon after another popped up over this Dear Dood's head.

By the way, it was over 95 degrees out there on the mean streets of suburban Tête de Hergé. This was one *dedicated* audio-visualphile, working without a net, working without a clue.

Finally, we regained our habitual sobriety and Fred whipped out his cellphone to call the Tête de Hergé version of 911. In Europe, the emergency phone number is often 112. Here, in our very unique area of Tête de Hergé, it often suffices to call up Tante Louise -- who is a story in and of herself.

We could see neighbors begin to peek out their windows , and a couple of people came out for an unobstructed view of the action, iced sweet-tea in hand, watching the man's progress.
This was what passed for free entertainment on that slow, hot day.

While Fred is chatting up Tante Louise, who on her end is directing all the CentDouze law enforcement, I gave a shriek. Our guy, former treasurer of his high school AV Club, manages to tip the mammoth TV over, after failing to get it safely lodged in the cart [surprise!].

He stands under his thought balloon, scratching his itchy head, while the cart slowly gathers steam and proceeds to roll down the hill. I could not calm myself and gave up trying -- hooting and hollering like the Hayride Hayseed that I am.

Apparently, by then, *everyone* in the neighborhood was watching and had called Tante Louise, who promptly put *everyone* on hold and poured herself a finger or two, so as to better survive the Crime Wave.

Back at the epicenter of the action, Our Guy sprints (about 400 meters, a straight shot out of the starting blocks) and recovers the recalcitrant cart. He drags it up the incline, back to its proper position next to the humongous television. {Il prend donc une petite pause} -- and we on the wagon break out the aftermeal mints and diaper wipes. Always bring a bin of diaper wipes on your hayrides. In these days of green, you might consider Seventh Generation's "only non-chlorine bleached cloth baby wipes."

After the short break in the action, during which Bedraggled Dood perched birdlike on the curb, a timely, helpful soul came slowly driving by (just the first of the rubberneckers) and decided to stop and assist AV-Man in the orderly theft of this TV and console. Together, they managed to *balance* the thing across the cart. The Good Samaritan got back in his truck -- in a confused sort of rush -- and drove away, shaking his head, making odd gestures in the air, talking to himself, apparently realizing -- too late -- that Our Guy was not all there and that he, a Good Samaritan, was now complicit as one-half of a crime wave.

He must have noticed the ronronnement of multiple conversations with Tante Louise, the cell phones everywhere, and concluded that exiting the scene before the cops' arrival was the better part of valor.

As previously noted, the street had a pretty serious incline going on.

We watched SumDood as he first began a fast-paced walk, then broke into an uneven trot, and finally was flat out running like a man chasing Usain Bolt. He managed to keep at least a pinky on the shopping cart, which, honoring the laws of momentum, gathered up its mass and velocity and sped downhill.

We were really sad when he finally flew out of sight.

The cops came pretty quickly and the last we heard, they were trying to match up the HUGE now-wrecked TV set with its heartbroken owners.

We turned the wagon around and began the trek back to Marlinspike Hall, not at all anxious to face the worries that doubtless were waiting for us: the red swarm of algae and the many holes left to chink in the medieval wing (and in some outbuildings -- the more ancient of the gazebos, for example).

Audio-Visual Man, wherever you are tonight, God bless.

© 2015 L. Ryan

Cats Trump Writer's Block

NOTE: A just discovered gem buried in the Drafts folder, dated 8 August 2012, 10:27 AM, Tête de Hergé Super Standard Time.  The "gem" is not the writing, but the cat photography.  I think this blog has been entirely too grim of late, so a CAT POST is just the thing.  And since I don't feel much like posting today, or perhaps ever again, finding something that claims to have broken through "Writer's Block" is terrifically helpful to the me of today, 21 January 2015.  And it's a darned shame that Tante Louise's video cameo appearance didn't make it to the page -- but she is surely getting all things aligned in Heaven (which is, as Townes Van Zandt reminds us, "where you find it.").  And I do also miss the original Crack Whore Organic Pig Farmer Lady, taken down by the Fugitive Squad/Aunt Louise. An unfortunate, but historic, Community Event. Memories are slippery things!

Enjoy this serendipitous break from an Excessively Somber Period of Blogging!

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Dobby

So,  when I made the masterpiece of a video about flushing PICC lines, the astute observer will have noticed that I dropped the recording device into a sink full of nice, hot soapy water.  Cleanliness, godliness!

I don't have much money.  I'm poor, in fact.  Not entitlement poor, more like, receiving 60% of my 2000 salary with no adjustment for cost-of-living or any inflationary trickeroos poor -- and using that money to support a household, pay a caretaker, fork out over $15,000 on health care (with insurance, even the blessed PCIP), and all the usual -- maintaining the sexiness of Ruby the Honda CRV, and keeping her legal, paying the mortgage, and having every animal in our care up to date in shots and vet exams.  Hell, the year of Little Boy (Uncle Kitty Big Balls), because of Fred's deep love for him, we payed close to $5,000 trying to save the dear soul's life.  I have to say, though, that had the vet involved been a better vet. a more honest vet, we might have stopped torturing him several thousand dollars earlier.

Lest you scoff at my "I'm poor" by pointing your pointy finger at my list of financial accomplishments, I should add that I never eat out, haven't been to a movie theatre, much less La Scala, in over a decade, and some claim that "generic" is my middle name.

Also, I make my money grow by playing the market.

That's right.  The socialist owns GOOG [but the rest of her portfolio is so deep in risk that she ain't revealing anything more, lest your mere scoffery turn to disgust].

Anyway, this is my way of explaining that I bought a new video camera.  It was a deal, a steal, and a good choice according to Fred's Bible, Consumer Reports, Tête de Hergé edition.  There was much ado about how easy it is to use, though I admit there was not a specific warranty of ease of use when the photog has one good hand, and a fumbling one, at that.

So far it is defeating me.  I don't get the zillions of icons offered on the LED screen.  Just tap!  It's easy! Without proof that one of those symbols won't launch an ICBM, I cannot willy-nilly start choosing picto-signifiers.  I have a conscience.

