The Adventures of Bloggard

Been Around the Block. Got Some Stories. These are Them.

How to Speak Chinese

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Lyon Street, San Francisco, 1990: Adrienne worked at the Fine Art gallery in Sausality, driving the surveillance vehicle to and from work. That’s what we called the grey Nissan Sentra, because I’d bought it when I was Dr. Detecto, the private investigator.

But fact is, there is a limit to how long you can sit in a grey Nissan Sentra, just surveilling. My limit turned out to be about fifteen minutes.

That’s why Adrienne drove the surveillance vehicle to work in Sausalito. We still lived in the fourth-floor garrett at Lyon and Oak, perched high on the corner overlooking the Panhandle Park, originally named because it’s like a handle on the pan of Golden Gate park further up the street. Later the Bored of Supervisors changed its name from Panhandle Park to Panhandle Park. It’s the same name, sure, but now it’s named after the bums that hang out and pester you for spare change.

So, we lived there beneath the gabled roof, high above Panhandle Park.

THE BAY TO BREAKERS RACE

There was a Sunday morning, every year, when sleeping would become impossible, because as the sun was peeking through the high branches of the tree outside, we would hear, from the road below, a great murmur and clatter. Peering from our high windows, we’d see, spread out for blocks and blocks, the throng of runners in the Bay to Breakers race, as they ran in a chattering mob along the street and through our Panhandle Park.

It was very satisfying to make the coffee, staring bleary-eyed down through the branches, watching the runners and thinking how nice it was to not be among them.

Also entertaining were their bizarre costumes. Runners dressed as hot dogs or streetcars, and sometimes they were nude, except for the running shoes, of course. It must have really hurt, pinning the cloth number on, without a shirt.

And this morning, after the coffee had sped me up, I remembered that I’d promised to help Adrienne with the Chinese art dealer.

STANLEY HO, THE CHINESE ART DEALER

She had this customer in Hong Kong. It never seemed clear whether he was a collector, or an art dealer himself. His name was Stanley Ho.

As you know, China is on the other side of the planet. As we all learn when we are children, if you dig down through the earth you will pop out in China, where everybody is walking upside down. They must be upside down because anyone can see that we are right-side up.

Not only are they upside down, but they are sleeping in the middle of the day, and they are running around all during the night. Our day, and our night, I mean.

Now Adrienne was very happy about Mr. Stanley Ho, because now and then he called up the Fine Art gallery, and he would buy Erte sculptures. If you have been so fortunate as to have missed Erte sculptures, let me tell you that they are little statues about a foot tall, depicting mostly women in 1920’s or Art Deco garb, looking totally thin and blase from a long time ago.

Plus, they’re really, really expensive.

So it was just swell whenever Stanley Ho would call up the gallery and buy an Erte sculpture from Adrienne. There is apparently no end to the Erte sculptures. Like Barbie dolls or the science-fiction novels of L. Ron Hubbard, mere death of the artist seems not to slow production at all!

THE PROBLEM

However, the problem was that Adrienne was supposed to telephone Stanley Ho. She had agreed to call Stanley Ho. She had attempted to call Stanley Ho. She had several times risen in the wee hours of night, so as to catch the daylight hours in China.

And each time, Chinese secretaries answered. They would mutter in sing-song Chinese, or in garbled English. But regardless of the conversation, never, never, never would they put Adrienne through to Stanley Ho. Never, never, never.

Adrienne had promised to call. She’d tried to call, over and over again. But she couldn’t get past the incomprehensible secretaries. It was like an impenetrable wall of singsong. Adrienne told me about this at great length, and last night I’d promised to help her.

And this morning, as coffee fumes cleared my brain, I realized it was time to strike, now!, before the Stanley Ho business office closed for the day!

And so I dialed the number in Hong Kong.

It rang.

It rang some more.

A diminutive female voice answered with some Chinese gobbly-gook. I interrupted her.

“Stanley Ho!” I said sternly. She chittered at me. I spoke louder.

“Stanley HO!” I said. She began talking again.

“Stanley HO!” I yelled furiously.

“One moment,” she said.

There was a pause. I motioned Adrienne over. I handed her the phone as a male voice said, “This is Stanley Ho, may I help you?”

The Secret to Good Teeth

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Mount Shasta, in the kitchen, March 2003: “Why do good things happen to bad people?” Adrienne wails. She’s trying to get my goat, as my grandfather used to say.

She’s had trouble with her teeth all her life, whereas I have been blessed in that regard.

I have perfect teeth.

