To
all ((((FRLians))))
-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), February 14, 2000.
OT- How OT?? well it's on another plane err plain, err- well- FRL RECRUITING DRIVE GET'S UNDER WAY!greenspun.com : LUSENET : TimeBomb 2000 (Y2000) : One Thread |
As a means of congratulating the Grand-parents on the youngest inductee into the FRL (congrats Robert Cook), the FRL will now open a recruiting drive.COME ONE! COME ALL!! JOIN THE FRL!!!! ENJOY HAIKU!!!!!!!! CONTRIBUTE POETRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EXPRESS GENERAL NUTTINESS (or is that GENERATIONAL nuttiness)!!!!!!!!...!!!!!!!! LEARN ABOUT STEALTH GEESE, STEALTH BEAVERS, AND NUTRIA!!!!!!!!...!!!!!!!! Remember, when DeITer comes back, he'll come to the FRL first.
WHAT IS THE FRL:
The FRL is the Fruitcake Resistance League, formed to help prevent the evil BORED from issuing Fiat Fruitcake, and from promulgating Know Your Fruitcake Regulations.
WHO is the FRL?
I'm the FRL, YOU're the FRL, the poster above and below you are the FRL. And we vote.
What does the FRL DO?
Protects our Right to Keep and Bear Fruitcakes.
Protects us from debased Fiat Fruitcakes.
Maintains a watch on the Evil Bored. (ALso maintains a Clock on the Bored but we won't get into that)
Research into flying fruitcakes as weapons.
Research into Stealth Geese as info gatherers.
Haiku at the drop of a stealth Goose Feather.
Provides LYNX to other FRL threads, Great Yourdon Circus threads, and a couple other hidden humor threads.
Provides a garage for Lon's Clown Car.
Provides a ready outlet for Bayou Jiggle Juice.
Provides Temptation for DeITeR to return....
HOW DO YOU JOIN the FRL?
Post here in the spirit of the FRL to sign up.
Chuck
-- Chuck, a night driver (rienzoo@en.com), February 07, 2000
shamelessly topping Nw Answers.C
-- Chuck, a night driver (rienzoo@en.com), February 07, 2000.
Y2K is here I still play the internet We love our fruitcakes!
-- mommacarestx (nospam@thanks.com), February 07, 2000.
Ok, it's a little rough, but I only had 15 minutes to work on it... ;- )An ode to a cake made of fruit.
That's heavy to hold and difficult to mold,
but plentiful to boot!
When received, no longer shove it under your bed,
but perhaps paint it gold, sell it for ten-fold
directly unto the Feds. :-)
FRL rules!
-- Deb M. (vmcclell@columbus.rr.com), February 07, 2000.
Thanks but I've recently been converted to the Church of the Subgenious and find that the eternal search for slack the true path for moi. Blessings to all in varied paths!
-- MaKettle (mom@home.com), February 07, 2000.
O.K. Fruitcake haiku, ahhhhemm, here goesFake fruit, flour and egg Baked together in cake form Children eat it not
Or
Soak it in fine rum Adding more day after day Feed it to grandpa
Or
Fruitcake with walnuts Shelf life of plutonium A gift forever
That is my contribution
Thank you
Laurie ;)
-- Laurie in Idaho (laurelayn@yahoo.net), February 07, 2000.
you can put it down slam it unmercifully the fruitcake don't caresnowed in on the farm nothing but fruitcake to eat we all go hungry
cold heartless fruitcake cruelly mocks our disdain it will outlive us
I'll stop now.
-- RC (randyxpher@aol.com), February 07, 2000.
Wheeeeeeee!A new thread! Thanks, Chuck!
CONGRATULATIONS ROBERT - my dad once said he didn't mind being a grampa but didn't like being married to a granny ;-)
Thanks, too to Laurie and RC - when DIetEr sees the present excellent level of haiku, he'll have to have a will of chrome-vanadium steel to stay away!
.
FRL growing
Tremendous threat to the BORED
Freedom fighters all!
.
Welcome new members
Only one requirement here
NO FIAT FRUITCAKE!
.
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 07, 2000.
Pansies blue and flameLiven the brown of winter
Back and knees creak--ouch!
-- Poor Old Git (anon@spamproblems.com), February 07, 2000.
How to join the FRL?Seems plane as md80 to me, but them again I've always been the obtuse one...unless one's angle is to always becomes an acute one with respect to the plane....but that gets us back into which side of the road the chicken crossed first - if he wasn't on the wrong side in the first place.
-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), February 08, 2000.
Per request...fRUitCAke iNdEx... uNDieTEriZEd...
@}'-->---
Fruitcake Index...
#0-A: Perfect y2k food? (not for the serious)
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000FvD#0-B: Supermarkets, Duct Tape, and Phone Gnomes (Humor)
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000W78#0-C: Grandmama's missing check
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000GXB#0-D: Who else got one of 10 Anti-terrorist "Units"?
(pre-beginnings of the Canadianainainan steath geeses thread)
http://greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000DfT
#1: Know Your Fruitcake! (not for the serious)
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000Imj#2: Know your Fruitcake, the second.
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000hxd#3: OT - Fruitcake III
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000sez#4: Know Your Fruitcake IV (not for the serious)
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 0011dm#5: Fruitcake V : The Return of Sue?
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001Bli#6: OT- FRLians Unite, members only - OT
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001Izu#7: OT - FRL 7
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001Oap#8: OT - FRL 8
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001P4r#9: OT-FRL #9
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001TU6#10: OT - FRL #10 (washing Murhpy)
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001ZPa# 11: FRL # 11 - Lessons from the Geese
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001gIB# 12: FRL #12 - Natural Highs
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001lYX# 13: FRLian Thanksgiving
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001qlz# 14: OT - FRL #14 - Limerick Festival
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001tTn# 15: Happy Anniversary FRLians!
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 001ypb# 16: Join the FRL - Sign up today!
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 0021D5# 17: Renewing the FRL
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 0023NGFRL #18 - tHe QuEst fOR diETeR
http://hv.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 002DmfFRL #19??? - OT- How OT?? well it's on another plane err plain, err- well- FRL RECRUITING DRIVE GET'S UNDER WAY!
http://hv.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 002ViS
Extra Bonus...
paRTiNG Is sUCH SWeeT SORRow????? Dieter (questions@toask.com)
http://hv.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 002DqL
And... for Lon...
Beans and Air Quality (HUMOR)
http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000h17
And another classic TBY2K addition...
Brotherhood of Yourdon (Sir Richard of the Dale)
http://greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id= 000Ia4
-- Diane J. Squire (sacredspaces@yahoo.com), February 09, 2000.
Congratulation Grand-pa Cook! No wonder you're getting more confused with your angels...er..angles!If Laurie in Idaho would change her fruitcake recepe, that is soaking it in whiskey instead of rum, I'd vote to induce her into the FRL (then we could feed the whiskey-soaked fruitcake to Grand-pa Cook, official delinquency...uh delicacy of the FRL)
-- You Know Who (hiding on@another.bored), February 09, 2000.
Leaving, on a jet plane....Don't know if I'll be back again.
However, with my luggage I fear no stress...had my suitcases of fruitcakes shipped via stealthgeese express!
-- Tim (pixmo@pixelquest.com), February 09, 2000.
Thanks, Diane, for the Lynx :-)Tim, I can tell that you are a true FRLian! Welcome to the thread.
Rob, our official leader and head Fruitcake seems to be still away, so for all those new to the FRL, let me give an official welcome as the unofficial stand on my head leader. (The drs claimed that the extra blood would help my nuttiness - I think it's working, I'm nuttier!)
.
People to the south
Are starting to welcome spring
But I just shiver!
.
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 09, 2000.
Sunshine, short shirt sleeves ...Shrinking skirts shirking weather ....
Sheets seen shining ..
-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), February 10, 2000.
Robert, you know how cruel it is to boast about your weather! As I recall, the last time you were so mean, you had an ice storm a few days later... not that I'm warning you or anything ;-)We're in the middle of a cold snap here. This morning when I left work, it was -26C (~ -14F) with an expected high today about -20C (~ -4F). This is bad news for me now, and bad news for someone else who gets their weather from this direction in a few days/weeks :-)
Driving home from work, I leave about dawn (this time of year). I drive first through an area near the University, then through the river valley (which is all parkland) and the last few minutes of my drive home are through a stretch of undeveloped countryside - farmer's fields. Today all the way home, the sky was blue/turquoise with lilac tinges in a ring around the horizon. In the university area and through the river valley, the trees were all frosty and stood out beautifully against the sky. When I got to the countryside drive, the snow was a pink/lilac colour with turquoise shadows, reflecting the sun and sky. Those of you who live without seasons usually rouse envy in my breast, but today, even with the cold, I was fed by beauty.
So is that enough about the weather? ;-)
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 11, 2000.
Silicon rain,Dripping dew,
Spring flowers anew.
-- Diane J. Squire (sacredspaces@yahoo.com), February 11, 2000.
I remeber that long slow rain from my years in Valejo (it sounds better if you say "Lower Napa Valley" - but it's still Vallejo.....from November to April, it rains regularly, but slowly - never a thunderstorm or high winds and lightening.Then from April to October you can take the roof off of your house...it's completely dry. Colder at night the closer to the coast you get, and hotter still once you cross the mountains towards Fairfield (Sacramento) or Mountain View and Contra Costa into the central valley .... but still bone dry all summer.
-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), February 11, 2000.
Robert, be preparedto lose your heart completely
to baby giggles!
-- Wilferd (WilferdW@aol.com), February 11, 2000.
Hi gang! Hope all are well! I see that some thanks are in order.Chuck: Thanks for starting up this latest version, and thanks to you Diane, Oh Great Seeress, for the FRL link history. And thanks to you too Tricia, Dear and Loyal One, it was very thoughtful of you to sit in, or lie in, or stand in for me during my abstinence, and I depreciate the assistance you gave me with my awficial duty!
To all of you new FRLians, may I extend an Official FRLian Welcome to each of you. Pop in here whenever you need a smile break. As always, all are welcome here at the FRL.
Robert: Greetings, salutations, and congratulations Good Sir Cook! Another cook in the kitchen? (hint: if it is a boy, i would name it "Captain" :)
Ok. So youz guyz wanna talk about the whether? Sheesh! We have some here too - - - -
Rain pounds the Lake in torrents of blinding sheets as lightening flashes over the mountain, briefly igniting the darkened day-time sky. A boom of thunder, the death knell of the previous silence, echoes over the cold Earth as fierce winds hiss through the pines. Fish huddle in the black depths, waiting with lidless eyes for meals from the shore that the squall will soon wash their way. A red-tailed hawk perches high in a towering, swaying, naked oak... watching. The beavers are safely resting in their dam, also waiting for the end of the tempest, so that they may begin again their labors. (I just hope they do not eat the new tree that I am supposed to buy for Dear Mrs. Michaels this Spring!) Sheesh! :)
Long Live the FRL!!!! LOng Live our Fruitcake Freedoms!!!!
-- Rob Michaels (sonofdust@hello.friends), February 12, 2000.
Where's the fanfare?!? Our inglorious Leader returns and there's no fanfare? We need DieTer!Welcome back, Rob. We missed you, well mistered you, if you want to get Robertish :-)
Wilferd, I didn't know you did haiku? Will you do some more, please? We're missing our best haikuist, Unc, but I figure if we get some good (or *really* bad) haiku going we might lure him out of the woodwork - even if under some new alias.
Here's my latest attempt
.
Y2K supper
Beans and canned goods get used up
Have to replenish!
;-)
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 14, 2000.
NEENER NEENER NEEENER YOU LEFT OUT THE CIRCUS THREADS!!!
MCYY2K Circus Continued. Off to join the Circus!
The Yourdon Y2K Circus Ticket Sales and Last Call Auditions!
The Magnificent and Colossal Yourdon Y2K Circushttp://hv.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id=000XiI
The Magnificent and Colossal Yourdon Y2K Circus
http://hv.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id=000YCD
The Yourdon Y2K Circus Ticket Sales and Last Call Auditions!
http://hv.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id=000Yyc
MCYY2K Circus Continued. Off to join the Circus!
Chuck
-- Chuck, a night driver (rienzoo@en.com), February 14, 2000.
Circus! Did sombody say circus!!??Sorry, gang, for my extended absence. I've been having to woo...to wa....to whoo....(urk, gag).. to WORK.
Actually, Kit and I managed to squeeze in a quick trip to Florida. The second night we were there it was 26 degrees (Oh, joy).
But the ocean-front houses of Gulfport and Pass Christian were still as lovely as I remember, the sea food was still excellent, and the sand was still white and beautiful.
I didn't feel compelled to write many poems, but since it's Valentines day......... a love letter for the ladies here ( each and every one of whom I am very fond)
------ SAND CASTLES
Let's not tell lies to this night,
Let's tell ourselves we're in love.
We'll close the door to the world
And open our eyes to each other.
Let's build sand castles out of bed clothes,
And then roll over them like the waves.
We'll make up dreams for one another,
And then whisper them in our sleep.
But let's not tell lies to this night.
Let's tell ourselves we're in love.
-------
(Those of you, who have been remiss in today's duties, may freely use the above to whatever advantage you may.)
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 14, 2000.
Oh! The ChiefTin is back, Lon is bowling us over with his magnificent poetry, Tricia is Holding The Eternal Vigil (thank you!), and the call of the Circus jangled our funny bones and made our ears burn!Hail to all Cooky FRLians! Arise, renew the WiggleLance, duck!
-- Ashton & Leska in Cascadia (allaha@earthlink.net), February 14, 2000.
Sweet, Tender Kisses, Chocolates, Fragrant Flowers,Love is in the air.
Well, V-Day is always a big deal with Dear Mrs. Michaels. I'm going to get a haircut, a card, some flowers, some duct tape, and, most important, I will go to the bank to get my best red socks out of the safe-deposit box :)
Happy Valentine's Day to all!
-- (sonofdust@v.day), February 14, 2000.
Hug, close to my heartMy love is in your knowing
Kisses: Sweet and warm
-- Wilferd (WilferdW@aol.com), February 14, 2000.
-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), February 14, 2000.