But this morning, which came too early, I thought I would at least try to take some still photos.  And then show them, describe them, say things, any things, to help destroy the iron bars behind which I pretend this writer is penned, blocked.

So... like many of my kind, after I inject myself with a few drugs, take 7 pills, go pee,and climb into the wheelchair, my first act of the day is to make coffee.  As you ought to know, we harbor three cats in our wing of Marlinspike Hall -- Captain Haddock issued orders that they no longer are free-ranging throughout the Manor, what with the claw-sharpening activity in the Tapestry Alcoves and all:  Marmy Fluffy Butt, Dobby (her son, the runt), and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten (no one told us he was a Maine Coon).
These three insert themselves boldly, and sometimes rudely, into the coffee-making plan by performing intricate death-defying patterns around the wheels of this power chair.  "Feed us, feed us, feed us," they chant.

At which point the absurdity begins.  I manage to get three bowls filled with fresh and tasty kibble and on the floor, in the required layout.  Marmy will only eat out of the red plastic bowl;  Dobby and Buddy prefer the metal bowls, but then purposefully set out to eat from each receptacle.  The two water bowls must frame the three food bowls like parentheses.  Change that and one of them will make the subtle point of their dissatisfaction by, for example, eating with one paw in one water bowl, and filling the other water bowl with half-chewed bits of kibble.

But, finally, coffee.

Oh, here is a picture of my new kettle.  I broke my café press a few weeks ago.  Might have been the same day I killed the video camera.  So I dug out one of our many Melitta drip cones and went back to that most honest form of coffee-making.  In the process, I noticed that my Paul Revere kettle was leaking.  As in, the solder was breaking down, the seams were separating.  So I went online to my new favorite pastime -- FAB -- the rule in force being "no purchases allowed, because you are poor, no matter how well GOOG is doing."

But they had this kettle, and it was cute, and it was on sale, and it is now on my stove (in our private kitchenette, as it is hardly appropriate for the more demanding heat requirements of, say, the Medieval Kitchens).

New red kettle from FAB

If confession is truly good for the soul:  I also bought some stationary.  I have a weakness for good stationary, and may be the last person on Earth to continue to send handwritten letters and cards, delivered to brick-and-mortar, or daub-and-wattle, or hand-chinked stone domiciles.

Okay, so... it's heavy, the kettle.  I have already poured boiling water onto my lap, neatly missing the Melitta cone, because I couldn't hold the lovely shiny red thing up high enough to pour the water in over something not made of my flesh, like the counter.  But I will figure it out.  This morning, I put my coffee-making stuff in the sink, reducing the height requirement of the kettle heft.  [You will either understand that last sentence or you won't.  I can't help you.]

The video camera, when plugged into the limping-along computer, has lovely edit functions for my visual artistry.  Unfortunately, the red of the kettle was lost in the necessity to tone down the severely dominating whiteness of the stove top's enamel, even the whitey glare of the pitcher and old cookie jar that hold my cooking utensils.

The red, the red, it is not right.

Okay, so the cats are fed.  The coffee is made and, if necessary, burn balm applied to my upper thighs.
I turn the wheelchair in the direction of early morning television news, the computer, and a bed into which I can dive when pain spikes.

Dobby always disappears about five minutes before I make my slow journey to the bedroom -- slow because I'll be damned if any more coffee is leaving the mug, unless headed for my caffeine-starved self.

The photo at the top of this post?  That's what I find waiting for me on the bed -- without fail, and thankfully so, for it makes me smile like no body's business.  Dobby, laid out, and ready for his requisite ten minutes of loving.

He wants, first, a fierce belly rub, then a sensual ear massage, easy on the right one.  He then finds the comb and brush dedicated to his use, and his use alone, and knocks them on the floor.  Why we have to go through this particular part of the ritual, I dunno, but I don't change things because he's cute when he tries to get tough.

The grooming begins in earnest, and lasts as long as my right arm can wield the brush and comb.

After ten minutes, usually, of attention, Dobby is faced with three options:

• He can play with Buddy, who has taken his place at the foot of the bed, and is vocalizing like a loon.
• He can curl up and take his first nap of the day.
• He can grab the comb, freshly cleaned of his fine gray hairs, growl, shake it, and run off with it looking like a 19th century train robber who scored gold.

Okay, back to my pitiable photography.  Marmy has sworn me off.  She doesn't come to cuddle any more, she runs, in fact, when I draw near.  Oh, she is conflicted, that is for sure.  She talks at me when we're together in the kitchenette, and lets me pat her head.  She relies on me to clean up her hairball offerings, which have become frequent, because she won't let me help her with her decidedly difficult grooming.  (She's a long-haired beauty.)

My crime?  She has a recurrent eye condition -- herpes, actually -- which requires "gooping" with medication.  She managed to go several years without a problem but a few months back, poor thing, it returned with a vengeance in her left eye.  Now... Fred is a loving pet caretaker but he lacks finesse when it comes to administering pet medications.  As in, he scares the crap out of them because he believes they must be captured for the process to have meaning.  My philosophy is more one of waiting for them to come to me, then faking them out, but following my evil up with a good nuggle, a nice treat, something to confuse their nascent desire to hate me.

Marmy, though, has that incredible ability to read a human's mind.  Before you make a move to pick up the eye ointment, before you even allow yourself to entertain the thought of eye ointment, she's on to you, and she is GONE.

So we had to go with the Fred Method.  For some reason (a phrase I'd love to be able to eliminate from my life, or at least reduce its aptitude), he'd trap her, then carry her to me, and I would get to apply the goop to her eye.  

Now, I don't know, but it is my strong suspicion, having gooped other cats with this same medication, that Marmy is a bit, you know, Castafiore-esque.  She yelps, she cries, she squirms, she gives you the Look Of Death.  Every one else shakes their tiny feline heads, maybe gives a brief glare, and then they're over it.

Marmy Fluffy Butt has yet to forgive me.

