We want to go easy on the nooze this weekend, because, heck, it’s all bad, a major chunk of it is lies, and our spirits need a rest. So we will watch a movie this afternoon.
But which movie? Patty couldn’t find a horror movie that appealed to us, so she got to thinking, “Maybe a comedy.” I heard her say that and got to thinking about comedies we know we would enjoy.
Just as I was thinking, “How about Clockwise, with John Cleese? That’ll give us some laughs,” she said, “How about Clockwise?”
“Holy moly, I was just about to say that!” I answered. “You took the words right out of my mouth. Well, we have to watch it now!”
This happens with us again and again, even to the point of both of us saying the same thing at once, as if we’d rehearsed it. We are both convinced that this is a sign of a good marriage. I mean, out of the thousands of comedies we might have mentioned, we both call for this one movie? How cool is that?
Please feel free to join us! It’s a really funny movie, available for rental on amazon.com.
I would like to mention the sitting-room closet, which held a certain fascination for me. Here the explorer would find my mother’s bowling shoes–truly mystifying!–and her tennis racket, although I don’t remember her ever playing tennis until much, much later in life. The carpet-sweeper was also in there. Do we still have carpet-sweepers?
Ah, the smell of ironing! And the black-and-white TV. And kneeling on the couch by the window, watching the snow come down…
As I was trying to get myself back on schedule today, I chanced to look out the window just in time to see a delivery man coming with… another box from Chewy.
I had to bring it in and unpack it. Oof! Too heavy to pick up. Too big and awkward. What’s in it–a dead body? Great start to a mystery novel, The Cat-Food Killings. With Hercule Poirot going totally mad from all the cat hair on his clothes.
Open the box to find out what’s in it! (Just like Obamacare!) Hot dog, another half a dozen big bags of cat litter. I’m sure we have enough to fill our bathtub now. Plus a few cartons of canned food and three sleeves of Fancy Feast. Now all I have to do is find places to put them.
How many cats do they think we have? Really, there are only two.
This has got to be a good day: I was able to buy some rubbing alcohol at our supermarket.
Our plan, here at Chez Leester, is to take it kind of slow today. I’ve asked Chalcedon to let me review The Engineering of Consent, which I expect to be quietly horrifying. We’re going to watch a movie and have spare ribs for supper. It is, after all, a holiday–even if the parade’s been called off.
Meanwhile, for a quick laugh, how’s this for a “help wanted” ad?
SUSPECTS WANTED for assorted unsolved crimes. Help your government lower the crime rate! Apply by mail or in person to any Democrat governor or mayor in your area. BONUS PAID if you’re found guilty.
I remember my father playing this song on the radio as he painted our upstairs bedrooms, which used to be the attic until he converted it–with his own hands.
Cindy, Oh Cindy–I was seven years old when this was popular and I was watching Daddy paint the walls. This version is by Vince Martin and the Tarriers. There are others.
I can’t hear it without thinking of my father–and missing him. He went to sea when he was little more than a boy, joined the Navy to fight in World War II. I’m sure this song made him recall those days.
If I could impart just one lesson to the relatively young, it would be this: There will come a time in your life when you’re losing more people than you gain; so with your family, with your friends, love ’em while you’ve got ’em. You come into the world as the youngest member of your family; and some of us live to see themselves the oldest member of their family.
Love with all your heart. It’s not like money, you don’t run out of it by spending it. God doesn’t let that happen. Love without stinting. You’ll never be sorry you did.
I don’t know how this notion ever got lodged in my head; but when I was a little boy, I wanted to be a zebra when I grew up. Adult humans just didn’t seem all that big a deal to me. Zebras were so much cooler!
My Grammie thought this very charming. The last time she gave me a stuffed toy zebra, I was 30 years old. I still have it in my living room.
Looking at this little video stirs strange rustlings in my soul. Really, now, what would you rather grow up to be–someone who sells insurance to people who’d just as soon not have it, or one of these snazzy horsey things that makes such weird noises? Would you rather sit at a desk or run all around East Africa?
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.
Enough bad nooze already. Here’s something totally harmless, benign, soothing, and sweet: Music Box Dancer by Frank Mills, complete with dancers.
Early childhood memory: my Aunt Millie had a music box with a little toy ballet dancer on the cover, who glided around in a circle when you played the music. I loved to watch it, fascinated. And what I wouldn’t give to see her, and it, again.
P.S.–Oops! I posted this video last month. Never mind, I think we need it again. It’s a small port in a big storm. And prayer will lead us to the best port of them all: the love of God, in Jesus Christ our Savior.
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…”