And the wonderfully invigorating magnetic power of Love draws us back together for good wishes!
Happy Valentine's Day, really nice to see y'all again :-)
-- Ashton & Leska in Cascadia (allaha@earthlink.net), February 14, 2000.
New thread now appearsfull of hearts sharing laughter
many names, old friends
-- DeeEmBee (macbeth1@pacbell.net), February 14, 2000.
Wow, I missed Valentine's Day with some of my favorite people :-(Well, happy belated Valentine's Day, and thank-you for the poetry, haiku and best wishes :-)
Rob, I'm glad to hear your really bright red socks are being safely kept together.
(((((Gayla)))))
Wilferd, you'd better watch out or you'll be as nutty as all us other fruitcakes ;-)
Welcome Dee! That was the first FRL post I remember seeing in your name - hope to see many more :-)
Since my cheeks are sore from so much smiling, I think I'll just go to lurk mode for now.
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 15, 2000.
Most people's cheeks get two sore from too much sitting......but I won't go there from here.
-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), February 16, 2000.
But will you go here from there Robert?THAT is the burning question!
(Well... maybe a cheeky one).
Happy belated VirtualDieter Day all. (Or not).
Diane
-- Diane J. Squire (sacredspaces@yahoo.com), February 16, 2000.
Did I miss a Dieter post, Diane?!? Or are you just falsely getting my hopes up.I thought the quality haiku here might draw him out of retiredment, but so far I haven't seen him.
Stay well, all!
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 17, 2000.
D*rn hachous's .... can't misspell geusunheit incorrectly anymore.Yo the Miss Diane - you're getting compliant compliments inside other threads now. Keep it up kiddo!
And Jean will get the printouts (later tonight) - thanks for the help to all on the web info ..... but after the spaghetti dinner tonight at school, Tom will featured entertainment - playing bass trombone/tuba in the jazz band.
Got any requests?
-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), February 18, 2000.
Sir Robert: How about Muskrats in Love (natch!), and maybe the Chicken Dance for you know who :)-------
Snow covers the lake,
Hiding the frozen surface,
Fresh, powdery, white.
-- (sonofdust@lotsof.snow), February 18, 2000.
My eyes are all pinkJust a slight inflamation
Very contagious!
.
Sympathies for you
The Sysops extrordinaire
Excellence attained.
.
Patience's elastic
Stretched beyond the breaking point
Rebounds with a thwack!
.
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 18, 2000.
((TRICIA)) Hmmmm. Pink eyes? No blue hair though right?, (so be thankful :) Feel bitter soon Dear and Loyal Princess.
-- (sonofdust@pink.blue), February 18, 2000.
I was bitter enough all day - funny how eating supper improved my mood though ;-) (Who me, ruled by my stomach?)No real pain involved, in fact I got an evening off work with pay - somehow they don't want me touching people after I've rubbed my eyes. We had a staff meeting today, I felt like a leper - unclean! So thanks for your well wishes - even bitterly worded :-)
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 18, 2000.
Rollover went well,
And for that I am thankful!
Still, there is much more...
There were surprises,
I could not have imagined...
Has your life changed too?
Get well soon, (((Tricia)))
-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), February 20, 2000.
"Trigger finger" soreWe do not negotiate
With terrorists. NO!
-- I'm (just@nother.sysop), February 20, 2000.
The FRL still lives y'know (the inner circle)
-- dic k of the dale (richard.dale@unum.co.uk), February 21, 2000.
FRL lives onChanged like all our lives are now
Still haiku, still fun.
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 21, 2000.
At the end of a backwater-back road on one of the anonymous bayous of the Mississippi, there is a half circle of trailers, and empty large animal cages in front of a faded big top tent. A black car pulls up, and a portly man, long grey ponytail floating on the wind steps out. He walks in-erringly to the the third trailer from the end, and stops. The time has worn the paper off of the place his hand goes by reflex. He feels the old sticker cement, closes his eyes and his mind supplies the wording: "If this trailer's rockin', don't bother knockin'!" A bitter smile cracks his lined, aged cherubic face. His hands touch all the old spots on the trailer, a Scotty-with-a-Potty, in the OLD terms. The worn dent in the edge of the roof that was the souvenir from Dallas. The carefully welded slice that came at Unk's place from the tree that surprised him as he backed into the parking spot.He closes his eyes again and can almost hear the roar of the grease paint, almost smell the crowds. The familiar sounds of the animals, the elephunts, the sights of the two-two's and the ladies on the high wires and the trapeeze, the smell of spam-on-a-stick, the way too loud colors of the Clown Car, the banners brightly proclaiming the Magnificint Yourdon Y2K Circus snapping in the breeze. As a tear finds its way down one of the grooves in the once cherubic face he touches the placque at the top of the door, feels the familiar letters, reads without looking "BARKER" and remembers the echoes of his voice, calling one and all to come just a bit farther down Main Street, to the field where the Circus has set up.
As he turns away, tears running down his face, he steps down, and feels a familiar sensation, coupled with a familiar smell. Somehow, the tears dry up, and a hollow laugh echoes through the clearing. It is SO fitting that the last contact with the Circus should be with an elephunt pie!
He drops the empty last known jar of Jiggle Juice, does the all too familiar scrape and shuffle to rid himself of the elephunt pie and climbs into the car. His driver asks where to now, and he says "Home to my bride. I should have known better. dieTER wasn't there. Lon wasn't there. Kerouac was right. You can't go home again. Even if you can find it, it won't be there anymore. The time has come to move on."
the new eyed barker.
-- the Midway Barker (Stepright@up.one.and.all), February 22, 2000.
Scene:An overgrown field in the low country of the bayou. Late February is late winter here among the forgotten backwaters, and the new green of early weeds mixes here and there with the soggy brown gatherings of leftover leaves. Scattered about the field like the oversize blooms of some strangely mutant swamp crocus, circus tents, gaudy and faded, flap their ragged edges with disinterest in the sporadic breeze.
A oft-trodden track through the grasses, slightly wider than would be necessary for a single person, leads to a small canvas pagoda, orange and white striped, with remnants of gold braid marking it's only door. Just large enough for a single ticket-taker, it was, in a former life, the office du jour of that most notorious of circus performers, the midway barker. This day, however, it's function is somewhat more utilitarian. A formerly elegant old chair, the cane of it's seat missing, is nailed rudely to a plank, suspended across a shallow hole in the black gumbo soil of this once-upon-a-time plantation.
Sitting on the chair is an old gentleman attired in the particularly absurd costume remnants of a clown . His baggy pants ignominiously dropped around his scrawny white, bird-like ankles; just showing the tops of his orange socks, as if he were an animated appendage of the tent itself. His hands rest heavily upon the chair arms, and his shaggy head of wispy orange hair droops slightly to his chest. He wares a faded red rubber nose, and looks for all like the occupant of some technicolor nightmare of an electric chair, patiently awaiting the final throwing of the fateful switch.
As is his habit of late, he mumbles to himself:
"Dam canvas outhouse. How in the devil it keeps the smell IN, but never keeps the wind OUT, is what I wanna know. Freezin' my patucas off, and for what? Just to keep this ragged old circus together? Like they was actually comin' back?
"I autta hit the road too, is what. They's all gone off to big things now, an' I autta realize they ain't a'comin' back, never. That high-falutin' engineer is off som'wheres sellin' his elephunt zamboney. An' that painted hussy of a fortune teller opened up a topless bar in town with that newspaper feller. Says she finally discovered her "talents". Hell, half the men in south Louisiana had noticed them same "talents" lots a times.
"Yeah, they's all gone now. The old ring-mistress married some gazillionaire and retired to a palace in Florida. I guess it still pays to know how to handle a whip. An' Robbie, last time I saw him, he had the clown car plum' packed with them trapeze girls, and was heading to somewhere called "Betty Ford's Bar and Grill" or somethin' like that. An', An, An', that Chuck, and that Greybear, for cryin' out loud. They done took the last of cuzzin Iggies Jiggle Juice, and set them selfs up in a travellin' salvation show. Shoot, even that dad-gummed DieTer up an' left in the middle of the night, an' took my very last fruitcake, without so much as a fare-thee-well, I tell you.
"H, e, double l! Just who am I talkin' to anyhow? I swear all them years of followin' them dam elephunts around has affected my brain, that's what."
The old clown arises laboriously from his makeshift throne, re-fastens his suspenders and pushes aside the canvas door flap of the small tent. As he steps into the late afternoon sun, a strange glint catches his eye, as the door opens on a puce colored stretch limousine, parked across the field, next to a rusted and now wheeless trailer.
Once, the coveted and luxurious accommodation of the midway barker, the derelict mobile dwelling now silently dreams it's dreams of the open road and friendly circus towns, as it is consumed by the encroaching kudzu, like some ancient Incan ruin of aluminum and broken glass. The passenger of the limousine has pried open the door, and is standing with one one softly-gleaming and ridiculously expensive white Italian loafer inside the orifice.
The old clown becomes highly animated. His arms flailing the air as his rubber nose rhythmically collapses with inhaled breath; his joints making curious noises, reminiscent of the creaking of the wooden wheels of some of the older wagons which hauled the cages of various circus geeks and freaks. Although his upper body is moving furiously, his lime-green, size 47 clown shoes adhere to the pace of an unalterable waddle, perfected through a lifetime of trips and practiced pratfalls.
"Dad gum souvenir hunters! I done tole them this junk ain't fer sale! They want souvenirs, well, I'll give 'em souvenirs! One a' these elephunt pies right in the snoot, that's what!"
Suddenly the old clown stops and bends forward, squinting, as the richly dressed figure steps into a patch of late afternoon light. Maybe it's this makeshift spotlight that stirs the memory, or maybe the shimmer of a grey pony tail fluttering in the breeze, but in the rustic brain of the old clown, recognition snaps into place with a certainty of a bayou sunrise. His voice now unaccustomed to aduble sounds, the old gent struggles with words meant to carry the distance between himself and the elegantly attired figure, now re-entering the limousine:
"CHUCK! Chuck boy! REVEREN' Chuck! You're back!
Unfortunately, the sounds coming from the throat of the old clown echo along the hardwoods shivering in the bottoms, and reverberate among the bare and rattling limbs of bald cyprus. The midway barker, now turned firebrand, hesitates as he slides easily into the wet-bar and stereo comfort of his conveyance. Maybe it is the aroma now imprinted on his shoe, or maybe it's this strange sound the trees make down in the bayou lands, but just for the briefest of moments, he hears the ghosts of long departed memories. The sound of a chuckling hyena, the screech of a rubber clown car. Memories of belly laughs and baby kisses. Of little boys with sheep dog grins, and the sly glances of teen age girls. The mumblings of an old clown, the whispers of intimacy in this once strange and fleeting family of the circus. Memories, skittering across the shadows in his mind, like grease paint on the dark water of the bayou.
His driver glances in the rear-view mirror:
"Where to now, boss?"
As the tinted window of the limo slides silently closed, shutting out the sound, the breezes and the memories, the squared shoulders of the Armani suit softly sag,
"Home to my bride. Just home."
---------------------------- To be continued...(wouldn't you know it?)
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 22, 2000.
Ack! Lon, don't make us cry. We don't like goodbyes 'n mourning.Celebrations of this Working World are in order!
new life, new life, better life, new life!
geeks 'n freaks built these friendships on a solid foundation, and can enter a new happy life :-)
-- Ashton & Leska in Cascadia (allaha@earthlink.net), February 22, 2000.
A&L,Fer cryin' out loud! It wasn't ME leavin', you know. I been here all the time. Stickin' it out with a deserted circus big top.
Besides, I said it would be continued......:
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 22, 2000.
... and here I was, thinking the fancy lady was stickin' 'em out.
-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), February 22, 2000.
Well!I guess I wasn't the only one suffering with the blues today!
To make Robert sneeze:
.
February blues
Break my heart, make me cry at
Beautiful sunset.
.
*sniff*
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 22, 2000.
Also known as "She in the Sheet,"
Who once freelanced, a clown with big feet,
Now remarks on the poignant
While feeling quite buoyant,
"Ah, Lon, you still write oh-so-sweet."
She's now doing art-lings for the Wide Web,
That amazing-ish cyberly siren.
The daytimes now scream,
And the nightimes have dreams,
'Bout cross-browser failures like cobwebs.
So sublime then to find us still here,
With our haiku and poems 'round our ears.
FRL time is now,
Never mind why or how;
A year is a year is a year.
She in the Sheet upon the hilltop, smiling warmly at old and new friends.
(((((Everyone)))))
-- Donna (moment@home.com), February 22, 2000.
one and another,like haints in the bayou mist,
shades of circus friends.
--------
Trish, no blues here (no blue hair, either). My crabapples are in full bloom, and the crappie are running up the bayou. I been grinning all day like a possum eating a praline. (That's just a little colorful, down-country talk for you)
--
And Robert, that whooshing noise was your joke going over my head. Don't fret, I finally got it. You are much too funny for an engineer - send in your slide rule, and I'll send you a gen-u-wine "Ole Lon" rubber nose.
______
And Donna,
Sure, like we're gonna believe you have some artsy-fartsy job on the internet. Last I heard, you an' Old Git was hustlin' a couple a' video tapes on the home shopping network, entitled "Jiggle Your Way to Cosmic Happiness" And "The Jigglemaster Method of Weight Loss"
Anyhow, we're all proud you're not still peddlin' that mail-order boil ointment.
(ain't it fun) :
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 22, 2000.
Where'd ever'body go?Come on, we got a great ragged ghost town of a circus just sittin' here, and lots and lots a room for poetry and silliness. Surely I didn't run you all off already. I bet we could even get the barker back.
How often do you get to take your imagination out to the playground, anyway?
(pssst....Donna. You knew I was only kiddin about the job, right? I really am happy for you - just hope you will have time for some more great rhymes and such.)
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 23, 2000.
Lon, I come here once a day, whenever I can - I need that daily dose of FRLian magic. Others appear to be more able to survive without it. I'm still hoping that if we have good enough haiku we'll be able to conjure Unc or DieTer - but the hope is fading.Speaking of Unc, has anyone had further word on 'the Party'?
.
June's rapid approach
Brings warmer weather, good cheer
And lots of Unc's beer ;-)
.