This is how I get to see her first thing in the morning.  Peering at me, half-hidden behind the doorway, wondering if I am gonna drop the cherry bomb of a new kettle in order to swoop over, grab her by her Fluffy Tail, and stick some acid-like substance in her eyeball.  It's been months now.  I've decided to ignore her, and that is beginning to work, as, again like The Castafiore, she cannot bear the lack of attention.

Marmy Fluffy Butt, giving me the Evil Eye, and badly in need of grooming

It's unfair not to remind you that Marmy has her reasons -- we took her in when she was heavy with kittens, to the point where her belly almost dragged the floor.  She's tiny -- barely 8 pounds, and she had five little ones inside her.  She was only 8 months old at the time, or so figured the vet.  We figure that she started as someone's pet, and then was abandoned, and had been on the streets for a good bit.  

It's unfair not to note that we "took her in" by following one of Fred's Grab Scenarios, using a yummy bowl of kibble as bait.  Marmy will not eat wet food, something we wish someone would explain to us.  She refuses real chicken, etc.  Anyway, we kidnapped the poor, freezing pregnant soul and so began life with Marmy.  She was essentially feral for almost two years.

In the first few months of her stay, Fred had to CARRY my sweet Sam-I-Am (now deceased) past her to the litter box or she would beat him up.  Sammy weighed about 14 pounds.  It was ridiculous.

We don't know, beyond rape, what she endured out on the street, but it wasn't good.  When she decided we were okay, it was wonderful.  She made up for lost love time.  She domesticated as no cat has domesticated before her.

So when she reverts to her fearful state, it hurts my heart.  She and Fred were never nuggle partners, and he doesn't groom unless brushes are actually thrown at him with loud verbal encouragements, so their relationship is still stable.  

I hope my next photo of my girl is a pose of her purring and stretched out on my belly, all sleek and smooth, with fun, and not fear, in her eyes.  And God forbid that her eyes ever need treatment again.

O Lordy, Lordy!  Good grief.  Moving right along.  Those of you who have followed Buddy's growth, here's how big he is now, and still growing.  The vet says he will continue to grow for another two years, one of those weird bits of Maine Coon trivia.

Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten

Note Marmy sneaking in behind him, and actually eating out of a metal bowl and not her beloved red plastic thang.  Buddy has become her pal, for which we're very thankful, as he's the only living organism in Marlinspike Hall who can successfully defend against the swift application of her claws, or achieve the speed of light.  The two of them love to vocalize, and they streak by in blurs that even make Dobby look perplexed.

Well, after I conquer the "photo" mode on this bleeping camera, I will give the video mode another try.  

Fred was sorely disappointed in me a couple of days ago, when the Crack Whore Organic Pig Farmer Lady who lives across our country lane was raided by the Tête de Hergé Lone Alp West Fugitive Squad -- you would have bust a gut at the sight of Tante Louise in SWAT gear.  She had managed to move about a yard by the time her team had rushed the Pig Farm Cottage, captured the ne'er-do-well, thrown her into the back seat of the Fugitive Catcher Car, an orange Vega, dodged a few angry free-ranging hogs, wrapped a few muddy acres in yellow cop crime scene tape, and jumped back into the Fugitive Squad station wagon.

I had the camera out but it was just the second time I'd ever had it strapped to my quivering, spazzing right hand.  So we ended up with a lovely montage of light glinting off the moat, close-ups of hog jowls, and lots of footage of Tante Louise stuck in the mire.

It would have gone viral on YouTube.

© 2015 L. Ryan

Firetruck, Ball, Dictionary

This is the third incarnation of this post, each published on the eve of that phenomenal event known as the "annual physical." Tante Louise, though gone, lives on in the spirit of every citizen in Tête de Hergé and this jot marked her début as elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle's first Official Greeter, Docent, Porter, and Grande Dame.  The custom died out, unfortunately, largely due to her absence, that void of steely graciousness so difficult to emulate.  The genetically indentured Manor Staff, as you likely foresaw, found this change in its generational routine assignments as a violent upset to the Marlinspike Hall apple cart.  

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REPOST:  IN MEMORY OF TANTE LOUISE,
WHO HAS MOVED ON
TO WARMER CLIMES.
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The official motto of Syldavia: 

Eih bennek, eih blavek 

 If you gather thistles, expect prickles (roughly translated)

These days, when you see the Physician's Assistant for the 5-minute cursory exam that has replaced your family doctor's annual physical, she is likely to include a simple test of your short term memory.


 "I'm going to say three words.  In a few minutes, or at the end of this cursory exam, whichever comes first, I will ask you to recall these three words."


Then she will say something like "firetruck, ball, dictionary."


After giving you prescriptions for a new anti-depressant, maybe a statin or two, some thyroid hormone, and a recommendation to lose weight, as your PA is leaving the examination closet, hand on the doorknob, she'll ask you, over the shoulder and not slowing one bit, what those three words were.


Try to be ready.

Sad to say, that's my best approximation of the prevailing ambiance here at elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle, with its lopsided equivalencies, all those adverbs for ballast, my subordinate clause. Unrhymed but metered tercets, I write strings of words that I repeat to strangers in the hope that they will remember, and speak them back.


Just because I have problems with words doesn't mean I've the right to sour the whole experience.


Sensing a looming depression settling over his beloved valley, The Captain recently sent us a team of motivational speakers, the ideal long distance gift from an absentee Manor Lord.  During a cold lunch that featured a perfect mound of tuna salad rising from a Botticellian shell of Boston lettuce -- surrounded by pale green, slightly mottled frozen grapes that were, themselves, punctuated with watermelon and sour cream quenelles -- 


During *that*, we listened to our Plenary Session guru, a self-styled Cicero who could sell Ginzu knives and Veg-a-matics to desert ascetics.


After changing into the Haddock Corporation's new line of  70% bamboo/30% spandex Ye Olde Sea Salt athletic wear, The Manor's indentured-unto-perpetuity Domestic Staff spent the afternoon doing team-building exercises, often blindfolded, sometimes with various legs lashed together.  At one time or another, each employee fell backward -- full of faith -- into the extended arms of their waiting coworkers (relatives, mostly), in whom they already knew *exactly* how much to trust.


