Tag Archives: a personal note

Today’s Visit to the Supermarket

Man leaning on shopping cart Stock Photo: 47979797 - Alamy

If you’ve been following this blog, you know I have a bad knee and it’s giving me fits. But things have to get done anyhow, bad knee or not. That includes grocery shopping.

I knew I’d have to lean on the shopping cart the whole time, and use it (as Re-Farmer suggested) like a walker. After some 30 minutes of it, my arms were sore and tired. But I don’t think my knee sustained any further damage.

Coming home and listening to the car radio, we heard a lot of kerfuffle about “the White House’s numbers” on projected deaths from the coronavirus. At no time did any of the nooze sources identify who in the White House was giving us these numbers. We kept asking “Who?” but never got an answer. It was as if the building itself were pontificating about the disease.

We got back just in time to see, in our local weakly noozepaper, that–hurrah!–our town’s library has hosted a Drag Queen Story Hour. Well, we wouldn’t want a trivial thing like a pandemic to interfere with that!

This, I think, is the worst thing that has ever happened to our country’s culture so far. That any parents should bring their children to one of these abominations is inexplicable.

O Lord our God! For Jesus’ sake, please remember that these things are done against our will, without our consent, and over our objections. Amen.

I Am Injured (Oh, Fap!)

Knee Injury Images, Stock Photos & Vectors | Shutterstock

I don’t know how I did this, but my right knee is a mess and I find it hard to get around today.

The other day I woke up with some stiffness and soreness in the knee. It must have been the merest little misstep, too trivial to be noticed or remembered, that did the damage, probably the day before. It was stiffer and sorer yesterday, so I, er, reasoned that a little walk would do me good. Just a little walk downtown to the pharmacy, to get Robbie’s medicine. Just the ticket to get the knee back into shape.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. I barely made it home. And you don’t need to ask why I haven’t gone to the doctor, do you?

The last time I had a knee injury, it happened in a judo match (right in front of all my students) and I had to be carted off on a stretcher. You don’t forget a thing like that. This time, I just don’t know what happened.

I’m praying time and rest and our Lord’s good grace will heal me.

The Grocery-Shopping Stress Test

The Founder of Primal Scream Therapy Has Died. What Exactly Is ...

With the country reeling in the grip of the Chinese Wuhan Communist Death Monster, grocery-shopping at our local supermarket–sorry, I should say “supermarkets,” because now we’ve got to go to more than one–is getting to me, big-time.

It’s like being poor, only you still have money. You just can’t use it to buy the things you want because they aren’t in the store. It got a primal scream out of me today. Don’t worry–I was alone in my car.

The reason I was in the car was because I had to go back to the store. We needed some sliced roast beef, but the deli department wasn’t working. Instead, they had everything in a “grab and go” bin. And what I grabbed turned out to be wrong, so I had to go back. This time they served me some roast beef because their boss wasn’t looking.

But I also had to go to Whole Foods, for lettuce and paper towels. They only had past-lives recycled paper towels, which cost a mint, and no organic iceberg lettuce at all. And if you needed toilet paper–well, you know about toilet paper. There ain’t any to be had.

This is indescribably tiresome. The folks at the supermarkets are doing their best, and I’m grateful to them. But they can’t sell me what they don’t have.

It would be nice if I could believe any of the reports I find in our free and independent press, whose only mission in life is to help Democrats get back into power. The reports run the gamut from “We’re all gonna die!” to “It’s no big deal and the country’s overreacting,” plus every conceivable position in between. It makes for a rather surreal ambience.

I can only pray it’ll be over soon.

Are We That Old?

an/ was discussing old dinosaur art and struck comedy gold ...

No, not quite that old!

We were watching a movie yesterday when the phone rang. Only because we get so many of them every single day, at any hour of the day, I expected it to be yet another in an infinite series of robo-calls. “This is your final notice,” blah-blah-blah. “Final” as in ten thousandth time, with ten thousand more to come.

I was taken aback when it turned out to be a human being. She introduced herself, said she was part of a volunteer campaign here in town to check up on people, and how were we doing? This had me totally stumped.