The best to you all!
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 23, 2000.
Lon, you made me weep with your lonely clown story *snif*I'm busy enjoying life at the moment, skiing! (well not right this minute ofcourse, can't type and ski at the same time, eh. But I'm at my "bunker" up in the great white north.)
I attempted to send you an email, is your email real or are you just ignoring me? Let me know in email, mine's real.
-- Chris (catsy@pond.com), February 23, 2000.
Chris,The email's real. (maybe you forgot the stamp?)
Please write. I was wondering if you got my brief letter so long ago.
And what "lonely old clown"? I'm just hanging out here because I like the scenery. That, and maybe the little misunderstanding about the bad check over at the casino. (If you should happen to meet to "accountants", named Nuckles and Bugsy, maybe you just might forget where you saw me last, huh?)
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 23, 2000.
The Midway barker's farewell, continued.WARNING----Tear jerk episode ahead--WARNING
Scene:
A single black-top lane, deep in the forgotten traces of abandoned plantations along the low country of a still, backwater bayou. The edges of the road are crumbling with disuse, and slowly succumb to the ever-voracious green of early Spring in this ancient alluvial soil the old boys called gumbo.
This was good country when cotton grew in mule-furrowed fields, and men9s greed grew as uncontrolled as their dreams. And it was hard country, when the sweat of one man bought the bread of another. In those days, the old, old trees danced to man-music and were hung with the discarded silks of debutantes.
But now, the trees listen only to the music of the wind through Spanish moss, and the only serenade is by the evening-frogs, as they pray for rain. Now, only the roseate spoonbills drape the cypresses with downy pink splendor. And the land has begun to heal. And the stains of greed, like the man-blood it spilled, have begun to fade.
The old road follows an older still wagon path, and winds in mimic cadence of the natural undulations of the bayou. It meanders around the large meeting-tree where field hands gathered for a mid-day meal, and on occasion, a forbidden moonlight rendezvous. It skirts the old fields, now gone to wild dew berries, and here and there, honeysuckle and tenacious roses, to mark the forgotten dreams of some long ago bride. It ends abruptly at a low and rotten stone wall; field stones stacked without mortar, now craggy and moss-green as the teeth of an old bayou crone.
A gap in the haphazard stones serves as impromptu entryway, and muddy tire ruts lead to a scene that at first glance appears to be the ancestral resting place of some great and gaudy mythical bird. A collection of tattered and faded circus tents sway softly above the meadow grass, and a semi-circle of tiny house trailers are at early dusk the exposed vertebrae of a fossilized dragon.
Upon the unlikely occasion of a casual passer-by, the meadow appears to be uncared-for; deserted. Wagons and canvas frozen in the grip of stealthy vegetation and the grasp of an era past. But in the afternoon sun, it is apparent that men still come here. On this day, two such members of forgotten alumni tread the meadow grass, and somehow escape their fateful reunion by darkly comedic mis-chance.
One, now, a man that other men would call a man of the world, a gatherer of fortune, a caller of men, the once-upon-a-time midway barker, metamorphized into silk-suited televangelist. The other, an older being, who now occupies the silent big top, but who truly exists only in the animations behind his fevered eyelids.
On this afternoon, their particular drama is acted out without benefit of rehearsal. Without the niceties of choreography. The elegantly suited and coiffed man emerges from his limousine chrysalis only briefly to seek out and touch his past, like a dutiful lover visiting the distant grave of a childhood sweetheart. But memories often come with an unbidden price. As the tear traces it's own meanderings down the creases of his carefully tanned face, he hurriedly seeks once again the metallic shelter and the comforting, living smells of the limousine.
As he opens the discretely concealed wet bar, he fails to notice the old one, also emerging from another make-shift cocoon of mankind. The little orange and white canvas pagoda had been appropriated and sanctified by the old clown, as the place where he performed his daily ritual. A celebration of life, through the daily acts which marked the passing of his time more surely than the gold Rolex on which the other man relied. A celebration of life, by the daily act of passing away. A reminder to him of his mortality, more passionate than the stained glass of all the great cathedrals. A portrait of frail flesh, turning slowly to indomitable strength of meadow flowers.
Emerging from the little tent into the light, the old gentleman immediately becomes part of the moth-eaten circus; his faded red rubber nose carefully in place, his grease paint mouth, magically transformed into either grin or frown, his size 47, lime green shoes. The tattered and frayed cuffs of his checkered coat and striped pants serve to complete the illusion that he is just another gaudy banner advertising pre-adolescent entertainment, now flapping indifferently in the Spring breeze.
Upon noticing the strange automobile, the old clown belatedly recognizes his old friend the one-time midway barker. His mind conjures up a word from his youth, and implores his body to...RUN. His voice, so accustomed to mumbles, whose necessity ended with his own ears, struggles to obtain the needed volume:
"CHUCK!.. Chuck boy!... REVERN" Chuck! You're back!"
But the limousine has begun to slowly move away, the tires making soft slurpy noises so remeniscient of the baby kisses which occupy the greater part of the old clown's memories. And although his mind has issued the command to run, his spindly frame can only recall the practiced flap-and-waddle of giant shoes. For the first time in uncounted years, the hips and feet, the knees and elbows and neck momentarily loose their riotously coordinated synchronization, and the old clown begins to fall. This is not the carefully practiced fall-and-roll of performance art. This is the desperate, air-grabbing, slow motion fall of old joints and frail bones. The terrifyingly graceful dirt dive and skid, when the entire world stops momentarily to watch.
But as fate would have it's comedy, today the limousine does not stop. And it's occupant does not watch. And the speed of the scene returns to normal as the old clown's rubber nose catches in the waddle-trodden grass, and he rolls violently end over end, like a stunt car at a southern county fair.
As the limousine again reaches the firmer road beyond the old stone fence, only the grass bugs and a small green frog, disturbed from it's slumber by the passing jumble of clown parts, hear the final oration of today's little drama. In a voice as small and soft as those of the children who used to giggle and reach for his red-gloved hand, or shyly search for the always provided piece of penny candy in his cavernous pockets, the old clown's words could be mistaken for the rattle of final breath:
"Barker. Come back, Barker....Bring them all........bring them all........back."
----- Late February can be late winter in the low country of the bayou. And the winds that stumble down from the rockies like careless drunks, can strip the trees of fruit blossoms, and paralyze the meadow toads where they hide in their gumbo holes. But the bald cypress and pecans are never fooled. Their limbs are still bare and rattle in slumber as a full moon rises, resplendent in it's bloated gluttony, into a crystal blue bowl swept clean by dry northern winds. The old farmers called it a harvest moon and gathered their fields by it's light in the Fall. Early Texas settlers called it a Commanche moon, and shivered with dread of it's brightness and the savages which rode under it.
But tonight let's call it an old clown moon, as it smiles down into the old, gentle and somehow curiously staring eyes suspended in grease paint laughter, adrift in a green meadow-ocean of early Spring flowers.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 24, 2000.
Ah'ud PREFERR ta think thaht AH hadd'n' goan thet fah wrong.Da Barker
-- Chuck, a night driver (rienzoo@en.com), February 24, 2000.
Lon likes this here thread.Who knows? You might like it, too.
Oh, well. My two cents. 8^}
-- just a bored FRLian and (struggling@screenwriter.wannabe), February 24, 2000.
(((Donna))) so good to 'hear' from you!Lon, pass the Kleenex! ...sniff...
-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), February 24, 2000.
EXTRA!..........EXTRA!Read all about it - Old Lon the clown bites the dust and buys the farm!
EXTRA!....EXTRA!
-----
(Fair Use: For educational purposes only)
Bayou Press Services 2/24/00,
The Geezerville On-The-Bayou Daily Planet:
The bayou country is inundated today by a massive tidal wave of rumor. Old Lon the clown is reported missing and it is feared that the persistently sad and under appreciated co-founder the the once great Yourdon's Circus, may have come to his untimely end by foul play. A statement issued by Ms. Gertrude Gaspard, President of the Old Lon Fan Club, International this morning, reads in part:
"Of course, we here at the OLFCI are monitoring the early reports carefully. Indeed, we are reluctant to accept the fact that Old Lon may have been actually and cruelly taken from us all. It is our understanding that although the bayou meadow where he was on sabatical has been disturbed and evidently shows signs of violence, his body has not been found at this time, and upon this fragment of information hang the hopes and fears of all our membership. However, we are at this time organizing a candle light vigil of hope, and implore all true fans to join us on this heart-rending occasion. Special good fortune candles may be purchased at our office, or at the new refreshment and souvenir stand being erected today at the bayou meadow. Mastercard and Visa will be accepted for your convenience."
Bayou country Sheriff, Big Bubba Babineaux, is leading an inter-agency task force in the ever-widening investigation. He offered a terse statement to the international press corps rapidly gathering at this scene of history in the making:
"Yeah, well, it's true that we haven't found the old geezers mangy carcass...ah....er.. that, that is to say, that while no actual body has yet been found, it is our careful conclusion, that the, ah, beloved old clown is definately missing."
Latest reorts from circus insiders hint that a special team of investigators from the TB2000 Foundation are being flown in to assist local athorities. Meanwhile, prominent television celebrity and evangelist, the Reverend Night Driver, who once publicly and tearfully acknowledged his former temporary association with the Yourdon Circus in his "misbegotten and mis-spent youth", has now graciously stepped forward to lead a spiritual crusade in memorium of the old clown. A spokesperson at his Center For LIght And Peace, Ms. Mary Kay Goodbody, said that plans are being negotiated for use of the former big top and that several Hollywood personalities have shown interest in making appearences. Early tickets will be available for purchase at all Bayou Country package stores, and special prayer shawls, personally blessed by the Reverend Driver himself, are now availble for a modest, tax-deductable donation.
-- Skippy (investigativereporter@daily.planet), February 24, 2000.
Scene:Sugarland Texas. The interior of a palatial home, rising above the rows of newly constructed tract houses that slowly eat away at the once productive farmlands of the coastal plain, like a cancer caused by the abnormal radiation of urban proximity. The smog of Houston is a perennial cloud bank in the skies to the east.
A woman of indeterminable youth sits on the edge of an unmade bed. A mound of damp and anxiety-worn tissue surrounds her feet, as if meant to create the illusion of a Kleenex snowdrift. Her eyes and nose glow dully red in the morning light, and her normally luxuriant mane hangs disheveled about shoulders now enclosed in an old and tattered cotton bathrobe, the always-treasured security blanket, imbued with memories and smells of youth and grease paint.
A small television sits on a low table, and gathers her sniffling attention:
"We return now to our round-the-clock coverage of the world shaking tragedy unfolding at the bayou meadow, where it has been reported that Old Lon the clown is missing, and feared the victim of some unimagined and fatal act of violence."
The television dissolves to a scene which appears to be the unlikely setting of a primeval cave dwelling, lit solely by blue and pink neon signs proclaiming "Win Here!", and "Big Jackpot". An earnest young reporter stares into the camera and awaits his earphone cue::
"Yes, yes, I am here live, at the Bayou Grande Casino, and have secured an interview with tow of the personnel here, who are reported to have had recent business ties to Old Lon the clown. Mr. Knuckles McGurk, and Miss Mabel "Bugsy" Malaneaux, of the accounting staff, here at the gaming resort.
"Mr. McGurk, er, Knuckles, can you tell our viewers when you last saw Old Lon?"
The cordless microphone is thrust before a face of smoothly tanned leather. Distinguished salt-and-pepper grey hair is closely cropped and reveals the pale line of a ragged scar along the right temple. Coldly professional colorless eyes do not blink as he answers:
"Well, yes. Of course, Old Lon was a regular and treasured friend here at the Bayou Grande. I believe he was looked upon as a grandfather figure by several of the blackjack dealers, and I know of at least one cocktail girl who named her child after him. We are most anxious by this event, and only hope for a miracle at this time."
The youthful reporter withdraws the mike, sadly smiles momentarily at the camera, and continues:
" And Miss Malaneaux, What have y.........."
The mike is seized in the beefy grip of sausage sized fingers, adorned by short metallic green fingernails:
" Yeah, youse guys keep huntin' fer dat old bum. An' when youse find 'im, gib me a call; there's fifty clams in it for ya."
Mr. McGurk hurriedly steps in front of the camera, effectively obscuring the now wildly gesticulating and scowling Miss Malaneaux:
" What my associate means, of course, is that we here at the beautiful Bayou Grande Casino and Resort, the gaming mecca for good times, known throughout the bayou country, are graciously offering a substantial reward for any information regarding the whereabouts of Old Lon, or of course, of his remains, as the case may be."
The young reporter steps beside the tan, smiling McGurk, and in the exuberance of shared concern reaches out an arm to encircle the ramrod strait and square shoulders. A glance from the colorless eyes, and the reporter's hand waves momentarily in the air, before moving to self consciously and needlessly smooth his own hair.
The woman on the bed glances at a small gilt framed photograph of a young bareback rider and an already ancient clown with wisps of orange hair and a faded red rubber nose, signed in a barely legible scrawl across the top:" To miss Gayla, from Old Lon". She reaches for yet another tissue.
"If only I hadn't left him alone. If only we all had stayed.........."
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 24, 2000.
Scene:Yet another grassy low country meadow. A wide and fairly smooth blacktop strip runs the length of the level ground, and bears the black tire marks which attest to it's use as a Saturday night dragstrip by local teenage hooligans. But today, its use is more official, and the portable sheet metal building bearing the hand-lettered sign, "Bayou Country International Airport" is occupied by a small group of somber people. A venerable DeHaviland Otter cools it's engines in the muddy deplaning area, and likewise exhibits elaborate signage proclaiming it as the property of "The TB2000 Institute". Beside the lone building, a red sock is carefully suspended to indicate the wind direction from a pipe-frame tuna tower, recycled from the unfortunate remains of a big city businessman's Hatteras sport fishing boat.
A black and white, 1982 Chevrolet Carryall with dual red spotlights at the front doors and a whip antenna carefully secured to the rear bumper rolls to a stop in front of the building, and the considerable bulk of Sheriff Big Bubba Babineaux climbs out to survey the little group of strangers.
