“What? Just Mustard?”

Lost* Dog Blues begins

with bad onions and goes on –

no chips, no relish!


  • (Still, the scrit version reads “Lost Dog Blues Begins” but I believe I should change it to read “Last Dog Blues…” Like that.  Last Dog Blues.  May have to write sumpin’ ’bout that. My last dog was a corker…I came home from roaming ’round New Smyrna Beach all night just after high school graduation: the sun was just cracking the coast and I knew I’d catch dad at breakfast with mom ruling from her galley kitchen.  But, then, there was this dog, waggin’ its yellow crooked tail sitting near a mile from home on the highway leading to the highway leading to New Smyrna Beach – which means Izmir in Turkey – and I stop and Tiger hops aboard, gives me a lick and sits patiently beside me and just above the Hurst Speed Shifter older brother Glenn installed in dad’s newer chariot he never gets to drive, nor does dad…this dog is something else…no nose out a window for him: been there dogged that.  He sits and watches as we run down State Road 46 through Snaffurd’s unbusy uptown and we turn off onto Cedar Avenue and pull in beside the old man’s pickemup truck and Tiger goes round to the back door ’cause he knows I’ll be out soon with his share and I go in and cross through the modest-is-but-a-small-word living room and plop across from pop and turn my shoulders to nod to mom and she begins…J, just where have you…and I interrupts: Mom – I said I’d be home early. Look outside your kitchen window: see. The sun’s just coming up. ‘SEarly! And dad says: Sally, he’s right. ‘SEarly.  Leave’m ‘lone.  Now I know I’m in trouble.  Shopping? I ask all innocent-like. She does not drive: except to distractions and attractions, like the place in Orlando that sells gallons and gallons of milk and stuffs from the shelves and freezer and such.  Only much later does she find out I conked out after a midnight fullmoon swim in the surf…and she’s apoplectic about sharks – in the sea or on two feet, I ask and I get a whack on the arm at the next stoplight.)

“A Taming Big Breeze”

A taming big breeze

says tomorrow starts deluge*

Weather Radio!


  • (Not necessarily true: this waws writ Friday: still no appreciable rain here in Sanford from the Tropical Depression No. Six this Monday morning reportedly 75 miles West of Tampa heading East.  By now I should be hunting a gopherwood boat poled along by this crazy old coot in a long bathrobe with flowing white beard and hair and just too-many-to-count pets aboard.)

“OldSane Shane”

OldSane Shane gifts us

a mild hour less minutes but

gives good Groundhog Day*!


  • (Like Friendly Host Kool Ed’s weekdaymorning broadsast of two hours repeated immediatly thereafter for sleepyheads, Insane Shane’s Saturday stuff sometimes repeats (always?) and, yaknow, sometimes it’s better as seconds.)