Nothing better than starting the week out with a clip from Curly.
His bowl of oyster stew is indeed alive and well.

________________________________________________

I supposedly have an appointment with the Doc on Wednesday.
This is what he may say to me.

A few quotes to finish things up;
“Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.” – Douglas Adams

Energizer Bunny arrested, charged with battery.

“I told the doctor I broke my leg in two places.
He told me to quit going to those places.” – Henny Youngman

Please visit my fellow Malarkers for more Monday chuckles.
Have a great week, folks!

Moe
Morky
&
Muffy

You know you’re getting out there when the only reason you know it’s Monday
is because there’s an NFL game on tonight.
My Tweet this morning was telling to say the very least:
“I’ve officially lost track of where the week ends and where the new one begins.”
Everything seems just so helter-skelter these days and Monday only serves to exacerbate the issue.
For instance; last Monday night, a train I occasionally ride home was dispatched and routed improperly.
Long story short, the outbound train was traveling on the same track as the inbound train.
Never a good thing with that inertia thing and all.
Both were going @ 30-40 MPH.
The phrase ‘as subtle as a train wreck’ springs to mind.
There would have been some serious carnage, folks.
Mucho carnagio, muchachos.
Thank God the situation was recognized and thank God it was rectified.
Still makes me wonder, what if?
Some assflap person was not on their game that day and many people could have paid the ultimate train fare.
The MBTA would have loved that, too.
The money grubbing bastards.
Sad, huh?
It was a small revelation of sorts for me.
A ‘holy-crap-I’m-still-alive kinda thing’  because I rode a different train that night.
( a 25 minute delay, medical emergency . . .  sheesh)
Even the automated train announcements were strange today.
It’s a woman’s voice that tells you what stop is coming up.
The voice sounds like June Cleever from ‘Leave it to Beaver’.
I’m tired but I am definitely not kidding.

“Beave? Wally? The next stop is Framingham. Get ready Beaver!”

(the sampled voice even mispronounces the approaching town’s name as well which adds to my Monday weirdness.
It should sound like ‘Fray-ming-ham’ but the voice says ‘Fram-ing-ham’ God help us all.)

Steve, the conductor, walked by and said to me, “Oh, man . . .  Mondays.”
Oh, man, he is absolutely right.

Many a hot summer night will find me on the back deck with my laptop,
a cold Guinness and a nice warm cigar.
It’s what I choose to do during this season.
I dream about it at work, on the train back home and make the dream come true when I get there.
I’ve been known to choose the back deck and a cigar over a Red Sox game. (oh, the horrors!)
My daughters will come and go during the night passing me on their way in and out of the house.
They usually wave their hands in a back and forth fashion in front of their face to let me know
that my cigar stinks like poop.

I usually turn and say, “Someday, when I’m gone-” (and I get cut off)

“We know Dad, when you’re dead and buried we’ll be walking down a street and smell a cigar and think of you.
How nice. That thing stinks.”

“Gee, thanks, hon. Love you, too.”

I usually utter that to an empty backyard because they’ve already gone back into the house.
I smoke some very nice cigars, folks.
I have 12 year old Cubans in my humidor, for God’s sake.
These ain’t your Daddy’s Phillie Grape-flavored Blunts.
I’m thinking Pamela actually likes the aroma of at least a few of them.

Last Sunday, a woman came into the store,
stopped in the middle of the floor and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.
She opened her eyes, smiled and looked at me.
She was crying.

She said,
“I hope you don’t mind but I’m taking a walk down Memory Lane here.
Places like this just remind me of my Dad. It’s almost like he’s here.”

“He is,” said I.

She looked around as she was leaving and almost lovingly said,
“Thank you so much.”

If I had a dime for every time someone said, “this place reminds me of my grandfather,”
I would be a very rich man.
I usually smile, nod my head and think, same old, same old.
Been there, cut the cigar, smoked the cigar and bought the T-shirt.
For some reason, this woman seemed different to me.
Maybe it was the fragments of truth that seemed to hang on her every word.
She was moved to tears by the aroma of a century old cigar shop.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised.
I can only hope that years after I’m gone, my daughters can still find a special shop that offers up the unique and precious memories that mine currently does.
They may just have to settle for the aroma of some fine Cuban cigar wafting through the air
of some distant and special summer night in the distant future.
That will be Dad, girls . . .  that special kiss on your cheek.
It’s me.

Mondays at Smoke and Mirrors will now be called ‘Malarky Monday‘.
Adding to the mayhem will be Moe, Morky & Muffy.
Visit all the links for a few chuckles to start off your Monday morning.
Lord knows, we all need a laugh on Monday.
A word to the wise, watch out for Morky,
he’s a sly one.

Permalinks for each MM post will follow.

I hate when things just don’t come out right.
Meet “The Brown Note”.
Where does someone get an idea that this was a good thing to photograph.
(And then I go and post it. Sheesh)

The Genesis of a Tweet

Kitty Needs a Shower

Last up, a Jewish phone prank that’s hilarious.