"Well, so y'all are the scientist folks from the TB2000 Institute. I just can't tell you how excited me and the boys are to see ya. Yessir, to think that you would come alla way down here just to solve our little homicide for us. Yessir, we're just plain tickled pink about it. Yessir, just plum tickled."
Too late, he spits a four inch stream of tobacco juice which had begun to escape the left corner of his mouth. The brown spit-liquor splashes onto the green Converse high tops of a tall young man otherwise dressed in a tweed sportcoat and checkered Bermuda shorts.
"Sorry about that, Mr..?"
"Andy. As our agreement specified, we are to be known by first names only."
The warming air carries a faint scent to the sheriff, and his highly trained mind searches it's catalog of aromas until it's satisfied that the tall young man carries an unmistakable aura of expensive imported Limey beer.
"Yeah, Andy. Right. And you must be Dr. Leska?"
A smallish woman smiles and extends a delicate hand, unadorned by nail polish or jewelry, in the custom of one who considers her hands to be instruments of healing. And although her eyes belied an extraordinary compassion, the plainness and muted colors of her dress would have left no remarkable items of casual observations. Except, that is for the bright green fuzz which covered her otherwise smooth pate like a three day old Chia pet.
The sheriff was not known to be a man constrained by tactful conversation.
"You, uh, you wouldn't be associated with the Astro Turf company, now, would ya?"
"It's a long story"
The big man nods sagely, and wisely decides it best to only give the others a cursory wave.
"Well, then, come on and get in. The FBI and CIA and Gawd knows who all else have already beat you to all the rooms at Miss Guilbeau's boarding house and mas-sage parlor, but I guess y'all can stay in them old circus trailers out to the bayou meadow."
Glances of silent apprehension pass among the little group, as they dutifully gather overnight bags and cardboard boxes of equipment and take seats for the ride out to the once silent field that some local newshounds are already calling "massacre meadow".
-- --- (narrator@storiesR.us), February 24, 2000.
Sitting on the edge of my chair for the continuing saga; cats and birds gathered 'round to listen as I read...
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@teluplanet.net), February 24, 2000.
Me too Ms. Tricia.I can hardly wait to read the next installment of this one.
I'm just sitting here with "bait on my breathe" and sucking down yet another Barq's root beer. Afraid even to go pee, afraid that I will miss the next post.
Lon, go for it Boy, you are on a roll. keep it coming!
YAY Lon!!!
S.O.B.
-- sweetolebob (buffgun@hotmail.com), February 24, 2000.
Trish and S.O.B.,Hiya guys! I had intended to start the story rolling and intice some of you others into this little radio drama. But, it was a long quiet day, and I , well I just got carried away.
Anyway, I'm glad to see you; I was geting tired of listening to myself.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 24, 2000.
The meadow had reclined here, between the scattering of heavy limbed live oaks and the soft grey-green wall of bald cypresses for much longer than man's memory. The first men to venture here in rude dugout canoes found the low country to be a perilous Eden. Filled with all manner of plant and animal; the crab, turtle and crayfish, the egret, ibis and heron, and the lurking silent death of the great green bayou lizard later called alligator. The ebb and spill of dark waters gave home to the sudden beauty of wild iris as well as the macabre pitcher plant, with it's appetite for living flesh.The standing waters of the deep swamp gave way to the sucking ooze of marsh, and finally to the somewhat defined banks of aimlessly lazy bayous. For eons uncounted, the meadow had established it's living rhythm of Spring floods and Summer grasses, and the bayou was a dark eyed and sleepy neighbor.
Eventually, men came to claim the low country; to define it, and give it names in their language. The displaced Acadians brought with them the pireaux and the axe, the spade and the plow. They called the water and the land together, after departed homeplaces or wondrous new promise; Terrabonne, Vermillion, St. Martin. Their towns grew up with the names of heroes, whether patriarch, pirate or gentle beauty; Lafayette, Napoleonville, Evangeline. And they brought their women.
And so the meadow learned new rhythms. It woke early Summer mornings to feminine laughter, and heard the mournful and low tones of their burying songs in Winter. It learned to accept the caress of their hands, and it became the keeper of their dead. Their flesh fed the worms who burrowed in it's gumbo soil and wiggled to the surface to disgorge casings by the light of the moon. Their juices were taken up by the primrose, the fescue, the black eyed Susan. And so it came to be that the sweating men, the singing women, the laughing children became part of the living meadow. And the leaf-stained waters of the bayou held their reflections in the depths of it's memory.
--------
Late February is late winter in the low country of the bayou, and some mornings, the sun is reluctant to rise. Like a still-sleepy child it lingers behind the mists rising from the dark surface of the waters, and hides among the ocean clouds blown up from the great salty-warm gulf just beyond the horizon.
It was the diffused light of such a morning that found the little band of investigators walking and slowly waking along the edges of the bayou meadow. Reluctant to disturb the comfortable homes the field mice and night birds had established in the tiny circus trailers, they had spent the night in mostly fitful slumber inside the abandoned big top. Of course, they each had once been members of the great circus family, and as the night wind gave life to the tattered and moaning canvas, each found fond remembrances stirred by the calliope-like hoots and trills of night birds along the bayou. Andy, Leska, Chris, the trainer of birds, and the others, all had imagined the face of the old clown at some time during the night, and smiled in their dreams.
Perhaps it was these half remembered dreams, or perhaps the open-fire breakfast of Spam and grits, but the searchers found themselves unaccountably optimistic, and determined to find evidence that the old clown still walked among the living. They fanned out and began criss-crossing the meadow, as if looking for a contact lens in a green and dew-soaked shag carpet.
Two pickup trucks arrived with a radio blare of cajun music, and four carpenters began to construct the OLFCI souvenir and refreshment booth. Fountain drinks, $2.00 each. And a handsome young woman, wearing shorts much too brief for the earliness of the season, began to rope off the far end of the meadow with small signs. Light and Peace Crusade Parking, $8.00. Always the Continental gentleman, Andy hurried off to offer her his assistance.
Leska only glanced after the retreating young man, and smiled a private, knowing smile. She placed her hands in the small of her back and stretched out the gathering tightness. Suddenly, her eyes focused on an object both foreign and intimately familiar, and dropping to her knees without regard for the sodden grass staining her woolen frock, she tenderly plucked it from it's hiding place.
With her knees pressing on the living soil of the meadow, with the murmuring of the dark and ancient bayou filling the air, with the reluctant sun finally warming the mists under the oaks,and in the audience of a stately great blue heron, her tears began to fall on her half-open trembling hand. And on the faded, red rubber nose it cradled.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 24, 2000.
Big Bubba Babineaux was not a happy man. He hated mornings like this."Why the Hell don't it just make up it's mind. Either be Winter or Spring, for cryin' out loud."
While the investigators from the TB2000 Institute had begun to criss-cross the meadow, the Sheriff had been criss-crossing the pine floor of the old jail building. Junie Lejeaune watched him make the little circuit for the seventh time this morning; check the coffee pot, scan the bulletin board, stare out the front windows for nine seconds, drop heavily into the chair, bitch about the fog, start again. She had come in early this morning because she knew how the fog affected her hulking boss. Actually, any morning she came in was early, since Junie had never been paid for helping out in the "Office of Protection and Safety", and she liked to call it when she answered the phone.
The lack of remuneration didn't particularly bother Junie, since she had always considered herself as a carrier girl, and enjoyed the status afforded by her position in law enforcement. Two years ago, Big Bubba had surprised her with a small sign lettered carefully with her name on it, in front of one of the three parking spaces beside the jail building. And even though Junie normally walked the four blocks to work, she always looked at her sign, and always carefully read her name, as if it might have magically become misspelled during the night. And she always smiled a secret smile with the memory of the morning Big Bubba had unveiled it, with a little party attended by Sheryl, from the cafe across the road, and Inez, the girl over at Percy Premeaux's law office. Sheryl had brought some of her famous hand-made bon-bons, and the sheriff had driven the day before all the way to New Iberia, just to buy some special gourmet coffee to replace their normal Seaport with chicory.
Besides, she had the settlement money from the Bayou Seafood Company, from another foggy morning when one of their drivers missed the curve and parked his rig right in Junie's bedroom, and right on top of Junie's late husband, Leroy.
So, this morning, she quietly performed her practiced routine and tried not to add to the big man's aggravation. Her duties primarily consisted of keeping a sharp pencil and clean paper pad in order to keep track of the sheriff's whereabouts at any given moment. She was fully aware of the old axiom that law enforcement was a business of months of boredom and moments of panic. She was ready therefore, when the sheriff picked up his Bayou Seafood "gimme" hat, and headed for the door.
Although, in the fourteen years that he had been sheriff almost no one had come looking for him, Big Bubba Babbineaux was sensitive enough to Junie's image of self-worth that he always left her presence with the same preamble:
"If any one comes looking for me,... I'll be over to the cafe talking to the geezers."
He paused, has hand on the knob. He knew it was coming.
"You mean talking to the OTHER geezers, doncha?"
As he stepped out into the lifting fog, they both knew the punchline was his to be had.
"I hear they got a job openin' over to the gas station. Fixin' them big ole dirty truck tires, don't ya know. You might aughta look into it, huh?"
Big Bubba had never married. He told himself, and others when necessary, that a professional peace officer had no business with the liabilities of the heart. Still, he knew that someday, perhaps on one of these mornings when the silence clings to him like the damp fog around a great dead swamp oak, he would have to take Junie's hands in his, and try to tell her what the sound of her laughter always does to him.
But not this morning. This morning he was going to run his trap lines. He would find the pulse of the bayou, and finger it as adroitly as a New York brain surgeon. Like any good sheriff, Big Bubba knew that there is an information data center available to him which is more powerful than the buildings filled with computers the Washington boys depend on; an investigative body more prying than the IRS, more cunning than CIA, more ruthless than the Mafia.
It was now 8:17 in the morning. The geezer table at Sheryl's cafe should be full.
-----------
Sheryl was not a bayou girl. She had come from one of those exotic and decadent pools of affluent population on the west coast. It was common knowledge that when she arrived, the bus tags on her luggage were labeled "CARMEL/ CAL.". Although her lack of bayou progeny would forever hold her apart, the bayou folks, being descendants of outcasts themselves, soon welcomed her into their makeshift community. She arrived with the surname of Banban, which proved to be an irresistible challenge in this country where "achefalaya" was pronounced "shaff-fly", and "boudain" had become "boo-daa". So it was only natural that when Sheryl Banban exhibited her talent for the hand made confections she was to become famous for, that her name should morph into Sheryl Bon-bon.
As any twelve year old boy on the bayou can tell you, a nick-name is a sure sign of acceptance, and this morning as he pushed open the cafe door, big Bubba gave a little nod towards the blond and still-tanned beauty:
"'Mornin' Bon'."
She acknowledged the sheriff's greeting with a smile that made the table of out-of-town newsmen lapse into the silence of testosterone dementia, as they each lifted a cup to gently blew on the surface of their coffee.
It is a peculiarity of human communities, that they all function according to routine of their own creation. From the most restrictive and formal protocol required for greeting Royalty, to the mundane behavior expected of morning traffic, man is a creature defined by procedure. The little cafe in the bayou low country was no exception, and as he approached the table of elderly men nursing cups of black coffee, Big Bubba rehearsed in his mind the expected repartee.
"'Morning, Lester. 'Morning Wilbert. Charley; Melvin, boys. How you all be today?"
He was greeted in return with nodding heads and a collection of gappy grins which exhibited the fact that the average age of those assembled about the table far exceeded the aggregate number of teeth.
One of the old men signaled acceptance by kicking out an empty chair and opening with the obligatory mild jab.
"The crim'nal catchin' bidness kinda slow today, is it Bubba?"
"Naw, I just came over because we had a report that Bon-bon had gone mental, and poisoned a whole table full of old coots over here."
Of course, it was about the four-hundredth time they all had heard that joke, but it didn't matter; old men knew never to pass up a chance for a laugh, and actually, it was fresher than some of the stories they had been telling already this morning. The geezer assembly honored him with wheezing laughs and stomping feet. And of course, the routine:
"Hot dam, I did wonder why the coffee was actual good this mornin'", and,
"Well, Sheriff, so long as she be killin' only the OLD coots, it don9t bother us none!"
The ritual satisfactorily completed, Big Bubba eased his sizable frame into the proffered chair and picked up the cup which had magically appeared at his elbow. Bon-bon knew the routine as well.
"Well, you boys solved the worlds' problems yet this mornin'?"
"You mean, I reckon, do we know who did in the old clown out at that old circus dump?"
"Well, that, uh, that HAD crossed my mind of late"
"Ah shoot, Bubby, lookee here, now."
Lester Lebeau had voted for Big Bubba for each of the fourteen years he had made the office of sheriff, and it was accepted that old man could use a term of endearment in public. Besides, Lester was his uncle, and had given the not-yet-big Bubby his first store-bought fishing pole on his seventh birthday.
"It's like you is alla time tellin' us, follow the money, son. You know, some people are gettin plum rich offa that old clown, now that he's gone. I mean, chargin' folks big money just to park their cars in some old muddy field. Or puttin' on some high-falutin' "crusade" out there in the swamp?"
Melvin leaned slightly over the table, and lowered his voice, which was the accepted sign that he was about to divulge sensitive and hitherto classified information.
"Yessir, now I don't know nuthin' for sure, but Gezelle, over at the boardin' house was sayin' how them FBI boys found fresh tire tracks back there, an' how they matched up perfect-like with that loud-mouthed preacher's fancy car, an' all."
"Yeah boy, an' I heard that he had some girl singer already signed up for his big shindig. Barbara Strys-land, or something like that. Shoot, I caint see why, what with his kinda money an' all, he don't get somebody famous like Wayne Toups, or somethin'."
Suddenly the sheriff's debriefing session by the geezer intelligence agency was interrupted when an agitated young man rushed in the cafe door and yelled across at the table of newshounds.
"Mike, come get the camera and set up. Hurry!"
Outside, a new Ford cargo van was parked with it's motor still running. Emblazoned in artistic lettering of gold on a green background it implored the onlooker to "Watch KRAP, Channel 13, Your Bayou Country News Leader!", and "When News Happens, The Bayou Country Turns to KRAP."
