We’re having our bathroom remodeled. Carol planned the whole operation. She bought the materials, got the oafish colors coordinated, hired the crew. She asked me if the toilet should be blue or aqua. Neither, I said. It should be brown. Dark brown. You never see a dark brown toilet.



I have not kept up with my diary, have I? No apology necessary. I cannot truthfully say I had no activity between my last post and now. For instance, I just took off my brown polo shirt. Fixed my own lunch — a sausage sandwich.

Am I boring you? Good.

Two jokes:

What’s the deal with soccer? All the stupid kicking. Just pick up the ball and run with it.

In 10 months is the Gulf gonna need an oil change?

I need to raise the level of my internet skills; specifically WordPress, my current blog publishing s/w.

What Did You Get For Labor Day?

Today Carol and I returned from San Antonio where we spent the weekend at the Super Duper Hyatt Hotel, which sits next to the River Of Odd. Clean is the city with smooth contours like a tall woman wearing a tight black or gray sheath. Maybe even yellow pants and a turtle for a hat.

We took in the Alamo – remember the Disney movie with Fess Parker as The King of the Wild Frontier? When I was 8 or 9 I was a Crocketteer with a coonskin cap and a flintlock rifle. I even served a term in the backyard US Congress.

Carol and I spent an inordinate amount of time in our room, #2610. Both of us were nursing sore body parts: feet, hip, back, neck, head. We chugged down the $4.00 bottles of water with glee. Water also made the Advil go down easier. We had a splendid view of the downtown: a lake of concrete surrounding tall, brown buildings that looked remarkably alike though I do not have eye for such things. Lots of commerce, buckets of fresh, clean Texas money. I wouldn’t mind living there if the just turned down the heat and humidity.

Letter To A Friend

Ms _____:

You are NOT getting old: you are the sole exception to natural law. You look as if you just stepped out of the ’67 yearbook. I tried to step out of the yearbook, but I forgot to OPEN the yearbook first! I had to munch through 50 pages — took me hours to chew through the cover. That’s why I look 60 years old!

I’ll have to work forever. In fact, I am scheduled to work SIX YEARS after I die. This is a new phenomena you might have heard about on CNN — Post-Mortem Employment. I’ll be doing seances, haunting houses at Halloween, that sort of thing.

KISS ME KATE at the Stolen Shakespeare Guild

I’m going to pretend to be a drama critic.  I can’t sew, neither can I reap.  Nail two boards together?  Once I tried to spit into an enemy’s eye: I missed her and hit her mother instead. She kicked me very hard. I don’t need another beating. I am inept, get it? How much longer do I need to explain?

Carol and I took in this production of KISS ME KATE at the Fort Worth Cultural Box. Generally speaking, the production had a beginning and middle and an end. Let me modify that: the show nearly did not have a beginning — It went up late — five minutes? Show just don’t go up on time anymore. Just add it to the handbasket in which this world is riding to hell.

I liked the following 3-6 actors: Lauren Morgan (Vanessi); Daron Cockerell (Lane); JaceSon Barrua (Fred); in other words, the leads. I leave out Tillman (Lucentio) purely out of spite. No, ha, ha! Just kidding! But John does seem a bit self-conscious when he dances: like “lookie me! I can’t dance either!” Just hoof it, for Presley’s sake, John! You’ll be forgiven eventuslly.

The Thugs seemed to have timing problems. I could see raw meat broiling hot and steamy between the two, but no cooking, despite the strange metaphor.

Stephanie Glenn and Amy Adkins were able to grease down all the actors enough so that they could slip and slide so gracefully through the production numbers.

Do you need to know the story?  A touring company performs TAMING of the SHREW as a musical.  The actor’s romantic lives run in  parallel with their Shakespearean counterparts. Enough levels and layers here to keep a Wittgenstein fan up all night with his hand in the peanut butter jar.

I assume Mary Helen Atkins was the “orchestra.” So proficient as an accompanist, she could have assembled a bologna sandwich for me while playing the piano and she would not miss a note.