“Now I Know Why I Got Two!”

My Balky Bose pouts

silently as backup subs:

with two games to go!*


  • (The radio settles the dispute: do I watch or listen?  Now, the newer Bose skitters and confusingly flashes “Please Wait” messages when I want ESPN radio for University of Central Florida’s bashing of Auburn – and later a pair of a pair of pro football games I no longer will watch in kneefull protest but have dispensated me to listen-only duty.  So, I troll the back hallway to the second spare room wherein lies the older Wave model Bose AM-FM CD Aux with all kinds of faluting fobberies, including touch-buttons optional instead of the newer remote-only capabilities – and the flashier newer remote takes AAA batteries and has so many buttons I wanna wear it as a shirt and not just use as an alternative cussin’ device.  A quick outlet plugin and we are listening.  Now, to go fish up its own small – hearing-aid battery operated remote – to go through the chore of telling Old Man Bose what I wanna hear now.  Here! Now! Damnearmissedkickoff! Of course, I coulda used the Sangean which was set for Weather Radio, but where’s the fun in that.  The other two weather radios are windups – with spare ‘lectric  AND batteries, too! – but I don wanna move them at all.  Oh, yeah: there’s a Sony pocket AM-FM-Weather radio that is the size of a deck of cards cut horizontally that fits a shirt pocket wonderfully.  And two more portable/stationary capable weather radio sets with all the gee-gaws floating around here summwheres. Thank you Marconi. You, too, Morse.)

“Just* J”

someone always is

misspelling my name, starting

with the birth-room nurse*


  • (I had this story from the culprits two themselves.  Cut-upon mom – for the second time, no less! – was perusing her purchase in what the mid-twentieth century was passing off as swaddling when the neo-natal nurse came breathless to the room and asked: “So, whatsishisname, again?” Jay? Or John Junior.”  Obviously she had been listening at the door as the pair inside produced trite old arguments. Dad: “Not gonna have no dam junior wandering around getting into fights and all because of his middle – which I will not divulge – name or even that damn junior-shit.”  “Well,” moderated mother, “Why not call him J?”  That’s when the nurse got involved, thinking these two pair-of-gones were capable of sober reasoning and conventional outlooks.  “Sowhatsitgonnabethen,” she was alleged to have uttered, when Dad settled the issue: “Just J, Period,” he peppered the stew.  When the nurse came back with the document all typed up there appeared a J. – or in layman’s terms, Jay, Period! Mom giggled. Dad guffawed.  I did not squall, contrary to later versions of the tale. But when I finally learned to read (but twelve seasons later) I found I was saddled with my father’s brother’s middle name. Go ahead, I dares ya! Say J Kirk real fast three times!  See!  And those two parents were so bemused they did not send said nursee back to correct her type-o-graphical error and remove The Period!  What use have I of periods, I asks ya?  ‘Scuse: I hafta go fight Jimmy Ellis again: seems he doesn’t cater to being called JimAlice! Tough!)

“An Immodest Proposal*”

“Nextuary” – choice

for new thirteenth month decreed

‘twixt them two ‘firsters!


  • (With no apologies to one J. Swift, I find the concept of thirteen months – with no regularity in their lengths if possible – fascinating.  I wanted Nextuary not in the middle – between January and its laggard lopsided February, but trailing. Alas, the count – and surely the amount – forced its interior placement.  March has a lot of pull, apparently, and insisted it not be linked with such foolishness.  And April is stolid? Methinks not!  But that’s for another tilt as soon as Sancho fixes the last wind turbine!)