Oompah-pah Pants and Oo La La!

Continued From: "Bling Around the Collar," part of a thread starting with "Cents and Sensibility."

We departed Big Lots when it became apparent the selection of lederhosen was borderline nil.

Fortunately, there is a back-up plan.

I've been on Cloud 9 (having ascended from Cloud 8: Small Kitchen Appliances, Knitting Notions, and Toni Silkwave Perm Products) ever since reading a news article on "luxury lederhosen."

I carry it in a locket next to my hosen.

VIENNA, Austria (AP) -- An Austrian designer is taking orders for personalized luxury lederhosen and recently sold a diamond-studded pair for $114,000....

Those interested can choose from an array of stones, including garnets, rubies, emeralds and diamonds, that are then mounted on buttons made either of sterling silver, gold or platinum....

Lederhosen are traditional short, leather trousers that some Austrian and German men still wear today at festivals or special occasions.

I am not appreciably German or Austrian, according to clinical dipsticking.

I am, however, a slave to fashion and a journeyman apprentice to showing off my tube socks.

Must! Have! Lederhosen!

To complicate matters, being a vegetarian, I cannot direct myself to purchase leather. I am hopeful my customized knee breeches might sprout from other sources.

As I recall, my last wardrobe acquisition tour for animal-free clothing proved to be quite formidable, but I did locate clamdiggers fabricated from a woven medley of the squashes and chunked guacamole.

The needle work was superior on those pants and I would know. It is otherwise common and a bit disconcerting to encounter salsa in a leg hole.

Especially, if the pockets are lacking Fritos Scoops.

Continued: "With Love One the You're"


Bling Around the Collar

Continued From: "With This Ring I Be Cred," part of a thread beginning with "Cents and Sensibility."

Big Lots Bling Necklace
In his immortal "The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám," the 19th century poet Edward Fitzgerald said it best:

"A Big of Lots underneath the Jowl, a Bling Necklace, a Loaf of Bread -- and Wow!"

Continued: "Oompah-pah Pants and Oo La La!"


With This Ring I Be Cred

Continued From: "Cents and Sensibility"

The first stop for me on any shopping spree is, of course, the fine jewelry department.

I am so a gemological dandy.

Big Lots Bling Ring
Let us not quibble. Whether 150 dollars or a buck-fifty, beauty is a bargain at any price.

Continued: "Bling Around the Collar"


Cents and Sensibility

My wife and I have been feeling down recently, so what better way to cheer ourselves up than to whirl off on a fabulous shopping spree?

To make things extra special, I decided to take Donna on her first ever visit to Big Lots!

But, this Big Lots store was so intensely exciting, the exclamation point could not wait to appear until the end of the company name.


Donna was frightened by the implied pressure of that premature exclamation, so I drove around until I could find her a less overwhelming, routinely exciting Big Lots!

She's a beginner.

Continued: "With This Ring I Be Cred"


Hair Loon

Twenty-six years of marriage. Actual conversation:

Mike: Have you seen my hairbrush?

Donna: Yes, I put it with mine.

Mike: Better be careful, or they might mate and we'll get a bad sweater out of it.

Donna: I just put it there to clean.

Mike: [picks up his brush and points at the clump of hairs] Look here: 1973. Long before I met you.

Donna: Michael!

Mike: See this? [points again] That's the night I saw "The Sting."

Donna: [snorts] You're awful! You are awful!


At a Theatre or Web Site Near Mike

A Woman on the Edge

Back to the Beach: Just Call Me Moondoggie

The Startling Event We've All Been Waiting For!


Make Good for Morty

Speaking of Morty, he is a bit miffed at me. He's learned I posted glowing remembrances of his late brother, Kelp, and several other testimonials honoring my departed sneakers.

Morty has let me know in no uncertain terms that he wants people to speak adoringly of him while he is alive, not later. I'm supposed to drop everything now and go write and publish something nice about Morty.


Morty spits up good, with his own inimitable signature sauce, Meownnaise®.

There. He is so vain.



Morty is nearly seven and, as with our cat Kelp in the past, I've looked forward to his boyhood phase of Randolph Scott worship.

So, it made me burst with pride to find Morty enjoying a wholesome Randy western.

That is, until Morty high-pawed the villain!


Unsporting Goods

Continued From: "Even More Horrendously Escalating Bad News," "Footnote," and "Remembering My Sneakers."

I would buy new shoes sooner, if I could find replacements.

That reminds me of a typical story.

Awhile back, for the first and last time, Donna and I visited this establishment to purchase shoes. We were browsing the big selection of athletic footwear, when a sales representative approached.

Here's our actual conversation.

Clerk: Help you?

