Saturday August 31 2013

Saturday August 31 2013

There are days—not infrequent—when I am gobsmacked at my good fortune.  This is one of them.  I was sitting here on the aft deck of Bob…

Don’t think I’ve mentioned yet that the name of my boat is “Bob.”  There are several reasons for this: 1. I love the name; its simplicity and versatility, and its palindrome-ity.  2.  It makes me smile every time I hear it because of a comedy skit on an album—yes, album—put out in the late 60’s by a group known as Firesign Theater.  It was weird stoner king of stuff, and the “Beat the Reaper” skit was one of the weirdest.  The premise was a game show where contestants were injected with some deadly poison—pretty funny so far, eh?—then had to answer a skill testing question to be given the antidote.  The first contestant—you’ve probably guessed this already—was Bob.  After the master of ceremonies has explained the rules to Bob, he is injected with the poison, and given his question:  “What, Bob” says the MC, “is your name, Bob?”  Then you hear a loud clock ticking off seconds in the background while Bob tries desperately to guess the answer.  Bob dies.

Like I said, it was stoner stuff.

Anyway…

Here was I, sitting in the shade on the aft deck of Bob, a cold apricot ale within reach, working on a story for next week’s paper.  It’s a sunny late summer afternoon on the west coast, the sea is calm and glistening, and the tourists are dispersed.  Predictable, for I am not one to take life’s graces for granted, a wave of happiness, dare I say contentment, washed over me.  What a lucky galoot am I! 

To fully appreciate my circumstances, I stopped typing, opened another ale, put my sandaled feet up on the gunwale, and allowed a smile to grow until I almost swallowed my beard.  Then I just sat here smiling and nodding to passersby until finally my face got sore.

That’s when I started writing this. 

Seems enough for today.  Oh, except I should mention Butkus.  He just showed up, and he’s smiling too.  Well, maybe not a people smile, but certainly a dog smile.  At least it looks like a smile because of the traces of dried white stuck around his jowls.  He has been, obviously, off doing good works which in his case, on a day like this, involves relieving small children and gullible adults of their ice creams.  The kids, especially the toddlers, seem to get great pleasure from sharing their cones with him—one great big sloppy lick for Butkus, one tiny taste for the toddler.  This usually goes swimmingly, with all involved having a grand time, until a parent/grandparent/uptight germaphobe sees what’s going on, and shrieks in horror.  Inevitably, this leads to the entire cone going to Butkus by default, the toddler getting a lecture about how dog’s mouths aren’t really cleaner than theirs, and Butkus trotting off to find his next friend.

Life is good.