Links you should click to complete your Malarky Monday:

Moe
Morky
Muffy

I am not, I repeat, not a morning person.
Never have been, never will.
Ask my wife.
Ask my kids.
Hell, ask Bill the conductor on the 6:30am train I take into Boston.
He checks my ticket and says, “Have a nice nap, sir.”
Bill would honestly say, “Definitely NOT a morning person.”
(*should be, “Not a person at all. He’s more of a thing at this time of the morning.”)
Some of you are ‘morning people’, happy, cheerful and ready to greet the new day with vim and vigor.
Sorry, you people suck.
Vermin.
You probably do 800 sit ups before your first cup of coffee too, right?
“Good Morning!”
If this phrase is spoken to me and shouted from the fiddler on the rooftops with verve and effervescent happiness,
it makes me want to do one thing:
punch the face that’s brave and stupid enough to utter it.
My God, what are you thinking?
I’m still sleeping for Christ’s sake and you are seriously getting on my nerves.
I need about 4 hours to wake up.
Why the hell can’t you ‘roosters’ get that?
I need coffee, juice and a personal five-minute sitdown on the porcelain throne before someone thrusts the ‘happy’ shit on me, okay?
Ease the hell up, all you happy morning people.
You’re messing with my head.
I just choose to burn the candle at the other end (as I do a blog post at midnight).
You, on the other hand, have been sleeping for 3 hours.
But do I call you and say, How are Ya! Good Evening!
No.
I don’t.
I may send a totally incoherent email or two but that’s another story.

We all have trolls inside of us that make us act as we do.
You morning people have Richard Simmons.
Us nighthawks?
We have Ed Asner (Lou Grant) from the Mary Tyler Moore show and he hasn’t taken a decent shit in 2 years.
(click on Lou up above for a classic MTM moment)
Take two steps back until my green light comes on, okay?
That’s all I’m saying.
This morning I poured orange juice into my coffee.
Mr. Grant was not real impressed.
I’ll try again tomorrow morning but it will probably be the same.
Epic Michael Fail.
My brain is chemically challenged in the morning is all.
As Huey Lewis once sang, “I want a new drug . . . “

I close my eyes
trying to dream of something better than this
anything true, a slightly bruised honesty would do
Maybe it’s because nothing feels safe anymore

So I close my eyes
and dream of distant Norwegian lilies
of beautiful and colourful things, the slumbering truths of my past
Although nights of black rain are making it so hard to sleep

But I close my eyes
And dream of opening them to the tragedy of a bleeding truth;
that life is never quite what it appears to be
to these sad and sleepy eyes of mine
And that innocence can only be found caught between the teeth of angels . . .

It was September of 2006 that I took a week off from work.
I planned on doing some things around the house, smoke some cigars and drink some Guinness.
I had a few extra days to play around with and decided to visit my friend Michael who lives on Cape Cod.
I left early on Tuesday morning and planned to meet Michael for breakfast before deciding what to do for the day.
We met at a place in West Dennis called ‘Grumpy’s’.
It was your basic ‘hole-in-the-wall’ breakfast place but the knotty pine that lined the inside walls seemed to say, “You will eat well, old man.”
The aroma of frying bacon and sautéed onions wafted towards us as we walked in and made my empty stomach stand at attention. (but can a stomach do that?)
Grumpy’s was the farthest thing from grumpy and the coffee was very close to excellent.
I ordered two eggs, over real easy, bacon, home fries and raisin toast.
No surprise there.
Can’t remember what Michael ordered but I do remember we both rolled out of there like the older men that we’re slowly learning to be.
After a Grumpy breakfast we decided to go back and drop off my truck before heading to the beach for the day.
And although it was mid-September, the temperature was @75 – 80° with pure cobalt skies.

“Want me to bring a cooler? We can stop on the way and throw some beer on ice,”  Michael said.

A man after my own heart, I thought.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, “And we’re covered on cigars.”

We got to Cahoon’s Hollow around 9:45 with 2 beach chairs and a BAC (big ass cooler) in tow.
I couldn’t believe how warm it was; a kiss of Indian Summer.
The beach was totally deserted, save for Michael and I.
With a shoreline as expansive as the Hollow it seemed almost surreal.
Me, Michael and the beach.
We planted our chairs a good distance from the entrance and sat in silence for a bit.
The warm, salty breeze and brilliant sunshine took us both away.
The sunshine was like millions of tiny fires flittering on the surface of the water,
rising and falling methodically with the tide, a natural aquatic pendulum.
The blue raspberry sky told both of us that this was going to be a very special day.

“Want a cigar?” I asked.

“Want a beer?” Michael asked.

