Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Last Sauna
Arvid Arvxllx lived a long and healthy life. At 89 he still cut his own firewood and built a fire in his sauna stove for his daily bath. Then at age 90, tripping as he climbed up the sauna benches, he fell upon that stove and lie there until he was cooked clean through while Norman his son sat upstairs finishing his dinner.
Friday, October 26, 2007
The Governor's Rise to Office
[A work in progress...going to try and flesh out some basic points of this story...believe this is the best way to introduce the Gov., but am only cursorily familiar with this story...]
The Flame was a gentleman's club of some renowned during the 1970s and early 1980s. Located in In't. Falls, on the Rainey River just south of the working class city of Thunder Bay, Canada, I am of the belief that the Flame ultimately burned to the ground on a particularly cold winter night.
On occasion gentlemen, from Tower-Soudan, would frequent the Flame in pursuit of good drink and scenery. It was a place where men could, simply, be and behave like men. A 'sausage party,' if you will.
Once, the Governor, (who was not yet known as the Governor-after all-that is the point of this missive), was holding court in the Flame with friends from across the Range. Ron, Sr., (the Governor's true identity), is and always was a flamboyant character. He was always quick to steady himself with a belt of fine liquor, smoke fine cigars, gamble and toss money in the direction of the fairer gender. He was also well known amongst the citizenry as being a bit of a wheeler-dealer, and ne'er-do-well. *
On this particular night the party was going strong, vast amounts of liquor was consumed and the cigar smoke hung in the air over the tables. All libations were quickly paid for by Ron, Sr. out of his cache of Benjamin Franklin's.
The gregarious festivities soon caught the attentions of the other patrons at the Flame. A gentleman, a few tables away from Ron, asked a cocktail waitress, "who is that man over there? Is he somebody famous?" Answering, the waitress replied, "He is the Governor of Minnesota."
Those of us who practiced, and perhaps will practice again, the art of the deal appreciated, and still appreciate, the flair with which Ron has always operated, and thus, everafter always refered to him as The Governor.
* [NOTE: ne'er-do-well
Not exactly the right word...difference between lightning and the lightning bug. Must seek another, better description, after all the Gov. is anything but ineffectual, unsuccessful, or lacking in merit. All suggestions welcome. ]
The Flame was a gentleman's club of some renowned during the 1970s and early 1980s. Located in In't. Falls, on the Rainey River just south of the working class city of Thunder Bay, Canada, I am of the belief that the Flame ultimately burned to the ground on a particularly cold winter night.
On occasion gentlemen, from Tower-Soudan, would frequent the Flame in pursuit of good drink and scenery. It was a place where men could, simply, be and behave like men. A 'sausage party,' if you will.
Once, the Governor, (who was not yet known as the Governor-after all-that is the point of this missive), was holding court in the Flame with friends from across the Range. Ron, Sr., (the Governor's true identity), is and always was a flamboyant character. He was always quick to steady himself with a belt of fine liquor, smoke fine cigars, gamble and toss money in the direction of the fairer gender. He was also well known amongst the citizenry as being a bit of a wheeler-dealer, and ne'er-do-well. *
On this particular night the party was going strong, vast amounts of liquor was consumed and the cigar smoke hung in the air over the tables. All libations were quickly paid for by Ron, Sr. out of his cache of Benjamin Franklin's.
The gregarious festivities soon caught the attentions of the other patrons at the Flame. A gentleman, a few tables away from Ron, asked a cocktail waitress, "who is that man over there? Is he somebody famous?" Answering, the waitress replied, "He is the Governor of Minnesota."
Those of us who practiced, and perhaps will practice again, the art of the deal appreciated, and still appreciate, the flair with which Ron has always operated, and thus, everafter always refered to him as The Governor.
* [NOTE: ne'er-do-well
–noun
–adjective
| 1. | an idle, worthless person; a person who is ineffectual, unsuccessful, or completely lacking in merit; good-for-nothing. |
| 2. | worthless; ineffectual; good-for-nothing. |
[Origin: 1730–40
]
] —Synonyms 1. idler, loafer, wastrel.
Not exactly the right word...difference between lightning and the lightning bug. Must seek another, better description, after all the Gov. is anything but ineffectual, unsuccessful, or lacking in merit. All suggestions welcome. ]
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Old Doris' Dentures
It seems like only yesterday, although I'm sure nearly 20 years has past.
We were sitting, as we often found occasion to do, at the rail of the White House bar on an early Friday winter evening. Down the bar, a few stools away, sat Old Doris. It was more than obvious that she'd graced the White House with her company for several hours and she was tight, angry and quick to jump into argument. Now this was not a situation in which Doris, or any other of the regular patrons was unaccustomed. About this time who happens along but Tommy, Doris' son-in-law.
"G'd Evening, Doris." Tommy said.
"You Lazy Sunabitch." Doris quickly replied.
Well by now, as I'm sure you'd guess, the gloves were off. Tommy fired back a curt reply and, not to be out done, Doris kept it up–expletives and spittle flying out of Doris' mouth.
The argument grew, the tensions rose and the language from both parties became all the more colorful.
Then in the midst of it all, during a particularly strong vociferation, Doris' full set of store bought dentures flew out of her mouth and along the bar top landing somewhere between her glass of Petri Brandy and Sour and the ashtray filled with her cast off cigarette butts.
Not one to let this unfortunate occurrence interupt a perfectly good argument Old Doris reached between drink and ashtray grabbed up the wayward dentures and popped them back info her mouth never breaking stride in her tirade.
We were sitting, as we often found occasion to do, at the rail of the White House bar on an early Friday winter evening. Down the bar, a few stools away, sat Old Doris. It was more than obvious that she'd graced the White House with her company for several hours and she was tight, angry and quick to jump into argument. Now this was not a situation in which Doris, or any other of the regular patrons was unaccustomed. About this time who happens along but Tommy, Doris' son-in-law.
"G'd Evening, Doris." Tommy said.
"You Lazy Sunabitch." Doris quickly replied.
Well by now, as I'm sure you'd guess, the gloves were off. Tommy fired back a curt reply and, not to be out done, Doris kept it up–expletives and spittle flying out of Doris' mouth.
The argument grew, the tensions rose and the language from both parties became all the more colorful.
Then in the midst of it all, during a particularly strong vociferation, Doris' full set of store bought dentures flew out of her mouth and along the bar top landing somewhere between her glass of Petri Brandy and Sour and the ashtray filled with her cast off cigarette butts.
Not one to let this unfortunate occurrence interupt a perfectly good argument Old Doris reached between drink and ashtray grabbed up the wayward dentures and popped them back info her mouth never breaking stride in her tirade.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
I am beholden to all . . . .
I am beholden to all these characters for their stories. I am likewise beholden to simply tell the truth. I'm telling these stories and I assure you that every word is the truth, except of course when the stories concern matters about me.
• • • • •
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