I know that I have perfect teeth because of what my dentist, Dr. Martin of Henrietta, Texas, told me, as I sat in his chair in 1960. “Open,” he said. He peered around.

“You have perfect teeth,” he said.

At that moment, and even now, I can think of no area in my life that seems perfect to me. Moments? Yes, moments were perfect. Moments of love, moments of passion, a moment when viewing trees on sweeping English hillsides that might have been Africa, a moment so late at night that the birds began announcing the dawn, a moment of clarity, a moment of dreadful realization. Yes, perfect moments, but no area of life that seemed entirely perfect … except now, as I realize that I have perfect teeth.

As best I know, I have never had a cavity. Oh, once in San Francisco, I went to a new dentist, who took xrays and then announced two cavities. Then he filled them and charged me money. I’d never had a cavity before, and I’ve never in 30 years since had another cavity. I believe that I had no cavity then, either. I think he either blundered the xrays and repaired someone else’s cavities in my mouth, or he just needed some money or practice, and I was the goat.

So now, in a vain attempt to get my goat, Adrienne is wailing, “Why do good things happen to bad people?” Ha! She’s annoyed because I have perfect teeth, and she does not.

While I am sorry that she does not have perfect teeth, I am glad for this one part of my life that has been perfect for almost 60 years. (I will celebrate my 60th birthday next month, so if you will be sending presents, please contact me for current shipping information, haw!)

You shall be rewarded with the inside scoop, that is, my secret method!

And now, because you have been patient with my intermittent story-telling and lazy ways, you shall be rewarded with the inside scoop, that is, my secret method.

First, I must tell you that my mother, bless her heart, taught me how to brush my teeth and taught me that they should be brushed both in the morning and at night. Television ads at that time even touted brushing after every meal, but in my lifetime, only Dennis seems to do that.

My contribution to my mother’s method was to forget about brushing my teeth nearly all the time, and for all my adult life I still constantly forget to brush. Is my breath sometimes awful? Well, yes; so I am told. Adrienne calls me “camel breath” sometimes. I take it as a hint. I think this means I should brush and so it serves as a reminder. She is forever helping me in this way.

But, all in all, based upon the evidence I must conclude that the first key to having perfect teeth would appear to be avoiding brushing them. At least, that’s what seems to have worked for me.

Next, let us consider milk.

When I was a child, I grew up disliking only one food: milk. I begged coffee-milk by the time I was six, because it made the milk taste better. I complained about milk throughout my childhood. When I was thirteen, my mother finally told me I didn’t have to drink milk any more. No more big glass in the morning, hoo ray!

Ten years later, sitting in the restaurant at the Cabana Hotel in Dallas, I thought: Maybe I’ve been missing something, hmmm, so I ordered a glass of milk. It was evening, and dark outside the windows. The waitress, dressed much like a Playboy bunny, brought my milk. I contemplated it, and then drank it down.

And confirmed that I didn’t like milk.

So there you have it. Apparently, from everything that I can see, the key to perfect teeth is to avoid drinking milk, avoid brushing and flossing, and just leave your teeth the hell alone.

Unexpected Visitor

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A plump British Robin Redbreast sitting on a snow frosted fence post

Mount Shasta, February 15, 2004: As I was sleepily rising, Adrienne called from the kitchen. The fat robin was in trouble.

In our back yard, near my office door, the holly tree sports bright green prickly leaves, and bright red berries. Mothers around the world have warned us as children: Don’t eat the berries! That’s why I believe, and you believe, that the berries are poison.

Our robins, however, have never been warned by their mothers, and appear to gobble the berries throughout the winter. And do the robins appear dead, lying feet up in the snow?

They do not.

But one of the robins, the big fat one — we marvel that he can even fly — is sitting in the snow, today. Adrienne had spotted him in the branches, sitting very still. She worried, when she went outside, that he didn’t fly away.

And now he’s on the ground.

He’s not dead, for he looks around at me as I peek from the chilly doorway. I diagnose the freezing cold, rather than the holly berries, as the problem. Luckily, as I picked up a dog towel from the floor, Adrienne gives me professional advice on towel size, and provides me with a smaller one.

On the porch as I crunch through the snow, I speak softly to the big fat robin, and he permits me to wrap the towel around his little body. As I return to the kitchen, this fine wrapped bird in hand worth two in the snowy bush, Adrienne jitters.

“Don’t bring him in here!” she cries. “Take him out in the garage … to warm up!” But I don’t think the garage is very warm. I’ve been in that garage.

