The Adventures of Bloggard

Good old Kaiser slid me into a 4:30 appointment with eyedrops and tests. Come to find out …

My body is not what it was. Smaller parts don’t work as well. It requires more resting. It is natural, they say. Well, so would pain be natural should I pound their toes with a hammer, but natural doesn’t make it good.

Some deterioration makes the specks. Most likely the specks will settle, due to gravity, in some weeks. Most likely the problems will not progress. Most likely.

But when you think about it, we’re floating adrift in the Body of God, luminous points in the sea of space. Adrift. Our entire existance is against the odds. No wonder then, that the odds catch up, now and then.

Such a little threat, a small inconvenience, these specks. They’re right in the way of where I’m looking, they are. They obscure a tiny part of the world. I am having the time of my life, and the time is passing relentlessly. Perhaps in the end, the entire world has become obscured, and there is nothing left to see.

It makes me suddenly grateful, for vision granted. Just another unappreciated gift. Life itself is not exactly a gift. Life is a loan. That’s the deal. No use whining when we must pay up. You don’t like the deal, then don’t play.

I like the deal. I’m in.

The reading list covered the Chinese Revolution, and the Autobiography of Malcolm X. One day while blondie professor waxed poetic about the “beautiful street language” of Malcolm X, I pointed out that Malcolm hadn’t written the book. Prof was stupified.

I explained. Right on the cover, it said ‘As told to Alex Haley’. That meant Alex Haley was hired to write the book because Malcolm X either wouldn’t or couldn’t write the book. So, beautiful street language? More likely, contrived gutter talk.

Prof was stumped by that. From then on, we weren’t pals. He regarded me with deep suspicion. He knew something was wrong, but not what.

On the other hand, he couldn’t fault me. I did the work, I took the tests, I even showed up at his house when he was showing an italian film called “The Bicycle Thief.”

Now this is great cinema, about a little boy whose factory-worker father’s bicycle was stolen one day. The father couldn’t get to work so he was fired. He fell on hard times and things went from bad to worse. One day, maddened, the father stole a bicycle and peddled away, but was caught and hauled off the bicycle by an indignant mob who dragged him off to the police and jail, as the boy watched.

Of course, it was just more grist for our Communist education. I didn’t much care, because I’d written a paper in high school called ‘Altruism and the Communist Manifesto’.

That sounds very grand, but my step-father had bought Brittanica books with many old and famous writers, and my papers had taken a turn for the learned. Since I knew everything in the world about Altrusim, I wasn’t buying it. I was a big flop as a Communist.

However, I got my grade, as needed. I graduated, and moved on to graduate study at San Francisco State.

A few years later, in North Beach, one Sunday I walked to the park on Columbus, to hear the free music and soak in the sun. I was sprawled on the grass, when, looking to my right, there was blondie professor.

“Well, hello,” I said.

He seemed very surprised to see me. He was visiting, and wasn’t San Francisco wonderful. Asked me how I happened to be visiting. I said I lived around the corner.

Blondie was clearly disappointed. Somehow, I had stolen something from him, just by being there. Some magic or enchantment evaporated. It showed in his face, or in a pause of speech. The conversation languished. Soon he stood up and said he had to go.

I never saw him again.

That’s what wrong with these Communists. They fade in the home stretch.

From Tulip the dog and Percy the cat, my dear Adrienne got new sneaks yesterday, and a card today. There was a 37-cent stamp drawn on the envelope. They thought that would make the card look real classy.

Adrienne has breakfasted on Pannatone French Toast, here at Two Bird Cafe, at an outside table, in mottled sunlight through the willow. Tre sportif she is, in green pants and stylish pale yellow sweater. The air is crisp and clear. The waitrii are jumping, the place is packed.

In a moment, since nearby, we briefly visit the Celinas, where the children in jammies come to excite Tulip. Percy has not come with us, pleading a prior appointment with a patch of sun upon the deck.

Did you phone Mom today? If not, don’t you wish you could?

I know I do.

I agree. I think that’s why men generally like dogs. Dogs are friendly and, no matter how domestic, there is a wildness in them. And isn’t that exactly how every man, including myself, wishes to be?

Our dog Tulip is female, but the dog nature is unvarying. And here’s why I like dogs …

Dogs are friendly. Unless you are an intruder, and need to be killed, generally a dog assumes that you are good, that you are likable. So already, we’re off to a good start.

Dogs are enthusiastic. No matter what’s going on, it’s the dog’s favorite. Food? His favorite! The woman comes home? His favorite! The man comes home? His favorite! Play ball? His favorite! Go to the post office? His favorite!

Within their compass, dogs are loyal. Sure, things there are that will make any dog run. Can we say less for ourselves? I think not. But, short that ungovernable terror, the dog is in the game on your side completely, totally, utterly.

Dogs are beautiful. Further, every dog is an athlete. Further, they move with grace. When they grow older, one of the reasons it touches the heart is that we see in them, as we see in ourselves, the loss of grace.

Dogs have a wildness. Domesticated, sure. But civilized? Never. Not now, not later, not ever. They are animals!

And I figure that makes them …

Much more honest than ourselves.

It’s great because I can copy the script anywhere into html space, then browse there, and presto I can see inside most any folder on the server. In any folder world-writable, I can copy files, make links to files, delete files, edit files. Neat.

It’s terrible because, if I can do it, anybody can do it. Getting into a previously ‘secured’ folder and stealing the credit-card number proved way easy. If I can’t throttle this boy into acting with some restraint, he’s outta here!