Blueblood Birthdays

Posted in Mixed Nuts on September 29th, 2009 by MadDog
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There seems to be no way to avoid the continuing embarrassments of birthdays, short of dying. Even then, relatives will be heard saying, “Oh my, you know it’s Uncle Joe’s birthday today. He’d be 109 years old today if he wasn’t dead.” I don’t find this very amusing and I’m changing my will to disinherit any heirs who refuse to sign a blood oath forbidding them from making me sound older that I was when I die. (Something wrong with the verb tenses there, but it seems inscrutable to me at the moment.)

Anyway, Mike Cassell and Nigel Burrows (hope I spelled his name right) were subjected to the birthday torture on Sunday up at Blueblood. Lawrence Manning chipped in to man the axe for the barbie wood:

Lawrence is a lumberjack and he's okay

Never has so much energy been expended for so little firewood. I got so tired from watching him that I took my camera, a cold SP Export Lager, and my usual cheap cigar up the road to snap some nature. My first encounter was with what I lovingly call the Mellow Yellow Plant: *

Mellow Yellow plant

This territory has a penchant for outrageous foliage. It’s a bit of a shock when you come here and discover that a significant portion of the vegetation forgoes the usual froggy green for psychedelic hues not usually seen outside Hollywood studio productions.

Even plants which mature into the more sedate and acceptable shades of the shade tree often sprout improbably tinted new leaves:

New leaves

When mango trees are producing new leaves they often appear to be bright orange from a distance. That’s how you know where to go and pick up the best mangos from the ground in a few months. Watch out for dogs!

Then I came across this absurd thing:

Red flowers

What is it, a joke? It’s the Liberace of flowers, the Elvis of blooms. the Dolly Parton of blossoms.

When I got back to the Blueblood Hilton, the usual suspects were lined up in the water in front of the veranda:

The line up

It sounded like Hotel California.  I could hear The Eagles’ straining falsettos faintly in the back of my head. No, wait. It was Mike cheerily demanding, “Bring me my wine!” The chorus chimes in, “Bring us our wine!”:

The Blueblood mob in a birthday mood

One bottle was rejected as unfit for human consumption; “Vinegar”, Mike announced. I drank it – well, most of it. My taste buds are shot like the shocks on your ’74 Pontiac Firebird that’s up on blocks in your front yard.

Then the “Madang Open Floppy Frisbee Stupid Tricks Championship” commenced. It went on and on. It was the worst Frisbee tossing and catching that I’ve ever witnessed. A herd of turtles could have done better. I do allow that there was something seriously wrong with the Frisbee. It was all floppy.

The floppy Frisbee contest

There was, however, a shining moment. When the others tired of making fools of themselves, Pascal Michon decided to create a more challenging game. On the umpteenth attempt, Nigel managed to get the Floppy Frisbee through the eye of the inner tube as Pascal tossed it into the air.

And then we all went home.

* For the uninformed, the term comes from the 1966 Donovan single Mellow Yellow  which hit #2 on the Billboard chart in 1966. It was a truly groovy sound. It was commonly assumed, at the time, that the song referred to the smoking of dried banana skins as a means to hallucinogenic enlightenment, one of the most thoroughly busted myths of the age. Countless drug starved experimenters stunk up their kitchens preparing for a little day tripping only to find nausea and a throbbing sore throat at the end of that hypothetical rainbow. The other references to Mellow Yellow are even less appropriate for this journal and I shall point you to them only indirectly by means of this link.

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A Birthday for a Queen and an Audience with Swami Monty

Posted in Humor, Mixed Nuts on November 1st, 2008 by MadDog
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It’s a Rainy Saturday*. No boat action.

So, I’m at home going through the news archives. I discovered a horribly underreported event of significant significance which occurred in 2005.

Our humble abode was the venue for a double celebration – The 39th Jubilee of Queen Eunice of Madang and an Auspicious Visitation of Swami Monty**.

Out of fairness to the other resident royals, I must mention that there are actually several Queens in Madang, most of them women.

Each Queen influences events with immense grace and mercy within their respective areas of expertise. It’s a sort of power sharing deal. There are Business Queens, Social Queens, NGO Queens, and not a few Bar Queens.

Here is Her Majesticness Queen Eunice in her Royal Regalia:

Queen Eunce of Madang

At her Royal Backside hangs her Royal Flogging Belt. She uses this instrument of splendid torture on me only when I truly need it. Come to think of it, in her copious wisdom, she employs the RFB only when I request it on bended knee.

Her Stern Mercifulness is a Matron of Great Virtue and a Lifetime Member of the Country Women’s Association. All in all, she is a person with whom not to trifle.

All hail Queen Eunice!

I shan’t dare to say that I’m saving the best for last. Queen Eunice may deign to read this wretched missive. I do not wish to dally with the RFB when I am not in the mood.

Nevertheless, the mere happenstance of being in the Presence of Swami Monty is a blissful transcendence into realms of Humbuggery that mercifully induces a trance-like state not unlike that of having consumed a half-litre of Glenfiddich. If fact, any decent single-malt Scotch will do quite nicely.

Being of humble nature, he delights with self-effacing speech. When I addressed him as Your Sublime Insightfulness, he responded jocularly, “Oh, my goodness gracious! Call me Monty.” We all giggled nervously.

When we retired to My Garden for meditation and yet another single-malt, His Trustworthiness exclaimed, “Great balls ‘o fire! I observe with sublime satisfaction that you have planted the seeds of the Harmonious Daisies that I previously sent to you. Is it not amazing how quickly they blossom?”

As the Swami delivered a brief homily concerning the beneficial effects of sacrificial smoke of the Harmonious Daisies, I retreated to the house to snatch my camera and a chair, hoping on hope that I could persuade His Unpretentiousness to be seated for a portrait.

From the vast, unimaginable magnitude of plenty in his storehouse of goodness, he summoned the humility to sit it a homely chair, next to the Harmonious Daisies and greet us with wry humour.

And this is what we saw:

Swami Monty

Note how his blissful eyes sparkle; his mischievous grin; the girding of his splendid feet in humble sandals.

Swami Monty entranced us all.

If ever again the Swami graces us wretched servants with his Beatifical Presence, I pray that my bar is well stocked and my camera battery is charged.

Peace, baby!

* If you’re not to make jest of your friends, then who? And, by the way, this is what you get when I’m really bored.

** For the uninformed, I’ll note that Swami Monty, for purposes of security, uses the alias “Monty Armstrong” – a likely enough moniker. As a cover, he pretends to work for Airlines PNG.

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