By the time Big Bubba had fished a quarter out of his chino uniform trousers, laid it on the table for his coffee, and followed the sound of sidewalk commotion, a sincere looking announcer was rehearsing his soon to be live, man on the scene report.
"And the breaking news here at the bayou meadow, or "massacre meadow", as it has been known in whispered local folklore for generations, is that investigators have recovered a body part, believed to belong to Old Lon the clown. I repeat, a body part has been found in the meadow where Old Lon the clown was reported to be missing yesterday. Sadly, this news must weigh heavily upon the hearts of our millions of viewers."
Sheriff Big Bubba Babbineaux had the unmistakable feeling as he walked to his patrol vehicle, that his day, like the millions of viewers out there in TV land, had just turned to KRAP.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 25, 2000.
*sniff*We can only pray that mistress 'Pearl of the Orient' was not really involved.
{pass the Kleenex, Gayla}
-- flora (***@__._), February 25, 2000.
Alright, flora, alright.I have reviewed all my FRL history, and wracked what's left of my brain to no avail. You wanna tell me just who or what is mistress "Pearl of the Orient"?
(To those of you interested in celebrity gossip, I might confide that flora has consented to play a supporting role in the ongoing drama of Old Lon the clown. Of course, her identity has been protected by use of her professional pseudonym.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 25, 2000.
I truly was lucky enough to watch a performance by The Pearl in a backwater town years ago...and haven't been the same since...Here are a few quick impressions from my memory:
The circus girls switched wigs inbetween acts, but the gaping holes in their fishnets betrayed their identities.
There was a melancholy old gentleman with a decrepit bear act, two mangey looking ill-tempered creatures {actually three, if you include the man} ... I don't possess the language to describe what it felt like to be a witness to that.
Anywho, towards evening there strode into the ring {on the football field} one of the world's most fascinating females. The Pearl of the Orient appeared to be a woman beyond a certain age, who apparently been living large under the big top for many a year. Here assistant attached a long rope to the bun on the top of her head. Her generous frame then began to lope in a large arc around the center ring, as her man began to pull on the rope.
Layer upon layer of kimono, and gaudy gowns floated to the ground as she became airborne. At last she was a whirling Ruebenesque vision in pale spandex.
Someone ran into the ring carrying a laden tray. The Pearl crossed her legs in Buddah-like fashion and grasped the tray on the next rotation. Over the loud speakers the barker's voice boomed " and now .. the Pearl of the Orient ... will perform ... The Japanese Tea Ceremony..."
Time kinda warped for me about then, or something. Definitely transported somewhere else, why - I can't really say. She was graceful beyond probablility as she descended back to earth.
Now, if she had anything to do with this bayou debacle...
All I can do is hang my head and say 'what a way to go'...
-- flora (***@__._), February 25, 2000.
Lon, you're an incredible writer. I'm on a rollercoaster of tears and laughs, your saga unfolding in my mind with vivid pictures as if I was watching a movie!I want to "sign you up", I sent you a contract, check your email ;-)
-- Chris (#$%^&@pond.com), February 25, 2000.
I had dibs on that clown, first.
-- pearl (I've.got@rope._), February 25, 2000.
Gezelle Guilbeau was not what one would readily classify as a delicate creature. Although her mother romantically envisioned the newly born girl to be as lithe and mystical as the small antelope that was her namesake, by the time she had finished school in the seventh grade, Gezelle enjoyed a hard earned and well deserved reputation more closely suited to a Cape buffalo. And her name had been irrevertibly established as "G-sell!", followed with a permanent exclamation point, as in "G-sell!, why'd you do that for?", or "Oh Lawd, that sounds like G-sell!".This is not to say, of course, that Gezelle Guilbeau was bereft of either beauty or admirers. Down in the low country a woman is often valued according to her ability to push a stalled pickup truck, while her mate steers and awaits the perfect, magical moment to pop the clutch, the accurate determination of which is a gift, inborn, as anyone knows, only to those of masculine gender. And a woman who knew when to guffaw over a few dead long-necks was more treasured than she who coyly giggled behind an up-raised hand.
Besides, Gezelle Guilbeau could not escape the inheritance of her Acadian genes; the black hair which fell in long waves about her shoulders, the almost large, and ever-so-slightly aquiline nose, the straight and gleaming teeth. Indeed, she could have been an almost-beauty, safely and respectfully wed and bred by this stage of her life, had she given attention to such matters whatsoever. But her disinterest in personal appearance, coupled with a coarse and sometimes brutal outlook on life, had so far failed to attract an abundance of would-be suitors.
And then there was the rumor. It was the same old rumor that had it's roots in a thousand small towns, mean-spirited and spiteful, repeated in whispers by a million old gossips over a million cups of tepid tea, on a million parlor afternoons. On her seventeenth birthday, Gezelle had gone to visit her maiden aunt in the sophisticated, and therefore suspect, urban center of Mamou, Louisiana. Returning a year and a half later, she had brought enough cash to buy the boarding house from old Mrs. Doiron, who had developed "the rheumatism", and could no longer climb the stairs to surreptitiously violate the privacy of her guests, under the guise of tidying the rooms. The rumor was an open secret in the low country of the bayou, and it would have occasionally given her pause, had she given any attention to such matters whatsoever.
But on this particular afternoon, Gazelle had business on her mind. And she needed transportation. Walking as fast as the tightness of her bluejeans and four-inch heeled demi-boots would allow, she targeted a lone figure struggling to repair an oversized engine part with an undersized pipe wrench, alongside a shabby shrimp boat resting in the greasy liquid ooze of the town's single dock.
"Well, well, if it isn't little Antoine Hebert.""
Down here on the bayou, they still pronounced his family name as "A-bear", and Gezelle contemplated the oily sheen of the dark water as though she had incorporated it's viscosity into the smooth huskiness of her voice.
"Oh Gawd, G-sell! Whatever it is, the answer is no."
"I just need your ole truck for a while,......Antoine Hebert"
Aw, G-sell! I don't want you drivin' my truck all over the place. What if you was to hit somethin'?"
" Now, ...Antoine Hebert, dawlin. I bet you don't want your little wife knowin' what you was doin' with that Robena Domangue, over behin' the boarding house last Friday night, either. What if SHE was to hit somethin? Exactly what was that, anyway? Did you accidentally drop your watch down the front of her dress? Sure was a lot of handi-work goin' on,...Antoine Hebert."
As she slipped behind the wheel of the pickup, she yelled out in a voice now made of barbed wire and broken glass,
"Hey, Hebert, you dead-ass, give me some money. You need gas."
--------
As she strode into the pink and sky-blue reception area of the Center for Peace and Light, Inc., Gezelle was met by the same girl who earlier had been putting up parking signs in the bayou meadow. Now attired in a sky blue jumper over a flowing, pure white silk blouse, her white-stockinged ankles barely showing above modest, low-heeled sky-blue pumps, Miss Mary Kay Goodbody was the Personal Assistant and Public Liaison to the Reverend Night Driver. She expertly feigned ignorance of the identity of her guest, whom she immediately recognized as the woman of the rumor.
"Hello, I'm Mary Kay, may I help you?"
Gezelle recognized the young woman as well, and intuitively ascertained the "administrative talents" which were required of her position.
" Yeah, honey, you bet your sky-blue butt you can. I wanna see the preacher."
"I,...I'm sorry, but the REVEREND Dr. Night Driver is secluded in meditation, preparing for the upcoming Crusade of Peace and Light and Bayou Extravaganza. Surely you know, the memorial service for dear Old Lon the clown."
"Yeah, well, Tinkerbelle, you just tell him that somebody just might have seen his puky-green limo down at that meadow day before yesterday. See how long he meditates on THAT, why doncha?"
---------
The office of the Reverend Dr. Night Driver was softly muted sea-foam green, and adorned solely with a massive carved wood, fifteenth century alter, stolen fifty years earlier, by industrious American GI's from a church in the countryside of Spain. Only he and Miss Goodbody were aware of the fire-proof safe and small liquor cabinet, discretely concealed within.
The heavily-ringed fingers of the caller-of-men slowly pushed the buttons of an almost-forgotten phone number.
"Greybear? It's Chuck. We need to talk. No, no, nothing like that. We, we may just have a little problem, that's all."
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 25, 2000.
BTW, I think this would be an excellent time to interject that this is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any person either living or dead is purely coincidential.( a Reubenesque vision in pale spandex? Yowsers. You tramp, ya)
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 25, 2000.
Lon: I bow in your presence. Magnifico!Kinda makes my drivel pale in comparison.
You have a wonderful gift. Thanks for sharing it, and please carry on. 8^/
-- just a bored but moved (struggling@screenwriter.wannabe), February 25, 2000.
Lon *is* a gift... and priceless, at that.
-- Wilferd (WilferdW@aol.com), February 25, 2000.
Sea green?? PUCE!?!?!?!?DAng, I'm a Winter, so it's gotta be navy blue or white or black.
If you are casting this PLEASE get Ahold of Mr. Gortner. He knows all the lines already.
CHuck
-- driven to contribute (Marjoe@da.man), February 26, 2000.
Gawsh, you guys.(As he stubs a bare toe, absent-mindedly in the dust)
I never had nobody say such nice things before.
-------
For those of you who might have noticed the occasional mix-up on names, changes in mannerisms, and other assorted boo-boo's, I gotta say that you are getting this RAW. I'm just getting to know some of the players, as I write their lines. And as for plot development, well, you might have noticed that there AINT NONE! I do have a rudimentary idea of where it's going, but generally, I am just getting carried along by the tale itself.
But mostly you must promise that someone will mercifully just shoot me if it gets to be boring, stupid or silly. (well, maybe not silly; I seem to have crossed that bridge already).. (and , uh, go easy on the stupid part as well, OK?) (but boring is definately bad; you should definately kill me for boring)
Otherwise, I'll just try to continue on. I don't know about y'all, but I'm having a blast.
Thanks again for the comments,
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 26, 2000.
Sorry, Chuck.I know I may have strayed somewhat from your true character, but it just, ... happened. Don't give up though; you may be exonerated yet. (wink, wink)
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 26, 2000.
Well, Lon, it's obvious that the butler did it ;-)What you have to explain is why the butler hated poor old Rev so much that he wanted to have him put away, and whether the Lon clown was personally involved or just convenient.
What a reason to die, convenience.... Seems to happen a lot for your prez
Looking forward to the next installment!
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), February 26, 2000.
Scene:The "news desk" set, inside the studios of KRAP television,"The Bayou Country News Leader". A middle-aged man is sitting behind the desk, wearing a pink make-up bib over a camel hair suit coat of soft charcoal grey. His chair has been reclined, and he crosses his legs, revealing that his wardrobe is completed soley by an oversized pair of boxer shorts, white, with a print pattern of little blue microphones, and the phrase, "Please speak into the mike", and a pair of orange rubber shower thongs. Another man, very much larger in girth, is dressed in what may be the world's largest pair of black leather motorcycle pants, heavy soled black leather boots, and a huge sweat-stained "Tweety Bird" tee shirt. HIs full-face beard and somewhat untidy, jet black hair hide all of his pie-shaped face but for a slightly misshapen nose and wide set, but clear and sparkling blue eyes.
The Hell's Angel from Disneyland is sitting on a low stool behind the newsman, and works delicately with a small pink rat-tail comb, as he expertly blends in the edges of the other's expensive, and only slightly noticeable toupe.
A production assistant walks up briskly and lays six sheets of paper, only the first of which is actually printed, in the center of the desk.
"Here's your script. Ten seconds, Chet, O.K.?"
The make-up artist gives a last gentle pat to the toupe, returns the chair to upright posture, and casts a trained and critical eye on his creation. He quickly removes the plastic bib, and long, delicate fingers remove a stray hair from the anchor's slightly padded left shoulder. He retrieves his make-up tray from the floor and steps away from the raised stage area with suprisingly atheletic grace.
":Go get 'em Tiger"
The newsman gently clears his throat and nods his appreciation. Good make-up people were worth their weight in gold, even if it was somewhere north of three hundred pounds. The lights come up as the production guy holds up three fingers, then two, then one, then points to the newsman.
"Good morning. I'm Chet Barkley, and we are live, here in the studios of KRAP television, the bayou country news leader. Continuing our round-the-clock coverage of the disappearence of Old Lon the clown, we have this breaking-news update.
"We have reports that the body part discovered yesterday by investigators at the bayou meadow where Old Lon was last seen, has been positively identified as belonging to the world-reknowned and universally loved old showman. According to a report issued by the FBI forensic laboratories in Washington, the recovered item was a,....was a...."
He momentarily scrutinizes the script, looks briefly at the second page, even though he knows it, as well as the remaining pages, are each blank. He smiles weakly at the camera..
"There seems to be some......."
He lifts the papers slightly and addresses someone off-stage to his left.
"Is this......yes.....it...it is?"
Regaining his composure, he again addresses the camera,
"Yes, it, again, it has been reported by the FBI forensic laboratory that the the item recovered is a, a red rubber nose, slightly faded, size large, tall. It has been positively identified as part of Old Lon the clown's wardrobe, as well as, if this reporter may be allowed to observe, his very personnae.
"This is indeed sad and shocking news, and must weigh heavily upon the hopes and hearts of each of us today.
" Please stay tuned as KRAP, the bayou country news leader, brings you continuing updates on this tragedy of national, even international, impact. Sceduled later today, we will have exclusive, live coverage of an un-scheduled news comference by the investigative team of the prestigeous TB2000 Intstitute.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 26, 2000.
Chuck,White, after Labor Day?
Lawn,
It's the weekend, maybe we oughta suspend that shooting request for a coupla days.
Chris,
I'm beating you to this one - if that clown doesn't surface soon - I call dibs on Tweety.
-- pearl (through the @ir.withthe.greatestofease), February 26, 2000.
Pearl, not sure what you mean by "calling dibs" on this Tweety guy, but you might have a tough time of it. I'm the bird trainer here remember? Best leave it to the experts. I'll tame that leather panted birdy. I'll get a clue outta him somehow. Birds of a feather flock together ya know? Maybe he "worked" on our Lon the Clown?
-- Chris (#$%^&@pond.com), February 26, 2000.
