Bored?

It's never watered. I suppose its roots have extended to the area occasionally dampened by the outside faucet a couple of feet away. Just a thought. One of those delightful surprises. Another survival story, eh?

Glad I didn't watch the Cardinals git thumped. Much better going to church, if a bit of bore. I'd really like to get into something completely different in that regard. As always, some chagrin in going alone. Somewhat ironic that one chooses to go there rather than the games, then they look down their noses cause you go to the bars for that otherwise. But today, not.

It's an old issue with the Christians. From the beginning advised to refrain from the blood lust of the games and the irreverance of the theater; I mean, of course, the bread and circus milieu. (No, life cannot be a cabaret, old friend!) Old Augustus' RCs called it 'the occasion of sin' to be avoided - oh, my. So much for la joie de vivre! Indeed.

Ah, Sir John... a very bad influence upon Prince Hal? Bit of an issue upon another there. With whom am I to discuss it? I don't know anyone who's read Shakespeare's Histories let alone a clue as to who Henry V was. Crispan's Day? We're talking cultural wasteland here. Not a joyful circumstance. Once more into the breach? Don't bother.

So, of a Sunday afternoon - what's to do? What does it matter?
Hey... having a reminisce! Such is mine dotage. I suppose.

Along about 1976, we'd go of said Sunday afternoons to the Masonic Temple near downtown Portland where Carl Smith and his Natural Gas Company with it's Big Band sound would hold forth, musicians from the area sitting in. But it was the dancers, the swingers, the jitter-buggers, who were the draw. Their music; their moves. We didn't dance. Just listened and watched enthralled.

Well, a saxophone player was married to a woman we remember as Umpqua Lady. She showed up one afternoon quite out of sorts. Fit to be tied, she was. She said her husband was cheating on her. That, because he knew Native women were loyal to a fault, he thought he could get away with it. Uh-uh.

She stood by and waited... he stood to do a solo. "Bullshit!" she hollered. "Buuulllllshit!" He played right through without skipping a beat, then sat down, non-plussed. She turned on her heels and vamoosed. 

So, like, everyone in the ballroom is looking at us. "Friend of yours?" Absolutely; the show must go on. Side of grief with the joy... way it is.