Pooped Out

        

 

       Today I could write about the wind, and how it blows constantly in this, the dry season.  The banana palms, at least the young plants, are supple and bend easily.  They are small enough that their root systems have plenty of room to grow unfettered.  But as the palms grow, things underground get crowded, and the thick roots get tangled and climb in and out over and around each other.  That is when, if the ground is still saturated from the torrential rains of the past season, a strong gust of warm summer wind can catch one of the great palms, with fronds, some as fat and wide as an automobile, and topple one of the giants.  And as these plants, some of them 30 feet tall, come crashing down they often up-root one or two others who slowly tilt, then lay down in the darkness.

 

       There in the morning they lay, like napping sisters in the sun, until the old gardener, in his wide brimmed hat, goes to work with his ancient machete putting the old girls out of their misery.  Those of the sisterhood still standing, look down in veneration and whisper reverent lament for their fallen kin. As they are chopped into manageable size and thrown over the bent, boney shoulders of the gardener the sisters wave a final goodbye to each other.

       I could wax poetically about the sounds of the morning, and how the wind picks them up and swipes them against the side of my house, smearing them down the wall and over me like a calligrapher’s brush.  I could wax. But I’d rather shave.

So...

The other day I bought groceries at The Alto Dorado Market, where I have learned never to buy meats that aren’t already sealed in plastic and frozen solid.  I passed the “fresh” meat display to where the eggs are stacked (note: it is very hard to stack eggs unless they are in cartons).  As any

experienced shopper knows, it is a good idea to open the carton to make sure some ham-fisted idiot before you didn’t slam another carton on top of your pick and break one of your delicate ovules. 

                   Now, one of the

advantages of living where I do, is that the surrounding hillsides are teeming with fincas, small farms that bring fruits, vegetables, and eggs to the market daily.  Here you will not find perfectly shaped apples or pears.  Carrots are big, fat tubers with dirt still in their creases and their long, wispy beards still attached to their John Kerry chins.  Potatoes, or papas, are little, round, and dirty (Midget Porn) with more eyes than the flies that live in the fresh meat display.

       Where was I?  Oh yeah.

       So I open the carton and one of the eggs still has a chicken butt feather stuck to it with a little chicken butt fluid.

     You know how when you hold a beautiful, cooing baby in your arms, and she holds on to your finger with those tiny,

delicate hands?  You know how that child looks into your eyes with complete innocence and trust, then gets the most adorable little grin on its face?  You know how at that moment you feel so big and so small at the same time. 

  

The last thing on your mind is the incredible, deep, thundering pain of that child pushing through a flesh and bone canal, then squishing through the mother’s vagina like a bowling ball, followed by the plopping out of the tissue and blood of the placenta?  You know how you’re not thinking about that?

Well, guess what?...

 

 

                                     

                                                    Heh, heh, Classic.

                                       

 

  

  HAPPY NEW YEAR 

DP

Little Christmas Blessings

      

      

      Well, here it is December 15^th, 2015.  This morning I chose some beautiful Christmas music, and set in the Panamanian morning sun drinking my coffee.  Though I tried not too, I couldn’t help but reflect on Christmas past.  I thought of the wondrous years of believing in Santa Claus.  I really can’t remember much before I was four years old, and I was seven years old when the brutal truth hit me like an empty beer can that Santa Claus was a myth, so that gives me three years of memories to work with.

      

I discovered the truth about Santa on Christmas morning, 1964.  I was seven years old.  I remember coming down the stairs and finding that Santa had indeed come during the night.  There under the tree were the presents that I may or may not have asked him for.  But the real evidence that the old elf had found me once again was the cookie crumbs left on the plate next to the half empty bottle of…beer?!  What the…?

       I stood in disbelief looking back and forth between the plate of cookies and the bottle of ‘Oly’.  My little mind tried to

convince myself that Santa must have liked the same brand of beer my mom and dad drank.  Then I noticed that the cookie was only broken into three pieces.  There were no bites taken by Santa. 

       I took a deep breath and padded into my parent’s room.  My mother was awake and tying her robe.  She smiled and motioned that we should be quiet and leave my father sleeping and she guided me out to the living room.  After asking if I had received what I had asked for, I blurted out,

       “Mommy, is Santa Claus real?”

       I remember there was something very tender in her eyes as she sat on the footstool, took me gently by the shoulders and looked me in the face.

       “Do you think he’s real?” she asked tenderly.

       I answered with a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye – a single word, “No.”

        

      And there it was.  The moment that little Denny became Dennis.  I sometimes weep for that little boy.  But we all must grow, that is a fact of life. 

     Unless you are a midget… I mean, little person.  Either way you get to play baby Jesus in the school play for several years running.  It’s probably a great way to see some cleavage.  Like when the Jesus’ mom, Mary bends over the crib.  Boom! Virgin boob.  That’s cool.

I’m not saying everything is fun and games when you’re a midg…little person.  I bet you get a lot of dumb looking clothes for Christmas.  You never see them wearing Nikes or Pumas, poor things.  Still, they can sit on Santa’s lap pretty much their whole tiny lives.  Of course asking Santa for a cigar humidor, or miniature riding lawnmower probably raises a few eyebrows in their later years.

       I played Santa Claus for a chain of pharmacies one year.  Hi-School Pharmacies.  There is so much irony here that it kind of blows my mind.  You can’t make this stuff up.

       My point is this;

       Whether you walk naked into a darkened cave, sing words from the Torah, or beat up your Dad one drunken Christmas Eve, we all must endure our own rites of passage which take us from childhood into adulthood.  And it is only fitting that we prepare our own children for the moment when they tug on our pant leg, and through innocent eyes ask,

       “How come that man is smaller than me?”

       And you can answer,

       “Don’t stare, you idiot!  He’s a midget, he can’t help it.  Poor thing.  Just be glad you’re normal!  Oh, wait… is he one of the elves?  Eww, don’t let him touch you, and don’t ask Santa for that computer game ‘cause he won’t bring it.”

The End

I’d like to give special thanks to the Lollypop Guild, The Gladys and Herve Villechaize Foundation, Conrad Bain, and Nike, for their continued support.

No midge… “little people” were physically harmed during the writing of this blog. 

I’m only kidding.  I got frustrated and kicked my housekeeper.  Merry Christmas.  Oh, and Merry Christmas!

DP