Chris,I saw this picture once, I think by the name of "Bananas". Now I'm not sure how scientific it was, but that was awhile ago and I'm believe with the big brains on the forum these days we might be able to get something going here.
The folks in this scheme loved their leader, so much that when all that remained of him was his schnoz - as I recall they were fixin' to clone him, or something.
That set me to thinking. I have some reservations about red rubber, but perhaps there's more effluvia involved - if you catch my drift.
-- pearl (one lump@or.two?), February 26, 2000.
It was the most people that had ever been packed into Sheryl's cafe. More even than two busses of escorted tourists were trapped by a un unusually high and persistent Spring tide and had relented to the shelter of the eatery to absorb a little local color as well as Sheryl's entire stock of early-season shrimp. Chairs had been placed in short rows for the more important of the Federal agency representatives, and people stood three deep along the back wall. Big Bubba Babineaux stood behind the serving counter alongside the front door, and was accompanied by Junie Lejeaune, who he had thoughtfully charged with the all-important task of making a permanent written record of the proceedings.--------------
Dr Leska rises as taps the yellow formica top of the single table left in the room. Lights from four hand-held television cameras come on as the crowd falls silent.
"On behalf of the TB2000 Institute, the members of what has come to be termed the Yourdon Circus family, and indeed, on behalf of the world-wide community of admirers of Old Lon the clown, I would like to thank you for coming this morning. Before we take your questions, I feel it expedient to announce that our purpose here today, is to present our investigative findings of the last two days, to state our conclusions, and to announce the withdrawal of our team from what will surely be an on-going project for the various police agencies involved."
This causes a ripple of murmur to momentarily sweep through the crowd, and several people standing in the rear corners of the room take advantage of the disruption to earnestly whisper into cell phones. Leska raises her voice slightly as she picks up the top copy from a stack of bound reports on the front edge of the table.
"Please, please, if I may continue....Thank you.
" I realize that this news may seem a little premature at first blush, and perhaps an explanation of our status here will clarify our position at this time. When the TB2000 Institute was first asked to assist, we realized that any attempt at inductive investigation would be redundant in light of the agencies already involved. Therefore, the Directors decided to assemble and dispatch a special team to participate on the basis of deductive investigation. That is to say, in layman's terms, we were sent here not to necessarily determine what happened, but rather to rule out various scenarios of possibility.
"You see, our team is comprised of experts in a variety of disciplines, each connected to what may have been a solution to the enigma before us. We have each independently and systematically explored our separate target hypotheses, and have found no supporting evidence to support any of our intentionally postulate conclusions. My area of expertise is the surreptitious deployment of chemtrails by the federal government......
Rather than whispers, this brings only a wave of confused and questioning glances, as several pairs of eyes seek out the Special Agent in Charge, seated among the other law enforcement officials, who sits, unblinking and devoid of emotion as though he were a finalist at the World Championship of Poker at the Bayou Grande Casino and Resort.
"Andy, on the other hand is a specialist on the activities of the international gold cartel. His involvement was deemed necessary since the Directors of the Institute were privy to the here-to-fore undisclosed fact that Old Lon had purchased the remnant properties of the Circus, and made payment in a single and significant shipment of gold bullion.
Gold. That single word momentarily wipes the image of the old clown's face from the minds and imagination of every single person in the room, as the pre-programed synapses of their brains instantaneously brings up images of buried treasure. Always the observant lawman, Big Bubba Babineaux scans the faces of the crowd and immediately realizes the fate which awaits the bayou meadow. Within the week, "authentic" maps bearing cryptic clues to the location of the old clown's treasure would be discovered among the old attic clutter in abandoned low country manor houses, and the local Western Auto would sell out of shovels and digging spades, bearing only slightly inflated prices.
Even the next revelation by Leska only gives slight pause to those already mentally burrowing like industrious night crawlers through the living soil under the ancient oak trees and beyond the little stone fence.
" Another member of our team, Chris is an expert in the field of animal psychology and behavior modification. She has enjoyed a long and acclaimed career as a trainer of large performing animals, including the feline and avian specimens of the Yourdon Circus. She has been included because the Institute was made aware of rumors over the past months that Old Lon may have set free some of the circus animals left in his care. Indeed, it was discovered that no animals remain at this time at the storage area maintained by Old Lon, and it can only be assumed that they are now at large in the vicinity of the bayou meadow. However, as I mentioned before, no evidence was found to indicate that Old Lon may have been a victim of what I'm sure was his own sincere, if ill-advised, compassion.
"We might, by way of departure, advise the local constabulary that a general advisory to the local populace may be in order, as the animals evidently set free by Old Lon included the large species of African and Asian cats, as well as a small performing troupe of the Ursidae family......... bears."
----------
Junie Lejeaune had been strangely energized, perhaps by the importance of her official function as she recorded the proceedings for archival in the Office of Protection and Safety, perhaps by the glances of obvious admiration by her friends in recognition of her official position, or just possibly by her unaccustomed public proximity to the commanding presence of the Sheriff.
During the entire press announcement, her eyes had been intently focused on the lined yellow legal pad, on which she was furiously taking notes, the last few inches of which read:
Released----OL compassion----victim, not.----large cats African ---------------------- (lions?) (tigers?) .and....Bears.
She suddenly feels a warm shiver start just below her navel and end in the trembling tips of her fingers, snapping both her concentration and her pencil lead. She lifts her face and allows herself to look for the first time, into the depths of the sheriff's eyes. As a large calloused hand imperceptibly moves to gently cover hers, she feels herself beginning to slip into the beckoning dark irises, as though she were a wandering shade of the bayou mists, returning to rest in the depths of the dark and leaf-stained waters. Her lips blush with their own biological recognition as she breathlessly whispers the capitulation of her heart,
"Oh, my".
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 27, 2000.
DANG!I hate when that happens. I corrected the copy of the last scene, (really) and then somehow, posted the first, uncorrected draft. Oh, well, it's 1:18 in the morning here, so yu can just correct the spelling, and supply the missing words yourself.
I do want to make one thing clear. The last line of Junies nots should have read
" (lions?)...and (tigers?).....and ...bears."
lions AND tigers and bears, get it?
Oh , my.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 27, 2000.
I just got back, so I'm still getting caught up...Lon, not Sugar Land, Katy.
"Perhaps it was these half remembered dreams, or perhaps the open- fire breakfast of Spam and grits" Did somebody say McDonald's? :- )
-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), February 27, 2000.
The make-up artist had been working double shifts since this whole thing started. But this morning, he had asked for a few days off, due to a "sudden death in the family". The station manager had begrudging approved his request, although he had already made the decision to call off the round-the-clock coverage of the missing clown. He had an understanding in the very marrow of his bones as to what was newsworthy and what was not. The announcement that Old Lon had neither been crop-sprayed like some kind of imported pest, nor been tortured and hacked to kibble by some sun-glassed and oily haired European gold cartel hit man, nor even had he provided a quietly romantic dinner for a family of lions by the light of the bayou moon, unerringly signaled the beginning of the end for this particular drama. A drama which had, afterall, held America's attention for three days already, which was exactly two and a half days longer than average. That, coupled with this morning's API wire announcement that Hillary and Monica had gotten into a full-blown, hair-pulling, spitting-and-scratching, rolling-and-screaming bitch fight on the lawn of the Tavern on the Green, settled the fact that the story of the old clown was probably as dead as the geezer himself.So, on this particularly brilliant and unseasonably warm morning, first light finds the make-up man loading matching black ballistic nylon carry on bags into a equally black four-wheel-drive 1999 Suburban, the windows of which had been so darkly tinted as to appear metallic rather than glass. He moves with an effortless illusion of floating, that hints at a lifetime of physical strength and discipline. Like some gargantuan ballerina, he pirouettes and disappears into the open driver's door. He is dressed in dove grey sweat pants, stenciled across the billboard sized posterior in black lettering, "Property of cell block 9". His richly patterned Hawaiian shirt of pink and yellow hibiscus blossoms is slightly open to reveal an unrelenting black mat of body hair which begins an inch below his Adam's apple and spills over the tops of his shoulders to end only at the bare, pink expanse of his palms. The cuffs of his sweat pants end three inches above size 14 EE sandals, handmade by the wearer from a discarded Uniroyal Eagle. He turns the ignition key, listens momentarily to the muted growl of the "tooled" engine, and carefully drives off into the glare of the rising sun.
----------
Jackson Square had already begun the fill with snowbird tourists posing for the cadre of sidewalk portraitists and inadvertently covering their bodices with powdered sugar from the beignets in the open-air dining room of Cafe du Monde. Parking spaces were scarcer than virgins in the French Quarter of old New Orleans, which is to say, given the Bohemian propensity of it's denizens, for most visitors, parking was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Finally, the black suburban pulls into a parking spot just vacated by a new Eldorado bearing New Jersey plates and very recently relieved of the burden of it's hub caps.
Half a block away is a tiny hole in the wall establishment with a slightly askew and peeling sign proclaiming to the passerby that this is indeed the world famous and original, Betty Ford's Blues and Bikers Bar. As the hairy mastodon-man steps silently into the bar, his massive bulk momentarily filling the door like some gloriously psychedelic hibiscus sunset, he allows a second for his eyes to adjust in the smoky darkness. Two strides brings him to the bar, where he addresses a chartreuse pin-striped silk shirt, haphazardly draped across the scrawny back of the elderly barkeep.
"I'm lookin' for someone.'
"Yeah, well ain't we all."
The bartender's voice was as anemic as his frame. A massive hand gently comes to rest on one silk-slippery shoulder, and gains the old server's immediate and undivided attention.
"My friend's name is Rob."
"Rob. Rob? You wouldn't mean Robbie Red Socks, would ya?"
"Yeah, I reckon that would be him, alright."
The barman slowly lifts a long and skeletonized forefinger and points in the direction of a figure sitting slumped and gently snoring at the far end of the grimy bar.
"Yeah. I reckon that would be him alright."
The gentle dexterity of such large hands is truly amazing as they carefully lifts the sleeper's head, cradling it as if it were a prize-winning pomeranian, to which it does bear an unfortunate resemblance in the perpetual dusk of the bar.
"C'mon, little buddy. We got a job to do."
"Eeezz, snarf, whosit? Whaa?"
Robbie's eyes are as red as his namesake apparel, and blink rapidly in shock and surprise, as he realizes that this was not just another jiggle juice nightmare enfolding his head.
"You!...... Is it really you?................ Greybear?"
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 27, 2000.
Katy-Schmaty, Gayla.Poetic license, don't ya know. :
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 27, 2000.
Meanwhile, back at the lost old clowns meadow...The lone sound of tattered pay phone jingled the sultry bayou stillness. Its echo carried across the mist soaked blades of sagging meadow grass. A saddened Dr. Leska, with short green hair registering the disruptive repetitive sound by alternately raising and lowering like cat hair on a startled feline, ambled towards the phone that wouldnt quit.
She lifts the gunge-splattered cradle, wary of putting her ear too close to the gum-wad plastered ear piece. Without saying a word she listens to the modem-like crackling sound of a not quite year 2000 compliant backwater's phone line sputtering...
Vell vat haf ve herey, Leeeeska?
Dat ole Lon boyz sure got youz ole timers snufflink! Me tu-tu.
Goot joby. Got ytootkay-complaiantantt kleenecks?
Anyvway just callink to say been lookink in ma crystalll ballz an I see zis shinink red noz, missink its other reedd nosey. Go look don near zee beeg tree drippin zat moss stuffy, nex tu the splot of gole nuggits.
Goot lucki finink dat crazee ole clown cootz.
Byee!
Diana Zee Seeress
-- Diane J. Squire (sacredspaces@yahoo.com), February 27, 2000.
HA hahahahahahahah hicpou!!!!!! I am awoken up an here in dis bar two! Lotts to drikn. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Hicuppp. Yu dun goodd Lon. Real godd.Hahahahaha. I peel fritty gud tooooo hicup. Tanks for wake ing meup. Das whad a dinking bubby iz for rightt? Hahahahaahha hicpu. Weeeeeeeeee.
My headd is round juz lik a pomegranite like yu said. I applyed forr insurnce but dey saidd I was illegible! Can you leblive dat? Huh? sheehsee. hicpu. Weeeeeee hahahahaha. I don care. Marie leaks my head juz da way itiz. HAhahahahaha hipcup. Zzzzzzzz.
Zzzzzz zzzzzzz zzzzzz zzzzz zzz
zzzzz
zzz zz
zzz
-- (hahahaha@wee.wee), February 27, 2000.
Poetic license? OK, then you won't mind if I give ol' Lon blue hair, right? :-)
-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), February 27, 2000.
Under the cover of darkness provided by a late rising, waning moon, the black suburban slides noiselessly around to the rear entrance of the Center For Peace and Light, Inc. As the two occupants, one slightly staggering, and the other silently levitating over the walk of antique brick salvaged from a crumbling plantation smokehouse, approach the heavily locked steel door, a muted buzzer sounds, signalling the accessibility of the entryway, as well as establishing evidence of discretely hidden night-vision security cameras.Greybear swings the heavy door open on it's tamper-proof hinges and momentarily holds it, while his companion blinks still-sensitive eyes into the brightly lit interior. A short hallway leads past restrooms to an arched opening revealing a cavernous auditorium. Mahogany pews padded in soft dusty rose march in acoustically regimented rows over an expanse of sky blue berber carpet. Above the elevated dais, a magnificent and brilliantly back-lit stained glass creation depicts a scantily robed, and incredibly beautiful Acadian maiden rising from the misty surface of the bayou into the waiting arms of angels just beyond a sunlit opening in purple and roiling masses of storm clouds.
Greybear gives a low whistle, and Rob takes the cue.
"Yow, momma! I'd fish her outta the bayou, too! Any ole day."
Directly adjacent to the archway, a pair of massive, seven foot high gothic doors, which had previously guarded he entrance of a chateau in southern France, suddenly open and a slightly portly gentleman bearing the tanned maturity of a once cherubic face grins with genuine pleasure.
"Greybear old friend! Rob! Welcome to my little chapel on the bayou."
Greybear engulfs the other's hand in his and engages in a mock struggle and they push and pull like two lumberjacks with an imaginary saw.