Oh, wait! Suddenly I realized–I had forgotten we were senior citizens! Good grief, when did that happen? I’m so glad I figured out what was going on here before I could bite this woman’s head off. She meant well. And I’m glad I didn’t ask her to have anything done for us, because we don’t really need it while other people do.

This is a very strange time to be living through. It feels unreal. Who knows what to believe? What kind of weird resolution are we headed for?

Anyway, it annoyed me for a moment, but now I’m glad that someone’s doing it–calling people up to make sure they’re all right.

I’ll try to remember that I’m old.

An Incident in the Kitchen

Basic Bread Recipe for Beginners

My wife is busy in the kitchen, baking bread, the cats are driving her crazy, meowing for food they like better than what we’ve offered them so far, the garbage can is full to overflowing, so she asked me to feed the cats and change the trash bag.

First I fed the cats, then I took out the full bag and got rid of it. She handed me a fresh bag to put in the can. There were only two bags left in that box, and they both came out at once, so she had to stuff the last one back into the box.

“You didn’t fold that bag,” I said. She stared at me. “Take that bag out of the box again and fold it up nicely.”

You should’ve seen the look I got before she realized I was kidding, just pulling her chain to get a laugh. Which I got.

“I can’t imagine being the kind of person who would say that!” Patty said. “I can’t imagine being married to someone like that.”

Married 42 years, and still laughing together. At the same thing, the same time. Thank you, Lord.

Why I Love Reptiles

Henry Lizardlover's Iguana Behavior, Body Language

It’s easy to understand why anyone would love a cat, a dog, or a bunny. They’re cuddly, they can love us back, they can be trained to perform useful work, and can even play with us.

But I love lizards and turtles, too. I’ve had many different kinds as pets. You can’t teach them to do jobs, I’ve never known a lizard to play, it’s hard to be cuddly when you don’t have any fur, and as for loving us back–well, I’ve had a few lizards and turtles who did a pretty good imitation of it, and maybe it wasn’t an imitation after all.

Dogs and cats, rats and bunnies, goats and horses–they’re mammals, like we are. That means we have a lot in common. We can get into each other’s heads, as it were. You can understand what your cat wants, even though she can’t tell you in words. Your dog can understand what you want, etc.

But what about a lizard or a turtle? (Those of you who are wondering why I’ve left out snakes–well, I’ve had no experience with snakes.) These are very, very different from mammals. No parental care: the eggs hatch and off they go.

But I’m here to tell you that you can win the trust of a lizard or a turtle. They will lose their fear of you, certainly seem to enjoy it when you handle them; and if they’re big and smart enough to be allowed the run of the house, they’ll often seek you out, and seem to be happy in your company. And if treated kindly and gently, they can learn to do things that they’d never ordinarily even think of doing! You should have seen my iguana cuddled up with his doggy and catty friends. Unthinkable, really. But he’d been around long enough, and thoroughly hand-raised from the time he was a tiny little green thing, to be able to adapt to many unusual situations.

To me a bond with a reptile feels special because I know how different they are, I know what a great gaping space a turtle and I have to bridge before the turtle wants me to tickle the top of his head and the underside of his neck. A turtle in the wild who allowed anything like that would have to be totally crazy. To have the little slowworms (legless lizards: charming little souls) scooting over to me to get fed and petted–well, really, that made me feel like something very fine was happening to them and me. It felt like a glimpse into God’s restoration of Creation.

When I had an art class to teach, I used to take my iguana to school because the kids liked to draw him, and feed him wild strawberries. He behaved himself all day, with perfect manners. He had a bond of trust with me that he extended to most other humans. He and Patty hit it off from the git-go. He and Patty’s dog were instant friends.

Reptiles are capable of much more than we expect from them; and to have had a role in bringing it out–well, what can I say? I love it when that happens!

The Supermarket Report

Eastern Green Lizard, European green lizard, Emerald lizard ...

I’m tired of running pictures of empty shelves. Here’s a nice emerald lizard instead.

I have some hot stuff to post for you today, but I’ve just come back from grocery shopping and I need my cigar break.