Mike: Yes, do you have any canvas sneakers? I'm a vegetarian and I can't buy leather.

Clerk: No.

Donna: Thanks.



Remembering My Sneakers

Continued From: "Even More Horrendously Escalating Bad News" and "Footnote."

My late, loyal shoes came to play with me in 2002. We had some fine times over the years and were seldom apart. This photo collection socks it to me.

Stretching our legs in the Grand Canyon.

Sneak(er) attack.

Paying our respects to some of the shoes' relatives in Hollywood.

Directing traffic on Skull Island.

Keeping the magic of Elvis alive.

Taking care of business.

The arches at Arches National Park.

"Unsporting Goods"

Grand Canyon photo ©2003 Donna Durrett, beach photo ©2005 Donna Durrett, others ©2003-2007 Mike Durrett, all rights reserved.



Continued From: "Even More Horrendously Escalating Bad News"

I hate to part with my favorite shoes. There are a lot of miles left in these sweet rides.

"Remembering My Sneakers"


More Horrendously Escalating Bad News

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye and a turban's AWOL and the broccoli's cockamamie and a sex scandal looms and "wash me" and Damon's a deadbeat and the snap's shot.

Now, there is no bad news.

Yeah, you read that correctly.

"There is no bad news."

Nothing new. No #11.

Tough break.

Sorry for the disappointment.

I am looking forward to bad news tomorrow, though. Pinky swear!

After all, it comes in twelves.


Horrendously Escalating Bad News

Okay, I was willing to accept that bad news comes in threes and, maybe, sixes and, perhaps, nines, yet I'm down with the tenth -- which means a dang dozen.

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye and a turban's AWOL and the broccoli's cockamamie and a sex scandal looms and "wash me" and Damon's a deadbeat.

Now, Kathy blinks!

My pal, Bill, telephones me from Obradoiro Square in Spain, just like last year, and demands I take the couple's photo via a Webcam.

But, c'mon! Work with me! Work with me, people! I'm an artiste!


Even More Terribly Abnormal Bad News

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye and a turban's AWOL and the broccoli's cockamamie and a sex scandal looms and "wash me."

Now, Matt Damon quits!

"Jason Bourne is at it again as the expert assassin and secret agent [in] 'The Bourne Ultimatum,' the third and reportedly last in the trilogy of films based on Robert Ludlum's novels... [following 'The Bourne Identity' and 'The Bourne Supremacy.']

"'It's the end,' Damon said. 'I can't imagine how we could go on with the story beyond this.'" --"The Virginian-Pilot"

What?! Wait!!!

What about "The Bourne Hungry Hungry Hippos?"


More Terribly Abnormal Bad News

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye and a turban's AWOL and the broccoli's cockamamie and a sex scandal looms.

Now, my car needs washing.


See this photo? That's me handling my hose.

It made me happy. It felt good.

Real good.

Really, really good.

I gave the car a shower in April. I photographed the event because it was the first cleansing I'd ever administered to the Saturn!

In nearly 15 years, I might add. I've been driving this vehicle since 1992, when I wheelied it off the showroom floor.

Let's see ... April to August is four months. Four months! That stupid car wash lasted only four months!

I tell ya. There is no value anymore.


Terribly Abnormal Bad News

Bad news comes in threes and, maybe, sixes, as I understand, but I'm enduring a seventh -- which means we're getting nine.

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye and a turban's AWOL and the broccoli's cockamamie.

Now, paradise is being developed. There are new houses materializing next to ours in the adjacent undefiled woodlands.

Destruction and construction continue. Peace and nature's full beauty are memories of the past. The panoply of grand wildlife is uprooted.

And where does that leave me?

Trying to explain why I was caught in a virgin forest, exposed head to toe, between a mechanical CAT and a finger.


Even More Exceedingly Erratic Bad News

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye and a turban's AWOL.

Now, I can't bring back Donna's Turbie Twist. She's fit to be tied.

I phoned my florist to brighten the day.

They're closed.

I called my florettes and got an arrangement of Broccoli Wokly.

Unfortunately -- and this makes me steam -- there is no "microwave in bag."

My luck, they leave out the prize.


More Exceedingly Erratic Bad News

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye.

Now, Donna can't find her Turbie Twist.

We're in the midst of a full-fledged turban disturbance. Where, oh where, is that "super absorbent twist and loop hair towel?"

My bride's bummed by a blight of blots.


Exceedingly Erratic Bad News

I thought bad news comes in threes, but here's a fourth -- which means we're going for six.

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat.

Now, all of my friends have their copies of the "Popeye the Sailor: 1933-38, Volume One" DVDs, while I continue to wait in anguish for delivery.