Times are tight everywhere, even in Tête de Hergé. We think that's what is fuelling The Captain's new love of all things corporate.  It's not that he doesn't have almost infinite resources -- good Lord, just look around you!  It is more a question of liquidity.  For years, we ran Marlinspike Hall with the proceeds from collectible comic books and by selling off coveted domaine names, snatched up back in the days before Spielberg had his eye on Hergé's Tête.  Shoot, we used to make payroll thanks to a horse stall full of pristine Bengali editions of King Ottokar's Sceptre, carefully packed in hay.  


The bottom line is that we are opening almost the entire Manor and Haddock family land holdings to the public in an effort to make Marlinspike Hall a self-sustaining endeavor.  The Captain wants to be, forgive the pun, a captain of industry, among other things, and so we find ourselves scheduled to host a series of BigSpeak SpeakEasy MiniTraining Camps, sort of an Outward Bound experience for the buttoned-down world.  Not just for at-risk youth, our outdoor adventures!  


It's kind of a test.  That's right, we're beta testers.       


Fred has been in close consultation with the Garden, Grounds, and Outbuildings Guild, trying to achieve and maintain a level of preparedness that would rival any scouting organization.  Their first obstacle, of course, was  access to toilets -- just what the forward-thinking Fred had predicted.  But because they had money to throw at the issue, the solution was fairly simple, and would also help us attract people to other events, such as ManorFest and our fledgling 3-Day Substance Abuse Intervention Program for Carnies and Sideshow Freaks (Born and/or Made)*.  Not having a decent place to go would no longer be reason enough to stay away and certainly no longer an excuse to refuse help.

* I know you must be wondering about our work among these talented folk.  It all began when some Cirque du Soleil people escaped from the Lone Alp Rehab.  Lost and high, they were drawn to the various riggings and natural performance venues of Marlinspike Hall.  We found them swinging like inebriated monkeys from the hefty hemp rope that connects the Manor Stables to the Computer Turret. The only way in or out, up or down, that pesky turret is via this thick rope ladder, dyed caution yellow, that extends down (but mostly sideways) out to the Stables. (It's more bridge than ladder, Fred always says.)  Anyway, with the help of our Cistercian monk neighbors, almost everyone got sober, and the word spread.  Lots of our ManorFest vendors have carnival connections, and it turned out that Abbot Truffatore and Father Anthony, Guest TaskMaster, offer a special Retreat twice a year for Sideshow Freaks.  And you thought all those monks did was peddle ink and toner supplies!

Fred waved this Toilet brochure under my sweaty nose as he ran off to tackle some other pressing Guild issue.  


It *is* exciting:


• "Green System" uses minimal water and Green Manufacturing. 
• Warm Fireplace in Women's restrooms. 
• Hot and cold running water. 
• Black Onyx Decor counter tops. 
• Self contained water tank (up to 800 uses). 
• Holding tank allows approximately 2,000 uses before servicing. 
• Ample exterior lighting. 
• Marbled patterned walls. 
• Diffused sconce lighting throughout. 
• Heated and air conditioned. 
• Fully enclosed individual stalls. 
• Sanitary Hands-Free pedal flush toilets and urinals. 


They had me with the sconces!


It's not the sexiest part of Hergé Manor Maintenance, but I know that Moat Conditioning is going to be a terribly divisive topic, what with so many first time corporate visitors arriving by submarine. It's a tenuous ecological balancing act -- on the one hand, we can flood the Submariner's Mooring area with Commercial Grade Bacterial Enzyme Treatments to transform industrial-grade sludge and out-of-control nutrients ("Up to 1,000 Lbs Per Day!") into Essential Angel Farts;  on the other hand, we can quietly, efficiently, and cheaply drown out our problems with algaecides (copper sulphate, iron salts, rosin amine salts and benzalkonium chloride). 


Fred has a dream.  He wants to press The Manor's Miniature Families into special service, such as Moat Maintenance.  I don't know that this is the time for such forward-thinking measures, but you try calming down an excited Fred.  "For only the cost of toothbrushes!" he crows.


I am limited by a pesky Non-Disclosure Agreement, and had to have even this little bit of blog copy pre-approved... but I am pleased to announce that these BigSpeak SpeakEasy MiniTraining Camps mark the first event use of our new Class IIa Abbreviated Wilderness Trail and Bird Sanctuary.  It's an amazing piece of artifice made, seemingly, of concentric oak hammocks and dense coastal pine woodland looping around a central marsh, that is, itself, carefully maintained and divided by a system of unobtrusive dykes.  The fake marsh is host to seven tiny -- and very real -- nesting islands.  Weirdly enough, the comment we hear most often from the BETA specialists on site at Marlinspike Hall, as they gaze down from its rarefied heights?  "Nice... but no waterfalls."


Having enjoyed a Power Nap or two, the motivational speakers were excited to herd us mild-mannered mid-management types through the Stable, over the rope bridge, and into the Computer Turret, where we were sequestered for a special brainstorming session. Fred was a little miffed. He kept reminding everyone to send thank you notes to The Captain, our absent host ("...and don't stop at one, send five!").


This whole "corporations are people, too" concept is new to us, what can I say?


The only idea, bright or otherwise, to emerge from our forced meeting of minds was the decision to post some of our older, semi-retired Domestic Staff right beside the blog titles, so that visitors can be properly escorted and supported as they read.  It can be vertiginous, the experience of reading around here. Plus, these sweet old farts absolutely insist on being scheduled for a few shifts each week -- devoted old men, consecrated old women.


Walmart got the whole "Greeters" gimmick from us, you know.  Initially, we thought ourselves quite clever, tapping into such a great resource as Marlinspike Hall's kind and wizened live-in elders.  Weren't we grand, weren't we magnanimous, providing the Old Folk with a routine and some physical and mental enrichment to stave off dementia?! Still, the twinkle in their milky eyes was disconcerting: Fred broke out in guilty psychic rashes; I took to wearing Evil Eye jewelry. (But La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore laughed and laughed!) It took a few years but we finally learned that our bent and rheumatic greeting squad was happily fulfilling the final act of their lifelong (and genetic) dedication to hospitality.