"Yeah, it ain't much, Chuck, but I bet it beats sleepin' in the back of your car, don't it?"
The televangelist retrieves his hand, and then offers both to the beaming Rob, with a faux Cajun accent.
"An', Rob-BIE, ma sha! How it be wid chu, cuz?"
"It be gettin' better, cuz, gettin' better ever' day."
"Well, come in a sit a spell. I am afraid our reunion is not on happy circumstance."
The two visitors settled into comfortable sea-foam arm chairs, while Chuck rested lightly on the corner of his massive hand carved desk, topped in verde marble, and previously the property of a minister in the employ of Henry II.
Greybear broke the slightly awkward silence.
"Well, what's up, Barker, somebody dead, or pregnant?"
A chuckle started in Rob's throat, but seeing the stern looks of the other's faces, he quickly swallowed it.
"No, no. Nothing like that big fella. It seems that I just caught a slight case of blackmail, is all."
Robbie Red Socks was now fully awake, and coming rapidly up to speed.
"Blackmail! For what? By who?"
The ponytailed preacher rose and slowly walked over to stand pensively in front of a magnificent Napoleon III mirror with figural feminine surmounts, which once hung in the bed chamber of a prominent Viennese businessman. He stared softly into his own reflection as he continued.
"Well, of course you heard that Old Lon went missing from the bayou meadow last week,"
Whereupon Rob inadvertently acknowledged his recent sequestration in Betty Ford's Blues and Biker Bar.
"What? Old Lon? No kiddin."
Ignoring the question, and still morosely gazing into the mirror, Chuck continued.
"As fate would have it, I had decided to visit the place on the very afternoon that Old Lon evidently went to meet his maker. I don't know why I went. To smell the crowds. to hear the roar of grease paint. To recall the taste of that damn cotton candy. I just don't know."
"But I went. I had my man drive up into the field and I walked around to the old trailer. even stepped in some elephunt pie, wouldn't you know."
The thought of the elephant pie brought a slight smile to his face, and broke the spell of the mirror. Turning to face his friends, he saw the worried look an the tiny visible area of Greybear's hair-shrouded face.
" But you got to believe me, I didn't hear anything. I didn't see anything. The place was deserted; no Lon, no animals, no nothing. Of course, my driver was there the whole time, but I went over to the trailers and left him in the car. He's a good man, but when the FBI boys begins to dangle a threat of complicity in front of his nose, ...well, who knows?"
Greybear raised a hand to smooth out the furrows of his almost invisible brow before he spoke.
"O.K., it's a given that the Feds know about your visit. They must have tire casts by now, and have probably grilled your driver 'till he's pink as a salmon croquet. But what about the Blackmail?"
Chuck finally drops heavily into his chair. Upholstered in rich gold damask, ebonized and inlaid in the Egyptian Revival style, and attributed to Herter Brothers in New York City, it was representative of the American Aesthetic Movement at it's zenith, and had been expertly raised and fitted with casters, after being purchased from the estate of a famous New Orleans madam.
"Well, that's the snake in this whole sorry wood pile. There's this girl in town, fits her jeans quite nicely, if you know what I mean, but she's she's got a reputation as one tough creampuff. She came to see me yesterday, and said that she saw my car at the meadow, and that if I didn't come up with two hundred grand, she just might remember seeing me throttle the old clown, and haul off his body.
"I'm afraid it would prove to be a part of the puzzle the Feds just might want to believe."
Rob still had wisps of fog clinging to his brain like the surface of the bayou and Spring mornings.
"Well, what do you want us to do? You want we should take her for a visit to the fish or something?"
"Oh, Lord no, Rob, nothing like that. For goodness sakes! I just thought you all could put something together, you know, to get me out of this. Heaven knows I'm too old to go play drop-the-soap with the boys in the big house."
Greybear rises without effort from the depths of the overstuffed armchair, and takes a slow step towards the door. He pauses and turns to face his silk-suited old friend.
"O.K., we can help. But there's just one last thing. Are you sure, Chuck, are you sure it happened just like that?
Chuck literally jumps from his seat.
Oh, come ON, Greybear! You know I couldn't have killed Old Lon. I mean, could you? Could any of us? Sure we joked about it, but none of the circus folk would ever have raised a hand to the old guy.
He strode quickly to the antique alter along the far wall of the office, dropped to one knee and removed the panel concealing the safe and small liquor cabinet.
"For cryin' out loud, I still have this. I've been keeping it for Old Lon all these months since he went to the meadow. He never touches it, not even to buy jiggle juice or pay off those leg-breakers over at the casino."
He adroitly spins the dial of the chunky little safe and tugs the door open to the soft office light of expertly hidden indirect illumination. Inside stands rows of 243 small green-topped plastic sleeves, each containing twenty, one-ounce, American Gold Eagles.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 27, 2000.
Too many Texans here... I smell a rat......Heading to the Bayou to check out this 'Lon' dude.
Will report back with further details.
Over and out.
-- some gal @work. (that@you.never_heard_of), February 27, 2000.
Rob-BIE, ma sha! so nice you could join us. And just in time to play your part in this little radio-drama, too.And what have we here? Diana Ze Seeress wieghs in with a clue from the beyond. (Takin' a little time between sets at the jiggle joint to read the story, are we?)
And a new gal at work, that nobody ever heard of, huh? Well, we'll see if she knows her way around the bayou during the dark of the moon. (If you get tired and hungry, head to Lester Lebeau's Bait and Gas. But rember the number one rule of the low country: don't NEVER eat the gumbo at a place that also sells bait. -Gotta do somethin' with those dead mud minners, don't ya know.)
-----
Now pay attention kiddies. I gotta hit the road in a couple of days, and the way I figger it, I still got to get ole' Chuck out of his bind, reveal what happened to Old Lon (or his body), and consumate the romance between Big Bubba and Junie. So, you're all gonna have to keep up, because I know where we're going, just not exactly how we're get there. Heck, I didn't know till this morning that the hair-dresser was really Greybear.
Anyway, I haven't gotten any registered email from anybodies lawyers (yet), so I guess, we'll just continue on.
And Gayla; blue hair! For cryin' out loud, that's just plain tacky.
:
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 27, 2000.
Some gal@work... Lisa, is that you? :-)And ((((Rob)))) so nice to see you. I'm checking out a good AA place for you! :-)
Lon, don't let Tricia and her daughter see what you said about blue hair! ;-)
-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), February 27, 2000.
AA? Oh, ya mean the Auto-Mobile Associatopn. Hey, Thats a great idea Gayla! I been figurin to go and sign up for that even though my clown kar is mad of wubber HAHAhahaha. Hicpu. Hear they tow too. Or is taht tow tow too? Sorry, I am in a sillymooood tonighte (Still a wee bit under the tabel but I got my really bright red socks on still :) Besides, I may need all the hep I can get what with the blackmail plot and Chuck and Greybear and all. Sheesh! Lon, you really be sumthin!!!!Hope all are well. (((FRLians)))
-- Rob Michaels (sonofdust@still.crazy), February 27, 2000.
Cover blown.Thanks, there, Aggie :)
I must get to the bottom of this 'hairdresser' angle.
I gotta truck, don't make me us it.
-- lisa (lisa@work.now), February 27, 2000.
{Caution: Adult Humor)(Beige-walled office of faceless government agency. COOK, a middle- aged operative in a somewhat shiny grey suit, picks up telephone and speaks to secretary, percussing metal utility desk with fingertips. ANDY, his assistant, slumps in corner, drinking a Diet Pepsi.)
COOK: Cindy? Get Hardliner in here! Pronto! (Slams down receiver.)
ANDY (eyes widening slighty): Hardliner in trouble?
COOK: Yeah. Big time.
(HARDLINER enters COOK'S office.)
HARDLINER: You wanted me?
COOK: Yeah. Take a seat. (HARDLINER sits in corner.) Who's this Shakespeare guy you quoted at the top of your thread?
HARDLINER: Oh. (laughing noiselessly) C'mon. Don't you know? I mean, everyone knows he's, you know, a writer.
COOK: Never heard of him. You ever heard of him, Andy?
ANDY: Uh...maybe. Isn't he that guy who wore a...you know, a doublet?
COOK (glaring): What's a goddamned doublet?
ANDY: Just, I dunno. A British thing. (Sips soda nervously.)
COOK (to HARDLINER): Decker's used his name too, at the bottom of the thread. (ANDY and HARDLINER wince slightly at mention of Decker's name.) Looks like he knows this guy better than you, Hardliner.
HARDLINER: Yeah, well, he just quoted him more fully. I got the idea.
COOK: Look, dimwit. I want facts. Who is this Shakespeare guy? Reputation? Character? Background and credentials!! Jeesh! How many times do I have to knock this into your thick skull? We need background, and credentials!! This ain't no training camp, twit! This is the big time! Now I want this guy's dossier by 2 p.m. Got that?
HARDLINER (sighing heavily): Yes, sir. (Leaves office.)
COOK (yelling after him): Records! Reports! Miscellaneous pertinent data!
(2:15 p.m. HARDLINER leans forward in chair, a single piece of paper in hand. He hands it to COOK, who scans it briefly.)
COOK: You haven't told me a goddamn thing! This is all speculation! Where'd the guy go to school?
HARDLINER: We don't know much about him, sir. His background is...murky.
COOK (incredulously): You checked all the crime lab records? Basement archives?
HARDLINER: Yeah. And the local library. No one has a clue about this guy. He just...wrote stuff. His reputation is based solely on what he wrote.
COOK (red-faced): Your reputation will be murky, you dumb goon, if I don't get more facts! By the end of the day! All the training and teaching we lavished on you has been wasted! Wasted! (COOK belches loudly and bangs his fist on desk. ANDY slurps Pepsi, wide-eyed.) I want the dope on this guy by 5 p.m. sharp or you're sacked! Get it?!
HARDLINER: Yeah. I get it.
COOK (in a screeching voice): Now get your skinny ass out of here and get to work!!
(4:50 p.m. HARDLINER sits in chair confidently, a slim folder in hand.)
HARDLINER (reading aloud): Shakespeare was born in 1561. He led an important public life as statesman and jurist. He was the younger of two sons of Sir Nicholas Shakespeare, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal. But the sudden death of his father in 1579 left him with small means and he had to begin making his own way in life. He entered Parliament in 1584, but office was long in coming. He became Solicitor-General in 1607, Attorney-General in 1613---(COOK's face relaxes a little)--- Privy Councillor in 1616, Lord Keeper in 1617, and Lord Chancellor in 1618. He was knighted in 1603, and created Baron Verlam in 1618, and Viscount St Albans in 1621---
ANDY: Hey---wait! Ain't that Francis Bacon you're talkin' about?
HARDLINER (to ANDY, coldly): Bacon? You mean the guy with all the gambling debts? The deep, outstanding, bottomless GAMBLING debts?
ANDY (stunned): Yeah. Oh, right. Sorry. Wrong guy.
COOK (suspicious): Wait a minute. Is it, or is not Bacon? What the hell are you guys talkin' about?
ANDY: I just got confused. Nothing. Really.
COOK (impatiently): Give me the folder. (Examines folder a few minutes.) Impressive work. But what is it that Decker's quoting from?
HARDLINER: He calls it "Hamlet," but it appears to be, in fact, from the "New Atlantis."
COOK: Are you sure?
HARDLINER (glancing at floor): Sure I'm sure.
ANDY: Impressive. Very.
COOK: Good work, men. (consults watch) Well, it's already after five, and you know how I feel about working after five! This is a government agency, after all! (general hilarity as they all stand up) See ya tomorrow, boys.
-- Archivist (basement@files.com), September 28, 1999
-- while we're investigating (hints@tips.uhuh), February 27, 2000.
What's happening this morning out on the bayou?
-- feed this craving please (will@take.seconds), February 28, 2000.
Hmmm - Katy - Sugarland. They're just over the hills from each other. (It's the fourth turnoff just after the third highest pass, right after the glaciers and avalanche zone on the left. You know the place - go through the mountain pass just west of Houston, right where the Katy Freeway crosses 6.) It's not too far from your house as a stealth geese fly.Just for info to those readers not from west houston. ... and most of the time you don't need chains or a 4-wheel drive to get around out there. A good Suburban (or a modified pick'em up truck) will get through most anything in the hills and mountains out there. Most people just reset reset the carburator a little for the higher elevations that side of Houston - it's a long ways done to the Ship Channnel and bayous to the east. Step on the gas a little more, downshift before going down the passes. The usual. Don't let a little TX exaggeration fool you - its not quite as bad as they make out. Hotter, drier, colder, more frozen, yes - certainly. (Course, mid-winter, if you skimp on the chains, you're likely to get sneered of the road as you slip-slide 'round all the well-prepared drivers.)
You guys know those high-altitude cooking instructions? (I don't - never read 'em.) Anyway, every time we get over my sister's house in Sugarland, ya gotta really crank up the heat just so's the coffee can boil. Up north of Katy though - there towards the big pipe factory north of the Katy mountains - right off the road to College Station and Texas M&M University - it's even more difficult. Veronica's sister's old place is even higher than the rest of the houses 'round her .... gotta stop and rest up a bit even climbing the stairs up to the front porch.
Most folks don't need the oxygen bottles and safety lines, but she keeps 'em filled anyway.
---....---...---...
Me? In a gov'ment office? Without a cup of cofee in site?
Who's this mis-impostering a gubmit official-type office anyway?
-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), February 28, 2000.
It seemed to Greybear and Rob that they had suddenly stepped into the past. The big grassy meadow and the circus tents glowing in the mid morning light were all a-swarm with activity. Four men were working to patch the canvas of the big top and wash it clean of a year's accumulation of Gulf-coast mildew. A bank of large, trailer mounted generators were noisily supplying power to the high pressure sprayers, power tools, and of course, the sound system which blared with the accordion lead of Cajun music. Another crew of workers were struggling to tighten the various ropes and lines securing the tent sides. Their two-inch-thick howsers now attached to a small four-wheel-drive Kubota tractor, instead of the elephant teamsters which had served the circus so faithfully in the past.A large moving van was parked on a temporary wooden platform to keep it from becoming irretrievably mired in the living soil just beyond the old field-stone fence. Two large black men, wearing sky-blue coveralls were unloading stacks of folding chairs, stenciled in flowing script "Center for Peace and Light". Two rows of porta-potties, one, sky-blue and one, rose-pink, had already been stationed under the canopy of ancient oaks.
