Mildred Opaline Jenkins

Some of you have heard of Conway Twitty. He was a rock singer in the '50s who became a country singer in the '60s. He recorded many, many albums. He also sang a few duets with Loretta Lynn. He remains one of my favorite artists for the songs he chose and the soul he put into them. He died of an abdominal aneurysm in June 5, 1993. Or so they think. He died alone on his bus and they are not sure if it happened before or after midnight. His real name was not "Conway Twitty," though. It was Harold Lloyd Jenkins. He took the name "Conway" from Conway, Arkansas, and the name "Twitty" from Twitty, Texas.

That's where the last name of my guitar comes from--Jenkins.

The first name of my guitar is Mildred. I like that name because it once was popular, but now it's not. I like retro, I guess. The middle name of my guitar comes from the mother-in-law of a mentor, a friend, and a role model who happens to be an elected official in a small Virginia town.

Mildred Opaline Jenkins. (Guitars are feminine like cars and boats.)

Last Saturday, I was working out a couple of songs I had written. During the process, I was tuning Mildred when a string broke. That left only 5 strings. Now I am in the search for a new set of guitar strings here in Manhattan. I tried one place in East Midtown. It had closed already by 6pm. There is another place in West Midtown I hope to try before the end of the week.

Mildred is injured, but she will recover. And while I am sad for her, I know that she will be better than ever in just a few short days!

You Lucky Dog

Nephew Jake's pet dog, known by the name "Lucky," did, in fact, get lucky recently. The evidence is in the 7 young puppies, delivered naturally, sometime between dark on Friday night and daylight on Saturday morning. Our reporter on the scene said that the likely cause of this family addition is credited to Jake's other pet dog, "Blue."

In other news, Jake believes his latest critter endeavor will arrive today. Expected in the shipment are 4 quail eggs he hopes will hatch so he can then raise them. This will increase his fowl population significantly. Unknown is how the ducks, chickens and other assorted critters around the family farm will react to all the "youngsters" rapidly coming on the scene. If history is a lesson, they will barely notice.

Finally, Nephew Jack remained by the creek, more interested in tadpoles and frogs and craw-dads than critters confined to terra firma.

Oh, how I miss the simple life.

Driving Directions

Excerpt from driving directions, as told from Lon Guyland:

"...then you go over the Drore Bridge..."

ME: driving around for half an hour looking for the "Drore Bridge."

ME: again calling the lady in Lon Guyland.

ME: realizing, and feeling stupid, that I should be looking for the "Draw Bridge."

Sigh.

Bye Bye Birdie

I woke up this morning in a delightful mood. The beautiful weather was icing on the cake. I found myself humming as I finished my shower and packed my gear for business appointments in Long Island and Westchester County.

Somewhere during the day, my mood turned sour and pissy. I became grumpy and snapped at people. Not even the claiming of $100 from the NYPD for turning in a handgun improved my mood. Not a good lunch at a quaint filipino restaurant in Queens. Not a peaceful drive back to Spanish Harlem. What was it?

Only now, at 7:30 or so on Monday night, have I figured it out. While driving down the Hutchinson River Parkway today, a bird struck the car. Not a direct hit to the vehicle, but to the luggage rack. It hit hard enough that I heard it. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw feathers flying like confetti as the poor fella's body fell to the ground and was then engulfed by another car whose driver, like me, had no time to react or even consider the life of a single, solitary bird.

Sometimes when I feel grumpy or sad or anxious, I can attack those feelings by figuring out exactly what is causing them. By realizing what caused it today, the load of grumpiness and anxiety my shoulders bear is lighter, but sadness still lingers as I wonder to myself if there are now baby birds waiting for the return of their mother, a mother who won't be home tonight.

This is NOT a holdup!

Suppose a friend you know and love tells you she found an old handgun in her old apartment in the Bronx. She asks for advice on how to dispose of it. You know that it is illegal to have a handgun without the express consent and endorsement of the government here in New York City. What would you do?

I suppose I would call the local precinct, as someone who knows these things might suggest. I suppose that the officer who answers the phone might say something simple like, "wrap it in a bag and bring it to the precinct. We'll take it from there."

You might say something similar to, "wait--you want a civilian to walk into a police precinct with a handgun?" Yes, that's a good idea: take a concealed, deadly weapon to the workplace of people who help prosecute that crime and who are also extensively trained to remove handguns from civilians, using lethal force if necessary. Yeah, I'm (I would be) all over that.

You might follow up that suggestion with, "isn't there another way that reduces risk?" The officer might say, "we can send a car to pick it up. Where are you?"

"I'm at home," you might say. But the hypothetical item in question is in the Bronx.

"Well, call the Bronx precinct," the officer might say.

The hypothesis seems reasonable. I wonder if it would stand up when migrating to theory and then to practice.

But, of course, this is only a hypothesis. People hypothesize all the time. Sometimes they are correct and sometimes they are not. That's the nature of the beast.

The Mean Nurse Strikes Again

While walking the Mulberry Street Fair yesterday, in and out of Little Italy and Chinatown.

ME: with weather this nice, I feel like taking off my shirt and soaking up the sun.
MEAN NURSE: you can't. People who are eating will see you.

Hmph.

The Good Nurse gets a Year Older

While mercilessly ribbing him about reaching his mid-30's, the cold fact is true: today, he is 34.

Happy Birthday to the Good Nurse!

The celebration began last night with a viewing of "Talladega Nights." I really don't enjoy the cinema, but that was my concession to him. Part 2 of the celebration is tonight: a small dinner involving a few filipinos. Since my Tagolog consists of 10 words (at most), I have been encouraged to "disappear" after dinner so that the fiery filipinos can gossip with abandon.

I accept that encouragement.

The celebration continues tomorrow (Saturday) with lunch at an all-you-can-eat Japanese restaurant somewhere in Long Island with The Good Nurse's family. Discount sushi frightens me. Now, if I can just figure a way out of that one...

Lebanon Conflict

With the conflict in Middle Tennessee now long past, I sat thinking over the weekend about my first experience meeting someone from Lebanon. It was late in the summer of 1989 and I had been in Murfreesboro a mere few days when one particularly sultry Saturday evening I found myself standing in line at the oversized Cracker Barrel, just over the train tracks, a big place near my apartment that made the most incredible biscuits. When it was my turn, I approached the counter, placed my order, and as though guided by some inexplicable and mystical force asked the guy if he was Lebanese. "No," he said. "Lebanese are gay women. I'm a gay man." So I paid for my dinner and left.

Red Light Special

Recent conversation with the good nurse, as we drove by Marx Brothers Park:

ME: Did you know that adults without children are not allowed in parks after 10pm?
MEAN NURSE: Yeah, why? Did they ask you to leave?
ME: No, I read it somewhere. Bite me.