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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