“I wanted you to see him,” I said, but before she could come over to see, suddenly between my warm hands a wild flutter and the bird launches, from within the towel, scrabbling and flying at the ceiling, the doorway, then quick as lace around a corner into the living room’s tall roof and the windowsill ten feet above the floor.

There he perches upon the sill, and flutters at the glass, perches and flutters, perches and flutters.

I ponder. I ponder over a cup of coffee, then another coffee. I ponder over toast and peanut butter. Pondering becomes me, but Adrienne has become impatient.

“Go on,” she says.

I try the magic trick. Holding my arm up toward the bird, with one finger outstretched, I say, “Come land on my finger.” It worked once with a fly; maybe it will work now.

Nope. It doesn’t.

I fetch the ladder from the garage. I clatter through the doorway, and set up the ladder below the window.

Up I go.

My balance is not what it was, but, hey, I’m only four feet up, daring bird charmer I. I have my specialty bird towel, and I speak calmly to the fat robin. He’s a little excited. Probably doesn’t get so much company, so up close and personal, most of the time.

I wait.

Sure enough, his perch and flutter method first takes him to the far side of the sill, and then his perch and flutter method brings him near. I wrap the towel around him; he is caught. He goes still, wrapped secure in the towel.

Outside on the back porch, I unwrap him and attempt to place him on a branch, thinking perhaps we might have a conversation. But once free, like a bat out of hell, or perhaps more like a robin freed from monsters, away he speeds in a straight line, away to the west to the tall, tall, distant evergreens so safe and dark on the far side of the block.

Probably just now he’s telling robin buddies about his adventure and his escape. Probably they don’t believe him. Among the branches, in the chill they stomp their feet and hunker down, awaiting the warm weather to come again.

Soon the talk turns to more acceptable subjects such as eggs and nests and cute lady robins, and bugs to eat.

 

So Long — The Gift of Life

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San Anselmo, February 15, 2002: Joseph called me on the phone. I didn’t recognize his voice. His father, Paul, my brother, was dead.

Paul was very big, a very fat man. He edited one of the Sams books about dBase, once upon a time. A computer whiz, he graduated from the University of Texas in Austin, took up Scientology, married, had children, and on that day he was very happy because he’d landed a new consulting contract, and for the first time in his life, he had bought a new car.

Yesterday on Valentine’s Day, driving from his consulting meeting, exiting a car lot, he pulled out in front of a truck.

The truck, hell-bent for leather, barrelling along at high speed, and the driver admiring the shiny new cars parked along the side, crushed Paul’s new car, killed Paul.

There was nothing to be done.

Sally, his wife, got a call from the trucking company owner, the driver’s father, whining and crying and feeling so sorry, he said. And he also mentioned that they’d be suing Paul’s insurance for the damage to their truck. I suppose I could have arranged to shoot the negligent trucker, but it wouldn’t bring back Paul. The police called it an accident.

I wasn’t there. I want it to be somebody’s fault. My intuition says it was the trucker’s fault. But let it go.

Paul is gone, and the ceremony, as he’d have wished, is being held at the Church of Scientology in Austin, across from the university, on a very wide street. Everyone is very nice. My brother George, Paul’s older brother, and my younger, will be speaking. He’s minister at a ritzy church in Dallas.

Beforehand, sitting on the veranda at Paul’s house, I see that George has a tiny piece of paper. I nod at the paper.

“What is it?” I ask him. He holds it up, smiles. There are a few tiny words written there.

“My cheat-sheet,” he says. “To help me remember what to say.” I thought this was a good idea, and made some tiny notes for myself.

At the ceremony, no body lying around, no coffin, some flowers, and a woman minister speaking. She reads a ceremony written by L. Ron Hubbard. The mighty L. Ron is gone, too. He died a few years ago, as I read in the San Francisco Chronicle, just after I’d moved back from Texas. I felt so sad, reading it. Toward the end he’d lived, in hiding, on a ranch with white fences for horses, and a helicopter pad. I remembered how I’d seen him on a boat in the harbor in Valencia, Spain. He was eating a steak, and smoking Kool cigarettes. He was so full of life, wearing his Commodore uniform. Gone. Gone.

In the ceremony, the minister spoke of Paul as “our vedette”. A vedette is a scout who ventures far in advance of an army, to find out what’s there. That would be Paul all right. Gone.

My brother George spoke.

Then it was my time. I stood behind the podium. The room was packed. So many people, who knew my brother, people who cared. So many. Who were they? An entire life I’d not known.