We've caught several of our Cistercian neighbors trying to horn in and cover Greeter shifts. It turned out to have been suggested by Abbot Truffatore as impeccable adjunct training for those monks eyeballing the monastery's Porter or Gatekeeper position. A curious identity, the Porter spans the division between worlds, introducing one to the other, and when perfected to the job, absolutely refraining from judgment.   There's even a quiet tradition of sainthood being bestowed upon these keepers of the welcoming flame.


It's as a reflection of the Porter's mythos, then, that we publicly post our Greeters next to every bolded blog title. Maybe we're a smidgen too proud of our wrinkled Greeters but they've guided us well, without judgment, even in the brash early days when we never thought we'd be anything but Manor Squatters, never thought to make a real home here.  It's those same kind, wizened  folk who wait to show you life in Tête de Hergé, at least how it is west of the Lone Alp, and the way things are done here, in Marlinspike Hall, the Haddock family's humble ancestral abode.

Thomson and Thompson (Dupont et Dupond)
by Hergé

Serving as Honorary First Blog Guide and Greeter, you have no doubt noted, is Tête de Hergé's most famous nonagenarian, Tante Louise. Together with three cell phones, a bull horn, and her panoptic beady brown eyes, she is our first, and best, defense against fire, theft, and trauma of all sort. 

She will be hosting this post for its initial minute inside your skull, at which point Gervaise will step in as Greeter.  

I've just been notified that Gervaise wants to be called "Miss Madame Docent."


We still have a few problems to iron out.  




Firetruck!
Ball!
Dictionary!

© 2015 L. Ryan

GOOG, Bushmills, and Purple Prose

There is so much to catch you up on on life around The Manor.



This socialist no longer owns any GOOG, having managed to dump it a few minutes after trading resumed shortly after 3:20 PM on that fateful day when the firm's publisher "somehow" released earnings data during the day trading period, versus the usual after-market magic time of 4:30.  I made it out at $700, which stemmed the losses a bit, but did nothing to refresh my sour breath.  I found the whole process unfair -- beginning with GOOG's backstabbing report itself, then the cessation of trading (with nary a hint to yer average bear as to when the halt would be lifted), and even including mine own investment company requiring that I give 'em a call at that calm, carefree time to garner their "permission" to trade after hours, despite having done it a good half-dozen times before.  Believe it or not, I terminated that phone call at 3:17 and only by the happest of haphazards learned that I had a whole three minutes to figure stop losses and whether Bushmills or a box of Cabernet was more appropriate to the fleeting moment.

I plugged in $700 and went with Bushmills.

Since then, I decided to put my money where my mouth is -- oh, the terrible jokes aching to be told! -- and no, I won't yet divulge what lucky sector now bulges with my invested wealth.  All I know for sure is that Fred better appreciate the nasty sweat that went into leaving him some sort of inheritance.

What else?

Oh, we lost an entire booking of retreatants who turned left instead of right and ended up in Canada instead of Tête de Hergé.  It's not the first time we have lost 3-day weekend guests in search of elusive repose.  The Haddock parent company even held a troubleshooting skype session that included the top brothers and Abbot Truffatore, the crack-addicted organic pig farmer across the road, plus the hippies down the road (whose cows are giving sweet frothy warm milk once again, thanks to intervention by Local Antiquated and Beloved Authoritarian, Tante Louise, and also thanks to the spirit behind Robert Frost's Mending Wall, a spirit brought to tangible fruition by The Manor Domestic Staff and The Cistercian's 2012 Probies, thereby cutting off the multi-chemical piggy runoff that had been overstimulating the mellow moo cows).  Um... where was I?  Ah!  Yes!  The frustration of losing money and visitors due to a basic ignorance of world geography.

Fred and I joined with the majority to suggest that a link to Google Maps be included in the multimedia materials sent in advance to our over-the-sea or across-the-continent pilgrims.  (If that first link to Google Maps doesn't help you -- you poor map-challenged you, you -- then try THIS ONE, but remember that the results must be rotated NNE by 17 degrees °F to adjust for satellite mendacity.)

Ergo, we hope to no longer be confused with our brethren and sistren Canadians, Français, or Old Earth Saxons.  And we fervently pray for an improvement in the public and parochial school systems of The World, else our revenue is gonna continue to drop off, precipitously, with each graduating, mortarboard-tossing class.

We never let our painstaking preparations for guests go to waste, however.  The Abbott continues to flee to Marlinspike Hall on occasional weekends, especially those dedicated to the tuning of the monastery bells, organs, and guitars -- even on occasional weekdays, when there is the threat of a papal bull.  We also give Ease-Them-Into-Rehab Upgrades to the more haughty circus and freak show addicts before ceremoniously removing them to the barn catty-cornered to the Computer Turret, now home to the Haddock Family Enterprises Addiction Center -- an entity briefly explained in a previous post, "Passing the Duck Test."

If I were allowed to divulge top secret information, I'd be able to suggest that The Captain himself, plus whomever is traveling with him in the pink submarine fleet -- often the Miniature Badminton Team -- are parties whose unexpectedness no longer causes a commotion.  In these uncertain times, who doesn't want to go home now and then?

I am managing to manage things pretty well, despite seeing the world as a visual echo (my terminology for having not quite double vision) and clinging to my trundle bed in an effort to hide out beneath the "real" feather mattress (a humility-inducing thing, as sometimes it is the head that will not quite disappear, sometimes the derrière).  The medicos and I had harbored concern about my liver as I tried out three new medications, but surprise!  It turned out to be my kidneys that are registering their unhappiness.  Whatever -- I am coming off one of the drugs, anyway, the one that enabled not just the visual echo but the mental one, and my hope is that this will calm those spongy filters down.  I've dabbled in kidney failure before, due to lupus, and recovered nicely, and so fully expect to do the same now.  Why not, eh?