We both started laughing like two little boys playing hooky from school.
With cigars lit and beers opened we chatted the morning away, one blessed sip at a time.
I can’t even remember what cigars I brought.
They may have been Cuban, but truth be told rolled up dogshit would have tasted good that day.
Michael and I have always had the ability to talk forever.
Doesn’t matter if I haven’t seen him in 10 years (God forbid), we have some serious history.
(Remember Treasure Valley, Deg?)
And lot’s of it.
We weren’t alone for very long before we began seeing things popping up in the surf.
From my vantage point, the ‘things’ looked like shiny obsidian bowling balls.

“Seals,” Michael said, flatly.

pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.

It seemed like they were popping up everywhere.
And it seemed like we were placed there just to see them.

I wish I could put the day in a bottle and open it whenever I needed it.
My own private and saving grace.
Maybe writing it down is a step in the right direction.
But maybe Laho would vehemently disagree . . .

There are things that happen in our lives that simply defy explanation;
situational outcomes, a much needed phone call out of the blue, an errant email you ‘forgot’ to open that drastically changes some facet of your life.
Lately, my father’s journey has been something of an emotional rollercoaster ride.
In the span of one visit, he’ll laugh one minute to beat the band while the next he’s crying like a baby.
While it’s easy (and enjoyable) to watch and listen to him laugh, his tears and all too complete sorrow are a completely different animal.
Wax on, wax off.
He was never an emotional man to begin with so that takes some getting used to.
My sister and I have been truly baffled by the whole thing.
The last time my sister visited our mother’s grave, she had a brief ‘conversation’ with Ginny.
We both do the same thing when we visit her.
She told her about Dad’s current penchant for a psychological taste of a Six Flags amusement park.
She also told her that her ‘Wally’ is sad and misses her dearly.
One week later while Maureen was visiting our father she noticed a woman standing in the doorway of his room as she fed him lunch.
Her heart skipped a beat.
This woman looked like our mother.
Her eyes, her hair, her glasses, her sunny disposition were all subtle suggestions of ‘Ginny’.

“Hi, Wally!” she said, as she walked in and touched our father’s hand.

Maureen was a bit gobsmacked by the situation but she said our father seemed to enjoy this woman’s company.
He was smiling and laughing.
Her name is Margaret but they call her Peg.
And Peg seems to have a thing for Wally.
We were told that Peg and Walter can sometimes be found sitting together in the rec room that looks out over the city of Worcester.
It’s a wonderful view even on a grey and rainy day.
Peg even holds our father’s hand.
It’s uncanny that after my sister’s visit with our mother this woman should almost materialize out of thin air.
I’m thinking that as poor as my father’s eyesight is, every time he sees Peg, he’s also seeing our Mom.
Rollercoaster ride, explained.
Possibly.
In looking at the situation I’m so tempted to believe this woman was sent by my mother, a surreal gift of a love from someplace truly wonderful.
I know, it sounds way too Disney and formulaic but the situation defies explanation.
Maybe Peg was sent to help my father finally get home.
Perhaps she’ll remind him of the most important things missing in his life, make him close his eyes and dream good things.
Maybe she’ll give him the much needed solace he so richly deserves.
But for now, he shall remain a constant rider on these misshapen, parallel bars of cold steel.
He’s still holding on for dear life, lost on a perpetual track of fragmented emotions.
Destination?
Only God knows when and where the rollercoaster will ultimately arrive.
For the love of my father, I hope it arrives soon . . .

*Am I the only one that finds it mildly ironic that Ted “Chappaquiddick” Kennedy
gave the Obama’s a Portuguese Water Dog?
Kennedy supposedly owns three.
Where were they when he needed them?
Wwwwwwoof.

*Here in the US of A we give free needles to junkies and
charge diabetes patients up the wazoo for the same damn needles.
Huh?
Someone pinch me.
I must be dreaming.

*In Massachusetts, I saw a headline today that read –
Study: Tobacco funds not curbing smoking
Turns out that only $13.5 million of the annual $700 million the Baystate receives
was used for smoking cessation programs.
Well, yank my doodle, it’s a dandy.
You gotta be kidding me.
Where’s Nancy ‘MadDog’ Lugosi?

I mean Pelosi.
She’s gotta have a hand in this somehow.
What an ugly woman, inside and out.
And those choppers . . .
Nancy needs to be promoted to ‘Subterranean Truffle Inspector’ tomorrow.
Beech.

*The groundbreaking and intellectually provocative Hannah Montana movie hit theaters over the Easter weekend grossing over 34 million dollars.
For your entertainment ‘bang for the buck’ wouldn’t staying home watching the grass grow be a bit more stimulating?
It’s probably me . . .

*Tiger Woods lost in the final round of the Masters yesterday due to a pair of late bogies.
Why does this not make me feel bad?
I must be a rotten human being.

*And lastly, I thought Gmail’s *new feature ‘Auto-Pilot’ sounded really cool.
But it was only available on April Fool’s Day. {sigh}

Just my mind at play folks . . .