“I was not a very good brother to Paul,” I said. I spoke loudly. “We only talked now and then. Sometimes a year or more would go by, and then I’d call him. When he answered I would say, Pabolo Stricklando? and he would say, Yes! This is Pabolo Stricklando! and I would say This is your brother, Arturo Cronoso, do you remember me? and he would say Why, yes, yes I do remember you! and then we would talk, for a while. I know it was goofy, but we liked it.

“I’ve heard it said that healthy families have a lot of jokes. I don’t know how true it is, but the bunch of us had a lot of jokes. For example, George there (nodding toward my brother George) he once saw a Danny Kaye movie where they had an elaborate plot about some poison in a chalice and all through that movie Danny Kaye would say to somebody: Get it? And then they would say: Got it! And then he’d say: Good!

“Except you have to say it real quick: Get it? Got it! Good. See? Or rather perhaps I should say: Get it? Got it! Good!

“I know it’s dumb. But that’s not all. At one point my brothers and I all learned to repeat the entire record of Daffy Duck Flies South. The record wasn’t really made for adolescents, but it was fun. I can’t remember the whole thing now, so you’ll be spared, but Paul thought it was great. We had fun. That was a good time.

“And now, when I think back, about my brother Paul, what I’ll remember is the fun times we had … and one more thing.

“He had a tiny red spot, right here, in the corner of his eye. I don’t remember whether he did it in his chemistry experiment, or the time he blew up the stove, but he did it, and it marked him. Our errors, and our pain, they become a part of who we are. And so it became a part of Paul, of who he was. And for the rest of my life, whenever I think of Paul, what I’ll remember … is that tiny red spot, just there, in his eye.

“You know, we hear people talk about ‘The Gift of Life.’ But that’s not quite right. It’s not a gift.

“It’s a loan. And, no matter how wonderful this life is, no matter who you are, how good you are, whether you’re good or bad, someday you come to the end. And you must give it up.

“There’s no use complaining. That’s the deal. That’s how it is. Life is only a loan, just for a time. Just the wink of an eye, sometime it seems.

“Paul would have understood that. And if he was here, he would be so happy to see you all, all of you today. He would be so happy to see you. But Paul, he came to the end.

“Right, Paul?” And here I turned, and looked up, looked up through the ceiling, up through the building, up into the sky. “Right, Paul?” I said, louder.

“Get it?” I yelled.

Pausing, we could all hear, faintly in the mind: Got it!

“Good!“

Custom Beer Label

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Breakfast of Champions?

News Flash! Now you too can have a custom beer label. So easy! So meaningful! Now persons such as Ray Ashley (citizen of New Jersey) can instantly create lables for the many and varied brews of his devising. And so can you!

Just visit The Beer Lable Site.

(A tip of the Hatlo Hat to J-Walk Blog for this item. J-Walk is my favorite weblog; I read it daily.)

Megatar Redux

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The Secret Laboratory, somewhere in the Cascade mountain range: Initial results of my experiments, having reassembled the Megatar Laboratory, look good.

With my new factotum, Dallas by name, the first run of instruments — two TrueTapper Dragons — is proceding apace. I am cautiously optimistic that the new facility will provide enhanced production and speed of delivery to a world crying out for Mobius Megatar Touch-Style Basses.

And as my grandmother used to say, “Well, we’ll see.”

The Cheapskate

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Mount Shasta: Adrienne is puttering around the house, singing her new song “Lizzie, Come Home.” Adrienne is a prodigous song-writer, though usually writing only one or two lines of each song. It’s interesting to hear her sing those lines over and over. Tickles me.

But this time, she’s got a whole verse and chorus, and a sweet melody. It’s about our new bowser named Lizzie. Lizzie’s an Aussie (Australian Shepherd), normally long of hair but we’ve shorn her and she looks like a hound on the front half, and a rotweiler on the back half.

Sweet disposition, and loud voice, she’s devoted to Adrienne, and follows her like a little shadow. Sleeps on her bed at night. Guards her diligently against the cat, and sometimes me.

It wasn’t always this way for Lizzie. She’s had a hard life, poor little rich girl.

Lizzie is pure-blooded, with papers somewhere, originally bought from the breeder by a very wealthy man as a gift to his wife. When I say wealthy, I really and truly mean wealthy. For example, Marin county is the most expensive county in northern California, andthis guy lives in one of the most expensive homes in Marin. It’s up for sale, just now, for ten million. So, you know, wealthy. Let’s just call him “Richie Rich”.