I've gone 24 hours without spasms, except for the two hours with.  Monday through Thursday were Hell on Earth, spent writhing and screaming.  I'm sure that I came close to death by overdose or mixing-oopsies as I was so frequently driven to take enough of anything to lose my consciousness.  You can call me "stupid," you can call me "unenlightened," you can also go straight to "The Dickens" -- directions available on Google Maps.

I'm gonna blame my blogging sloth on kidney failure -- maybe folks will fall for that, as they don't seem to have a heck of a lot of sympathy for the CRPS sanity-shattering pain I live with, or the pus-filled mush that are my bones.  Whaddaya think?  Oh, my kidneys are limping along, I'm sooooo tired, just cannot write.

Heh heh.  Purple prose!

"It takes a certain amount of sass to speak up for prose that's rich, succulent and full of novelty. Purple is immoral, undemocratic and insincere; at best artsy, at worst the exterminating angel of depravity. So long as originality and lexical precision prevail, the sentient writer has a right to immerse himself or herself in phenomena and come up with as personal a version as can be. A writer who can't do purple is missing a trick. A writer who does purple all the time ought to have more tricks."
(Paul West, "In Defense of Purple Prose." The New York Times, Dec. 15, 1985)

For those of you who have inquired about Fred, Bianca (and, therefore, Sven)?

Fred is a bit tired, as he is leading a tone deaf group of militant lesbian existential feminists in the formation of a ukulele band.  I could share many a humorous anecdote with you, but will limit myself to just one.  The woman whose illuminating idea this was cannot comprehend how to "strum." They spend an inordinate amount of time discussing what "strum" means, how "strumming" might be achieved, as well as using the questionable guidance of a piano with metronome. My contribution to the conundrum has been to shout, midst writhe and vulgar vocalization, "relax, relax, just tell her to relax her wrist." But no one listens to me.

Sven is somewhat stymied, and yes, that is a sight, a stymied Sven!  College basketball utterly transforms our
Castafiore, an unrepentant Duke fan, and Sven is just... lost.

I guess that pretty much sums up this post -- the theme of Lost.  And, sadly, I must sign off, as a large Maine Coon is amorously eyeing my lap, and making lovey-dovey eyes that are simply irresistible.  Yes, I'm off to nuggle with Buddy, the Freakishly Large Kitten.

Twist and Shout! Squirm and Yowl!

I apologize if my blog has become a subspecies of MSNBC, a sad-sack simulacrum of policy wonkiness, a frizzy and frazzled, very fuzzy firewall of feminism, a wailing wall of brother worship, and a kibble-driven, scratch-behind-the-ears yowling orgy of feline fascination.

I'm so sorry if my blog showcases personal fixations on heroic bald scarred kids -- though I draw the line at any mention of "angel wings" -- and on Fred, himself heroic and scarred, but defiant of baldness.

Do I weep with regret for forcing you to read abject descriptions of even the most minute cattle prods of CRPS spasticity?  Do I sniff and snuffle for stuffing my pain into your brain?  Am I embarrassed by the profusion of photography of purple feet?  O!  I do, I do, and I am.

Apology, regret, and red-faced shame:  Check, check, and check.

Who says I don't get through my daily To-Do Lists in an efficient manner?  It's the Etch-A-Sketch version of blogging.  Or is it more akin to a good Catholic confession?  Shake it up baby now... Hail, Mary!

Uploaded by BeatlesCentral on Mar 31, 2008

There.  Ah, the bearable lightness of the unburdened soul.

Now that the evangelical, conservative wing of My Dearest Readers has been appeased, can I get on with it?  Because things are just going to shit around Marlinspike Hall and if I cannot vent with wild abandonment, my head will explode -- and how many times can that happen before it leaves me somewhat neurologically impaired?

Okay, so I retired my CRPS quilt.  It was a lovely hand-stitched thang, washed twice a week for ten years of so, and therefore softer than any damn baby's butt.  However, the loose threads and disintegrating batting became an obsession for my little OCD feline, Dobby the Runt.  I've swooped down upon his nibbling little head and extracted a good 10 inches of thread from his tiny esophagus.

You'd think that defeating this dangerous compulsion would be a good thing, pure and simple. I found online, and on sale, a twin-sized quilt of all cotton, made in India (where they know what to do with cotton), pretty (but not in an obnoxious quilty way -- it recalls a forest floor more than a hunter's cabin), and soft as all get out, even before it's welcome home dip in the washer.  What I really wanted, but could not afford? A quilt made of recycled saris. But I know my place among the 47%... and buying a quilt made of recycled saris might upset some numbnut's understanding of poverty.

I know, also, that cats are creatures of habit.  I get Dr. Jon's newsletters.  I read the best vet columns.  We have a boatload of pheromone sprays that purport to "calm your cat" in times of change and stress.  You know, like when you retire a ratty quilt and replace it with one that doesn't put your animal in danger of intestinal obstruction.

Her troop being on sabbatical from crazed touring, and having moved from our supply of fine merlot toCaptain Haddock's collection of heavy, square, green bottles of rum, Bianca Castafiore has taken to burrowing her ample derrière into my favorite arm chair, snug in one of the few corners in our round bedroom here in the West Wing private apartments of The Manor.  She's fascinated with animal behavior.  She also hums and mumbles that damned signature aria of hers, incessantly, loudly --

[Comment n'être pas coquette?        

Comment n'être pas coquette?]     

Ah! je ris de me voir  

 si belle en ce miroir,   

Ah! je ris de me voir  

si belle en ce miroir...

which doesn't help a whole lot.  The Castafiore somehow encourages the current rampant insanity that reigns among the Feline Triumvirate regarding this new quilt.

I try to drown Bianca out with combinations of television, radio, and my preferred musical choices, none of which come close to Gounod's Faust.  My head aches from the noise.

But worse than the brain pain are the aches, scratches, and bruises I am sustaining from the well-planned blitzkrieg attacks on the new quilt, under which is curled, unfurled, and nuggled -- mine own body.  Dobby started it, of course.  

