Monday, March 24, 2014

Richie Cox, Rest Easy Now

Any story worth telling is worth improving.

Richie had a fisherman's philosophy when it came to story telling.  He inspired, or provoked, or was co-conspirator in many of the Bar Tales of Costa Rica.  The following excerpt is my tribute to this cowboy/hippie/mystic who will be sorely missed.

Apology

There is one particular table at the Pato Loco where deals get made over American breakfast.  Mama, who has overheard a lot of deals being made, said, “It gets so you can tell the real ones from the ones who are all talk.  Paul, he never talks about his deals.  He’s one of the real ones.  But that Jerry who reneged on the house, you could tell he was all blow.”

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Christina the Astonishing!

Basil the Great vs. Christina the Astonishing – Lent Madness begins.

Saints and Lent – is Prozac Monologues straying from its mission, reflections and research on the mind, the brain, mental illness and society?  Hardly.  First, note the Madness in Lent Madness.  Then wait ‘til you see the saints.

Lent Madness

The forty days before Easter are traditionally a time to focus on one’s spiritual growth.  But there is a looniness built in from the start.  Ash Wednesday to Holy Saturday – count them – 46 days.  Oh yeah, Sundays don’t count.  Does that mean I can smoke and eat chocolate on Sunday?  Opinions vary.

And once you are debating whether you can smoke on Sunday (does it depend on what you’re smoking?), you have already leaned in the direction of madness.  Leaning, leaning…

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Suicide Is Not a Choice

I peered over this very overpass on the Eisenhower Expressway.  Years ago, there was no the fence along the top, just a rail.  It was pie that brought me there.  Yes, pie.  It was Thanksgiving night, and the holiday was ending without pie.

Of course, it wasn't a reason to commit suicide.  Of course, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.  Don't treat me like an idiot with your clever lines.

No, pie brought me there, but that was not why I would jump.  Pie was a match, a tiny little three letter match.  My problem was a brain filled with gasoline.  And one tiny match, that I should have been able to snuff with my fingers, threatened to ignite it and send me over the edge.  The shame of being powerless over one tiny match poured on more gasoline.