The shortages were less pronounced than they’ve been, but still no toilet paper, no paper towels, and no quarts of milk. I can’t buy a half gallon and use it up before it goes bad.

But boy, oh, boy! Going by the canned news we were hearing on the radio on the way to the supermarket, America is doomed, kaput, finished, we’re all gonna die–I mean, they were carrying on like there were piles of dead bodies on every street corner.

Why are they doing this? It’s true that disaster always gets good ratings; but I think the Democrat/media/Hollywood axis is trying their hardest to hurt President Donald Trump and torpedo his re-election. And they don’t care what happens to the country, as long as they get their way. If they have to destroy it in order to rule it, then so be it.

The virus will be over and done with someday, but leftids will still be here.

Vote them out of business in November. Democrat Party, gone forever: amen.

That’s My Name

Image result for images of tongue twister

We’re still trying–unsuccessfully–to email my column to Newswithviews. I am wiped out with frustration. Meanwhile, Joshua wondered how to pronounce my name, so I thought I might elaborate on that.

My paternal grandfather was born in Paris and came here as a boy. Our original surname was “Duigou,” and you can imagine how that got mangled: “Dooey-Gooey” springs to mind. So he changed it to “Duigon.”

My mother’s German surname wasn’t much better: “Leis,” pronounced “Lice.” So they took to pronouncing it “Lease.”

All my life I’ve heard my name botched and butchered. “Doo-jee-on.” “Doo-gan.” One man pronounced it “Dugong,” an animal related to the manatee. Once at Sunday school, when they were handing out attendance badges, the superintendent called me up to the stage as “Diggin.” Which inspired me to exclaim, “My name ain’t Diggin, it’s Duigon!” I think that happened when I was ten years old.

Six measly letters–how hard could it be? I mean, it’s not “Suppiluliamas,” is it? But he was king of the Hittites, and it was probably dangerous to mangle his name. And you could always call him “Your Majesty” if you got stuck. I have to settle for “Hey, you.”

Anyway, the correct pronunciation is “Dui”–as in “ruin” or “bruin”–“gon.” I can live with “Dwee-gon.” I strongly believe that Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays would never, ever have become stars if either of them had been saddled with my name.

“Wow! I read a really good book by… well, some guy, whatsisname…”


My Horrible Day So Far

Image result for images of man screaming in frustration

“We have encountered a technical problem,” simpers the evil computer. “Please try again later.” And again, and again, and again…

I knocked myself out yesterday to write a Newswithviews column, and then the unspeakable devil of a computer refused to send it. This morning we tried for going on 90 minutes to get the thing to work. I even typed the freakin’ column all over again so I could send it on the other machine—with exactly the same result!

I admit I screamed and pounded on the floor.

And of course we couldn’t buy all our regular groceries yesterday, although I was in the store for twice as long as normally, so we had to go back out today and try Whole Foods. It’s not my kind of store. I want regular working-class food, not this hoity-toity past lives stuff. Well, at least I was able to get wax paper, lettuce, and eggs.

I don’t know about you, but for both Patty and me, this Chinese Death Monster Virus scare has begun to take on an air of unreality. Like, are we stuck in some stupid movie somewhere? Is Kevin Kostner going to turn up in our parking lot?

And it’s kind of like being poor, only you have money… but what good is money if there’s nothing you can buy with it? I am too old to take up a whole new way of life, that of being poverty-stricken.

And still I can’t send the flippin’ email. The computer says no, not allowed.

I hate technology.

It’s Getting to Me

See the source image

Current events are worming their way into my subconscious!

Last night I dreamed Toshiro Mifune, in full samurai garb, went to our local supermarket to buy paper towels. He bought a pack of 27 rolls, which was all they had available. And when he was out of the store, the rolls of paper towels turned into bad samurai and attacked him, necessitating some very fancy sword-play.

Paper towels? Toshiro must’ve thought he was lucky to get ’em–the last pack of towels left on the shelves. When I was there the other day, there weren’t any.

I do not want to dream about current events. I get enough of that all day. Saturation nooze coverage! It’s always one story eating up all the others. Fap! You can’t even make a proper Toshiro Mifune movie out of it.

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