He jumped, all lighthearted and Dobby-ish, as only a Dobby can be, onto the bed and then, as if in a Romney elevator, ascended a good 3 feet in the air.  The cat was growling like a dog when he landed back on the bed, glaring at the quilt and giving me the stink eye.  Stiff-legged and goose-stepping, he approached the quilt... and sank his needle-like little teeth into a section that happened to be covering my right calf.  Then off he ran, to organize the troops.  I decided to let the blood and accumulated lymph drain freely, because otherwise I'd have to deal with the half-cackling, half-singing Drunk Diva, and my ability to resist coldcocking her was poor, at best.

Lambeth Walk -- Nazi Style (1942)

Anyway, as I've been stuck in bed, due to a perfect storm of Stuff, neither my quilt nor I look terribly appealing.  Bloody, bruised, wrinkled, subjected to round after round of coordinated feline terrorism and operatic bullying, dehydrated, and febrile...

So, Dear Readers, you may tire of my Obama-gushing, my knee-jerk liberalism, and how very much of a sucker I am for all things whimsical, but you must grant me this one outlet for the expression of the unbelievable pain and abuse lurking just beneath the sparkling, reflective surface of the moat encircling Marlinspike Hall.

Truth to Power!  Truth to Power!

I have a new quilt:::I am the Voice of the Oppressed.  Someone please call Tante Louise (and tell her to have the SWAT team bring coffee).*

*Where is Fred, you ask?  Have you ever heard of the hyperfocus aspect of ADHD?  Last I heard, he is transcribing Wagner's Ring Cycle for ukulele and guitar.  Unless the Valkyries evoke some vague memory of me -- as they did, once upon a time -- Fred will be unavailable for several days.  Help!

We've Been Found, All Is Lost...

I confess:  I bought laundry and dish detergent online and had it shipped to Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).  Maybe you think that my purchase is less scandal and more laudable frugality.  That would be nice of you.  However, even though both detergents pass muster as being very green (the Seventh Generation Free and Clear line) and extraordinarily cheap (I found it at a price cheaper than Tide and less expensive than its green cousin, Country Save) -- can I really justify the carbon footprint of having had it mailed to us?

Doesn't that muddy the green to a faded, dingy Chestnut?  Antique Brass?  Beaver? Copper?  Fuzzy Wuzzy?

Oh no.  And oops, too... *

*   The jig is up.  Our world is forever changed.

Fred just rushed in, all excited like.  It turns out that The Manor, the ancestral home of the Haddock Clan, has been successfully plotted on a Google map.  We were under the impression that this was an impossibility -- but hey! This is a new era:  This is the Corporate Age; We are Beta Testers!  In true muddled fashion, I tried to explain as much back in September:

Sensing a looming depression settling over his beloved valley, The Captain recently sent us a team of motivational speakers, the ideal long distance gift from an absentee ManorLord.  During a cold lunch that featured a perfect mound of tuna salad rising from a Botticellian shell of Boston lettuce -- surrounded by pale green, slightly mottled frozen grapes that were, themselves, punctuated with watermelon and sour cream quenelles -- 

During *that*, we listened to our Plenary Session guru, a self-styled Cicero who could sell Ginzu knives and Veg-a-matics to desert ascetics. 

After changing into the Haddock Corporation's new line of  70% bamboo/30% spandex Ye Olde Sea Salt athletic wear, The Manor's indentured-unto-perpetuity Domestic Staff spent the afternoon doing team-building exercises, often blindfolded, sometimes with various legs lashed together.  At one time or another, each employee fell backward -- full of faith -- into the extended arms of their waiting coworkers (relatives, mostly), in whom they already knew *exactly* how much to trust.

Times are tight everywhere, even in Tête de Hergé. We think that's what is fuelling The Captain's new love of all things corporate.  It's not that he doesn't have almost infinite resources -- good Lord, just look around you!  It is more a question of liquidity.  For years, we ran Marlinspike Hall with the proceeds from collectible comic books and byselling off coveted domaine names, snatched up back in the days before Spielberg had his eye on Hergé's Tête.  Shoot, we used to make payroll thanks to a horse stall full of pristine Bengali editions of King Ottokar's Sceptre, carefully packed in hay.  

The bottom line is that we are opening almost the entire Manor and Haddock family land holdings to the public in an effort to make Marlinspike Hall a self-sustaining endeavor.  The Captain wants to be, forgive the pun, a captain of industry, among other things, and so we find ourselves scheduled to host a series of BigSpeak SpeakEasy MiniTraining Camps, sort of an Outward Bound experience for the buttoned-down world.  Not just for at-risk youth, our outdoor adventures!  

It's kind of a test.  That's right, we're beta testers.

Due to a sheath of confidentiality agreements, I can't divulge everything that Corporate Haddock has been doing on the Manor Site, but has terraforming really ever been all that far off a possibility?  We daily praise God that we aren't trapped in some kind of surreal comic-book fiction...

I think our current conundrum -- which, of course, I will clearly lay out for you in a moment -- stems precisely from this corporate urge that Archibald Haddock cannot seem to buck.  We've never been in danger of being found before, of seeing Lone Alp overrun with tourist-types or Tante Louise's delicate early warning system thrown offline by visiting social media moguls.  (Tante Louise and her trusty cell phone constitute the Tête de Hergé version of 911. Reach Tante Louise, reach the world!)

Anyway, yes, we're finally mappable.  Our coordinates have been plotted... not without a few glitches, however.  We are showing up as something odd and I think we are likely in the wrong place.  Aside those issues, it's perfect.

Fred says Marlinspike Hall, its outbuildings (Barn, Petting Zoo, Dairy, etc.), and the manor grounds (from the orchard bordering the Cistercian monastery to the labyrinth) are plotted as titania.  I mosied over to the dictionary as he pontificated, and was appalled to find that  titania meant:

1. The queen of the fairies and wife of Oberon in medieval folklore; or
2. A satellite of Uranus.


Having known me forever, Fred said, without looking up, "No, not the fairy, and no, not another Uranus joke, either." Instead, he explained, "Try titanium dioxide.  Try... rutile."