Lizzie was a sweet gift, I suppose, but unfortunately, neither the man nor the wife know bupkis about dogs. Dogs aren’t trinkets for setting on the shelf. A dog needs to be a member of a pack. And Lizzie was largely abandoned, spending the nights locked in the laundry room, left alone for weeks at a time as Richie and Mrs. Rich journeyed to their home in New York, their home in London, their home in Malibu, or their home in Tokyo.

Other than being imprisoned and having to wait 12 hours to pee, Lizzie had some care, from the housekeeper. And that’s where Adrienne, formerly of Adrienne’s All-Weather Dog-Walking business, came in. Adrienne dog-walked Lizzie daily, and did pet-sitting for weeks at a time. Adrienne is Lizzie’s best pal.

When Adrienne announced our departure to move to Mount Shasta, all her clients said, “Oh, no!” except for Richie Rich. He said, “Can you adopt Lizzie? I’ll pay you.”

And when we moved, Mrs. Rich asked Adrienne to come and pet-sit, though it was a five-hour drive. Skipping over a lot of hassle and driving, Lizzie came to pet-sit with us, pending an adoption agreement. At the last minute, on Adrienne’s voicemail, Mrs. Rich left the message, “Oh, and can you take Kittie too?”

As it happened, on that day, Adrienne had driven to Marin with a raging flu. She was weak and hallucinating, and overlooked the wise response which would have been to turn down the Kittie deal, since we had no place to stash Kittie. Alas, she had no energy for debate, and hallucinating with fever, brought Kittie to Mount Shasta.

Thus it was that we stored Kittie and catbox underfoot in my tiny office. It was less than a joy forever, though Kittie was a sweet cat. Big guy. They’d pretty much abandoned him as well, sometimes left for weeks without food, so Kittie had learned to stalk and kill moles in the woods behind the mansion. A rugged individual.

And thus it was that Kittie, confused after escaping the office one night, bit rescuing Adrienne’s hand and put Adrienne into the hospital for six days over Christmas, gave her an infection which brought her close to death, and required her to take medicines which made her sick as hell for weeks. Come to find out, Richie and the Mrs. had never bothered to get Kittie his shots.

In the meantime, during these three months, Richie and Mrs. Rich were “too busy” to talk with us regarding the adoption. Lizzie had come into our home, and for the first time in her life, found herself a member of a proper pack. She slept in the same den, she had her sister Tulip (our border collie) to help guard the house and sniff out the yard, and she had company round the clock. Alone no more, it was heaven for Lizzie.

During this time, Adrienne didn’t know whether the adoption was on or off. Richie Rich had claimed he’d pay her, but how much were we talking about? We couldn’t reach him to discuss it.

Should we just take on her expense? Was I a cheapskate to request our expected cash out of pocket like food, clipping, and vet costs?

Hard to say. On a spreadsheet, for Lizzie’s expected lifespan, these costs total a surprising $25,000, but this shouldn’t be difficult for a guy that spent $170,000 on a fence, and contributed a cool million to a recent political campaign.

We sent this off to the Riches. But heard nothing. I guess they were “too busy“, and they were away to London.

When Adrienne last saw her, Mrs. Rich had deferred discussion to Mr. Rich, and Adrienne now deferred to me, and so, man to man, or rather, voicemail to fax-machine, me and Richie went over the figures. At the end of this baloney, Mr. Rich claimed that “they just missed Lizzie too much”. By this time, Adrienne is in love with Lizzie, and Lizzie is a member of our household. Send her back? Unthinkable.

Adrienne asks, angrily, “What kind of people would consider giving up their family dog?”

I have to agree. What kind of people are these? And I didn’t believe they wanted her back. I suspected the guy loved his money more than the dog, and was just looking for a cheaper way to get rid of it. And while we have no mansion in Ross, we can afford to feed the dog.

After more delays, I trapped Richie on the phone. It soon became clear that it was all about the money, and nothing to do with love. I asked what he’d meant when offering to pay for Lizzie’s adoption. He paused.

“That’s a fair question,” he said. “I guess I thought I’d just send her off with a small check, perhaps $3000.”

“Done,” I said.

Lizzie is now ours. The guy’s a lawyer, did I mention that? He faxed a document, call it a bill of sale, or a release of liability. We signed it. He sent a check.

I’m happy for Lizzie, I like her. I’m happy for Adrienne. Lizzie is a great addition to our pack. It’s a good deal.

But you know, dealing with these people left me less than impressed. It would appear that, just because you sit near the front of the airplane, it really can’t make you a first class person.

 
 

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