I'm filling the time eating orchids with Eugene the Jeep and looking for Alice the Goon depilatory tips.


Even More Bad News

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works.

Now, I learn I've been replaced as Patio Daddy-O.

Not much is harder to bear than turning in one's spatula and squirt relish.


More Bad News

First, my cat dies.

Then, my wife gets the Weedwacker fixed.

It's not that I mind weedwacking. It's just that I always end up looking like I'm a chorus boy in "Little Shop of Horrors."


The Last Pictures Show

Continued From: "Purrfect," part of a thread beginning with "Remembering Professor Kelp"

On April 7, on a whim, I picked up my camera and snapped a few glimpses of Professor Kelp to mark and celebrate the prized cat's 20th birthday.

Here, in sequence, are what would become his final three photographs.

Professor Kelp, cool cat.
It was a good spring day, sunny with a nice nap.



Continued From: "A Few of Kelp's Favorite Things," part of a thread beginning with "Remembering Professor Kelp"

I am grateful to have this snapshot, although I am amazed it survived deletion from the digital camera's memory. The composition is not well lit or framed and it did not appeal to my myopic artistic sensibilities. The lack of action is so everyday mundane, I failed to see I had captured a treasure.

With this dear cat's passing, the longer I linger within the imagery above, the deeper I adore the beauty and the peace I see.

Perhaps, more than any other photograph, this one presents the quintessential Professor Kelp.

Here he is in his most recognizable pose, at rest with those big blue eyes processing us and the panoramas of his world. That's Kelper.

A closer look reveals he is perched on the kitchen table, a house rule no-no, but we gave up on shooing him off by 1989.

Note his heinie basking in sunlight. Ha, that makes me smile.

Kelp was a happy cat. He would sit in this position for hours, or so it seemed. The chances were he would pass much of that time purring.

Maestro Kelp was the most boisterous purrer I have ever heard and his concerts were magnificent.

As the final fortnight of his life engaged, I feared he was in irreversible decline. I knew he was in trouble. I knew because the music had stopped.

Kelp stopped purring.

Mere days earlier, I was at my desk in the teensy hours of the a.m., reading email and typing nonsense. I sat in darkness, working by light from the computer monitor.

Suddenly, I heard a noise.

I was not alone.

Out of the silence, the room became alive, rumbling with vibrant waves of purr.

Unbeknownst to me, Kelp had entered the office and assumed his aforementioned comfortable position next to my feet. He purred loud and he purred into the night.

He was content.

I said nothing as, hindsight reveals, I enjoyed Kelp's fabulous parting gift.

Next: "The Last Pictures Show"


A Few of Kelp's Favorite Things

Continued From: "Love 'Em and Leave 'Em," part of a thread beginning with "Remembering Professor Kelp"

In addition to fetching and catnipping, Kelp was an enthusiast of catnapping.

Entirely self-taught was the lad, although I do believe I role modeled him in the art of slipping out of bed for a tasty midnight snack to fuel the homestretch snooze 'til noon.

Kelp especially enjoyed his late afternoon sunbaths, when the rays would enter our windows with their largest, warmest pools of light.

The feline never failed to stir mid-nap, appearing bewildered and annoyed that the soothing sunspots on the carpet had orbited off of his body. He'd manage to rise and move over a foot or two inside the relocated brightness before resuming sleep.

I sensed his internal grumbles at the inconvenience and knew in my heart the cat blamed me for shifting the light. He'd give me that look of distaste, as if to sneer, "Thanks a lot, biped."

Kelp was addicted to cellophane tape. He'd come running at the sound of the adhesive material being pulled from a dispenser, jawing at it like a crocodile under meat.

Tape possessed a mysterious olfactory allure, much the same as catnip, I suppose, because Kelp was crazy for the stuff. He became such a nuisance, we were forced to discontinue sticky tape, wrapping packages instead with jam and push pins.

Kelp liked most any kind of plastic, from grocery bags to checkbook covers. He'd seek out these items and slurp, slurp, slurp them. It was a sign for me to grab the yellow slicker and rain hat.

Red tongue at morning, humans take warning. Fur ball a-coming!

Kelp's supreme gratification, besides eating and dozing, was having his chin scratched. He welcomed any massage or petting, but the underside of that handsome noggin provided the most desirable target.

He'd appear without notice and head-butt Donna or me until we obliged him. On numerous occasions, we were coaxed from deep slumbers with Kelp on the mattress, punching our shoulders with his skull.

A rigorous moment or two of kitty neck rubs and foraging for itches would satisfy him, especially if accompanied by cheery commentary from us cat whisperers.

Then, whenever Donna was unavailable, Kelp would curl up close to my side for shuteye. I was the designated space heater.

Next: "Purrfect"
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...