I've always wanted to be semi-precious (rutilated quartz)!  It does stretch one's credulity, though, to see that Google Maps claims we are situated on the border of Mongolia, but then, maybe we are situated on the border of Mongolia.  Who really knows where these adventures are taking place?  I am still waiting for The Captain's explanation of the wormhole extending from the bottom of Our Algae-Plagued Moat to... well, to wherever the hell he wants to go in his Miniature Pink Submarine.


La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore has been laughing at me all morning.  She just beckoned me to her side with a "come hither" crook of a pudgy finger, only to blast my eardrum with that blasted line from that blasted aria she is forever warbling -- "Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce [blasted] miroir..." -- from Gounod's blasted Faust.  I can't help myself.  I say: "Look, La Castafiore, look!  We've been found, and mapped!  You, Dear Diva, border Mongolia!"

Major Stupidity

Major Stupidity:                                      

Most of the morning and much of the afternoon was dedicated to diuresis, and there was great success in that endeavor, with fifteen trips to the bathroom ending in the suspicion of ankles down there where the leg ends.  Oh, and all my rings fell off!  [I wear three at all times.  Unless they fall off, willful little Tolkien-cribbers.]

The dregs of this Summer Viral Thingy had my throat sore enough that I did not want to drink, and the seemingly endless trips to the WC only reinforced that reticence.  Of the things I did manage to swallow, 50% was a strong Italian roast.  The remainder was split between a Diet Root Beer and a paltry 12 ounces of water.  This is noteworthy as I normally drink too much water (according to the Go-To-Guy Doc) -- roughly 4 litres. That's water on top of coffee and 1-2 diet decaffeinated drinks.  I could try to justify this weirdness but I won't.

We are out of yogurt.  This hardly ever happens.  I need yogurt in much the way I yearn for lots and lots of water.  I popped the foil on my last container last night only to find that it was... abnormal.  That's right, my last serving (or three) of yogurt came on Wednesday night.  Please keep in mind that I am continually on antibiotics and that my gut therefore has its own appreciation of my low fat plain yogurt concoctions.  I add a preferred amount of artificial sweetener and a dusting of cinnamon, or cocoa, or a spritz of vanilla extract... Add the current novel and you have my bedtime routine in its entirety.  Of course, "bedtime" around here is a laughing-stock of a notion.  Last night?  I kinda-sorta slept from 22:30 to midnight and then again from 03:00 - almost 05:00.  When exactly was bedtime?  Now, Fred sleeps like the proverbial rock as well as the fabled log.  He came to bed at 03:00, read precisely 5 pages of his book, and then rose from the bed at... drumroll, please... 15:30!  ManorFest 2011 is sapping the boy's strength.

Oh, you thought I had forgotten ManorFest 2011?  Not so, not so.  I am just at a loss for the best words to EXPLAIN it.  It hasn't exactly been your normal ManorFest...

Okay, so... the last of today's oddities.  That would be my handling of blood sugars.  I recently became a bit hot under the collar at the price of diabetic testing supplies (one of the greatest undisclosed absurdities of Medical Economics, probably because we poorer diabetics don't want to embarrass ourselves in front of the doctors, be they Go-To-Guys or not).  My anger resulted in the brilliant decision to not test as frequently as recommended.  Like sometimes not at all.  Which is what I did today, while not eating, not drinking, taking a humongous amount of Lasix, all the while still having my usual fever and *sweats*.

The sweats and the heat (Yes!  Even here in Tête de Hergé, it's freaking hot!) consorted to make me decidedly in need of a shower.  That's a major undertaking, so I filed it under "things to consider doing later, like, when I'm feeling really weak and shaky."

What?  Why, yes, I *did* take my insulin.  As scheduled.  Right on time!  Without eating, without testing.  What?  Why, yes, I *am* a Brainiac!

(Are you still with me?)

Fred, all perky-like after his marathon sleep session, heard me whining about not having any yogurt and cheerfully volunteered to make a yogurt run -- and I bet you've already guessed that one of the Cistercians' numerous cottage/mail order industries is yogurt-making!  Put Fred and Abbot Truffatore together on a Friday evening and you have a recipe for communion wine and politics.  Jump back, Jack!  Not that there's anything around here as exciting as the debt-ceiling debacle in The States, mind you.  We have, nonetheless, our own brand of titillating government scandals.  And they just go down better, says Fred and The Abbot, with communion wine on Friday nights.  Sometimes Tante Louise totters down to the Monks' Mess and joins in, but we won't talk about that.  It's okay, though -- she has a cell phone now so there won't be any more missed "911" calls.

Not that there's much of a need for "911" calls in Tête de Hergé.

{cough}

Ah, alone in our apartment within the West Wing of Marlinspike Hall!  What a luxury.  Why not surprise Fred with a freshly scrubbed face (and feet, don't forget the feet, those things purported to be down there at the end of my legs... where are my legs?)?  Some fresh bright Gimp Clothes to tie my red face and purple feets together, and my goodness, he will faint from shock.

Which is, of course, what I did in the shower...
While alone in our apartment within the West Wing of Marlinspike Hall;
With La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore on duty out in the middle of the ManorFest 2011 maze (as if she'd be of any help were she in the shower with me);
With Fred getting potted in the stolid arms of Tante Louise as the Sweet Boys sing the world a lullaby, and settle in for the night's silence.

I am fine.

Stupid, a little bruised, but fine.
Let's thank God for the shower chair, perfectly placed, as it happens.

Fred just made it home, fine purveyor that he is of all things I ever need.  I can hear him banging around in the Medieval Kitchen, shelving his purchases, feeding the felines, doing little jigs.  And Bianca's there, too -- determined to have a cup of tea despite the blanket of heat.  I think I hear The Cabana Boy, as well, humming along with the dread Jewel Song she never ceases to rehearse -- Sven's son.  Oh.  My.

Well, some catastrophes just have to happen, I guess.

I am going to finish chugging this water, then devour my sixth piece of hard, sweet candy, and go join the merriment.  Right after I verify a blood sugar above 38...