Inside the old tent, whose once-again taut sides enclosed the space of a football field, the old grandstands had been cleaned of rust and re-erected around the three-ring center area. A fresh layer of sawdust had been spread on the ground, and two young ladies in rose-pink coveralls were setting up the folding chairs where the outer two rings would have been, for seating of the featured gospel choirs. The center ring was occupied by a crew of carpenters who pounded nails into a raised circular stage, which would hold a futuristic 270 degree circular podium of glass and gold metal.
The various outer tents were getting the same treatment and the old mid-way boardwalk and game booths had been resurrected to serve as an impromptu religious bookstore and gift emporium. Even the tiny orange-and-white barker's pagoda had been restored to it's former place at the midway gate, and a young man wearing a painter's mask was spreading lime over the spot where it had been previously pressed into service by the old clown.
Greybear eased the suburban in behind a large Chevy stepvan, of the style that used to be called a bread truck. Several antennae and a small TV dish sprouted from it's roof and it's flat sides were painted as mobile advertising, "KRAP Television, Channel 13. If you want the best TV has to offer, you want KRAP".
Actually, it had been Rob's idea for them to meet at the old circus, as the buzz of activity would provide some cover and safety for all parties concerned, and as he made urgent phone calls to secure the necessary materials for their plan, Greybear had made a single phone request of an old friend of his. An old friend who had spent his youth as a pesky fatherless kid around the winter camp of the great circus, befriended by a hulking concessionaire, and taught the secrets of life under a canvas sky. An old friend who now carried a gun.
As the two men walked to the abandoned animal training area, Gezelle Guilbeau was once again securing the loan of the ragged pickup truck of Antoine Hebert, dawlin'. By the time she reached the bayou meadow, all was ready.
----
Gezelle Guilbeau walked slowly up to the closed door of the large cage. The size and shape of the center ring, it had been used for performances of "taming" the ferocious circus lions and tigers. Greybear was sitting on the lone chair in the center of the cage, an expensive Halliburton aluminum briefcase at his feet.
"Well, the preacher said you'd be a big 'un, so I guess this is the place?"
"Do come in, Miss Guilbeau."
After a moment's hesitation, Gezelle swung the barred door open, eased through it, and sidestepped along the perimeter of the bars. The door silently swung closed again with a click so soft that it was only heard by a small green tree frog clinging to the bottom of the center bar.
"What's up with the lion tamer routine? I don't hafta stick my head in your mouth do I?"
Partly to reinforce her casually professional demeanor, and partly to hide her sweating palms, she stuck her open hands slightly into the rear pockets of her painted-on bluejeans. Greybear thought to himself that at least Chuck had been truthful about one thing, so far. Gezelle pointed her chin towards the shiny briefcase.
"That my money?"
Greybear rose without the use of any muscles, and lifted the briefcase onto the seat of the little chair.
"Well, actually Miss Guilbeau, we need to talk a little. It is my understanding that you witnessed my employer strangle Old Lon and place the body in the trunk of his limo. Is that correct?"
"Yeah, that's right, Jumbo. I was right over there under them trees, sleepin' off a night on the town, you know. An' I heard this yellin' and I looked up just in time to see that diamond studded preacher croak the old guy and just throw him in the trunk like a big ole bag of crawfish heads."
"Well, Miss Guilbeau, I'm afraid that is indeed, distressing news for us both."
"Whadda you mean both? I didn't choke nobody!"
Greybear carefully opened the twin latches on the briefcase,opened it and took out a small, coiled lion-tamers whip. He then set the briefcase on the ground and with his free hand, lifted the small chair by it's back. Gezelle pulled her hands out of her pockets and held them claw-like in front of her.
"Now wait a minute there, Tar-zan. I don't mind bein' tied up a little, you know , but I ain't really into whips."
"You see, Miss Guilbeau, my employer is a very rich man, but he simply can't afford to leave loose ends. And you were alone the afternoon you witnessed the crime. Just like we're alone now. That is, except for my hungry little pet."
He glanced to his right, where a tarp suddenly fell to the ground, revealing that another cage, the size of a compact car, was connected to the arena by a short, barred passageway. Inside the cage anxiously paced a large, orange, female circus cat, slightly foaming at the mouth with her anticipation. Robbie Red Socks stood with his hand on the lever which would release the cat into the larger area occupied by the two humans.
Gezelle, who had never been particularly fond of cats anyway, gave a very uncharacteristic squeal and bolted for the cage door, which had locked itself according to it's failsafe design. She spun around, pressing her back to the bars of the door, and glared, wide eyed at the huge man. Greybear had a fleeting vision of her, growling and spitting, as a few well placed lashes of his whip on her magnificent hind quarters, coerced her to jump through a flaming ring before a cheering circus crowd.
Gezelle frantically pushed her posterior against the unyielding door, as her eyes scanned the surrounding debris of broken down wagons and faded midway billboards; See the amazing rubber man. See the fat lady swallow a horseshoe. See the Cajun girl kitty treat.
"No no, this ain't happenin' big boy. You can't DO this!"
Greybear's voice was soft and fatherly, and carried a sad finality which was terrifying beyond breath.
"Have you ever seen anyone attacked by a big cat, Gezelle? The Ancient Romans thought it quite the sport. The cats somehow know they are in complete control. They take their time, and eat your living guts before they kill you with a slow bite into your skull.'
He looked pointedly at where Robbie stood still gripping the lever.
"WAIT! Now just, wait. I, I didn't really see nothin'. I mean you couldn't DRAG me down here to this mud hole. I just heard the FBI guys talkin' about the preacher's car, that's all. An' I thought I could make a quick buck, you know?"
Flecks of white spittle clung to her lips, and she unconsciously mimicked the orange cat with a panting lick of her pink tongue. Greybear nodded and Robbie threw the lever. Gezelle froze in breathless terror as the huge feline bounded down the connecting chute and rushed for the legs of the now-grinning man. Greybear staggered slightly as the cat began rub against him and purr with with the volume of a diesel taxicab.
"O.K., Ginger. O.K. girl. We'll have a nice cheeseburger for you, and have you home to momma Chris before dark, I promise."
Gezelle's knees could no longer support even her slight weight, and she slumped to the ground as another large man steps out from behind an overturned wagon. He is carrying a small dish-shaped antenna, designed for long-range eavesdropping, and wears a battery operated tape recorder on a lanyard around his neck. Greybear raises his voice to be heard above the purring.
"You get it all, Bubba?"
Yeah, ole buddy. The FBI boys said they didn't think Chuck was a serious contender after the chauffeur9s tale was told, but this should nicely take care of this particular wild card."
As the sheriff lead the wobbly girl towards his black and white Chevy Carryall, Greybear and Rob just caught their parting conversation.
"Now, Bubba Babineaux, you know I didn't REALLY hurt nobody, now did I,,,,, Big Bubba dawlin...?"
----------
On the rear of the shelf were four dusty fruit jars, their Ball Sure-Seal lids rusting in the liquid air of the bayou. Inside each was preserved the essence of Saturday night dances, of adolescent abandon, of coming of age on the banks of the bayou. They held the history of a laughing people, the heritage of uncounted generations, the clear, sparkling blood of the low country. They contained the oldest known vintage of the Famous and Original, Ignoratium Chalmet's Bayou Jiggle Juice And Aphrodisiac.
Sheryl gently lifted them from their cob-web shroud and carried them carefully over to a large yellow topped table, around which were arranged five smiling faces, belonging to a pony-tailed old cherub, a grinning, ever youthful man in red socks, a huge mountain of mirth covered with hair, and two newly-forever sweethearts.
"Well boys, ..and lady,.... .here it is. Don't set nothin on fire."
Robbie was speaking, in a voice which still shivered with the afternoon's excitement
"Yeah, well I remember the little kid who hung around the circus way back then; we called him Bubba or Bubby, but I never made the connection."
Greybear absently cracked the knuckles of his huge left hand.
"Yeah, I took a shine to the squirt and sorta kept up all these years. Even helped you get your Peace Officer's Certificate, way back when I was at the Academy, didn't I?"
Big Bubba smiled and nodded as Chuck opened one of the jars, and comically sniffed the lid.
"Ah, yassss, a fine vintaaaggge. I belieeeve it's Thursday'sss."
They took turns sipping, laughing and choking as the fruit jar made it's rounds. Finally, Junie Lejeaune, soon to be Junie Babineaux, found an opening in which to continue the conversation.
"Bubba, I knew that you never had no daddy, but I never knew you had such a wonderful circus family."
Big Bubba gripped the open fruit jar with both hands and somberly looked at each of his friends around the table, pausing to peer longest into the knowing blue eyes above the great black beard. Finally, he swiveled slightly to look directly at his soon-to-be bride.
"Junie, there's even more circus blood in me than you know. You see, even though my momma and I didn't share his name, I did know and love my daddy. And he was circus folk.
Holding the half-empty jar of vintage jiggle juice aloft above the gathered remnants of his family, his voice croaked slightly with emotion.
"Here's to the great and eternal, the magical and magnificent Yourdon Circus. And here's to my father, who the paper's like to call the mystical and perhaps mythical,.........Ed Yourdon."
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 28, 2000.
To those of you interested in the conclusion of our little drama, just qrite your name and address on the back of a $20 bill and send it to:The Old Lon Foundation
Geezerville-On-The-Bayou
The Low Country
Oh, alright! I'm only kiddin' , fer cryin out loud. Hold on to your corndogs, little Buckaroos, there's a big finale comin!
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 28, 2000.
Here's my payment, please now hurry up and deliver. I can't stand the suspence!
-- Chris (#$%^&@pond.com), February 28, 2000.
<< I can't stand the suspence! >>But twenty bucks - even if it shrunk a little - is more a suspence - even more than a tupence actually......we really need Sir Richard to get us an actual pence figure on that.
Course, if you're paying the suspence, can the rest of us ride suspence free? Freely suspended? Suspended by our freelies? (Oooooh - that sounds like it might hurt!)
-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), February 29, 2000.
OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK!Please forgive me for posting to this thread after I have merely scrolled through it (I have a "school-run" in the morning, and it's nearly 1 AM!).
But...can I be admitted to the league?
I know this may be a conflict of interest, not only because I am dedicating my book to you all, but also because Old Git's 16 oz. Dark Fruitcake--purchased in December, 1999--continues to mellow toward mummification (a first, some might argue, with regard to fruitcakes) on one of my office shelves until such time that it shall be shipped off with one of the first copies of the book.
Despite these obvious shortcomings, can I join the club? (Even though I'm lousy at writing Haiku and am thusfar only proficient at non-fiction?)
Pleaze, oh Pleaze, Pleaze, oh Pleaze, Pleaze, oh Pleaze?
:)
-- FM (vidprof@aol.com), February 29, 2000.
Hmmmphhhh!Chris quit trying to usurp my circus position as feline and avian trainer extraordinaire! And Lon, you just quit helping her to do so. I'll have you know that those cats like Me best! - If you don't believe it, just go to the first circus thread. Old Git clearly hired me to train cats, birds and assorted wild animals - although I drew the line at BigDog, Desert Dog or GreyBear.
Lon, providing you keep this in mind, I'll not sic my expert lawyers on you and will continue to look forward to the ongoing saga until the romance is sealed.
BTW, FM, all it takes to be a confirmed FRLian is to post to a FRL thread more than once. I'll look forward to a haiku, poem or interesting prose piece as your second contribution ;-)
Does anyone know where Linda Newbiebutnodummy and Bobbi got to?
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telus.net), February 29, 2000.
Wheez old-timer FRLians been marinating on deez threads real long time now -- Lon's got us in a pool o nostalgia blubbering, gittin us goin thru our kleenex stash fastern we thoughta.Wheez pokin thru zee bayou bush heeding the sighting of the animatation Diana Zee Seeress "Go look don near zee beeg tree drippin zat moss stuffy, nex tu the splot of gole nuggits."
Aye we find zometing, all right, but wheez ain't told nobody yet, tryin ta figure the next best step, an keep outta da way of all these bizzy folks flooding into zee swampy meadows.
And we know what dey nowadays jez scoff at, but it do still haunt the bayou -- the loup-garou, yes, we take due precautions!
-- Ashton & Leska in Cascadia (allaha@earthlink.net), February 29, 2000.
well i suppose 20 bucks is 1250 decimal uk pence or 3000 pre-decimal pence, yes prior to 1972 there used to be 240 pence to the pound, 12 pence to the shilling, also halfpennies and 1/4 pennies (farthings) those were the days there were farthings, halfpennies (ha'pennies), pennies, threepenny pieces, sixpences, shillings, florins (2 shillings), half a crown, (2 1/2 shillings) crowns (5 shillings) ten bob notes (10 shillings) and pound notessoon there will be euros...... i'd rather have a eunos
-- Sir Richard xchangerate wiz (richard.dale@unum.co.uk), February 29, 2000.
I am mortified beyond recompence.How COULD I have done it. I mean I almost made a mistake once before, but that is simply no excuse.
The circus cat in question, a large orange female by the name of Ginger, is indeed the property of Tricia the Canuk, and not Chris as was intimated in the last episode.
My sincere appologies to Ms. Tricia, and I promise the indiscrepancy will be remediated prior to publication.
(Chris, I am particularly appalled that you would pass yourself off as the owner of the cat in such a sneaky and underhanded way, just to hog a little more of the spotlight. Afterall, you have had several appearances already, and have been nominated for your role of "Best Supporting Supporter to a Supporting Actress". Shame on you)
Moritficationalizedly yours,
Lon Frank
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), February 29, 2000.
Apology graciously accepted, Lon. A spot of limelight should be just the thing to relieve any further hurt feelings ;-)So when is the final chapter where Lon's found alive and un-well after the butler is convicted and wrongfully executed? And what becomes of all that gold? And who gets to appear in a two-two? And what about the clown car - does it get fixed so that Rob has a vehicle to drive again? Please don't leave us hanging.
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telus.net), February 29, 2000.
The grey stubble covering his chin gave the old man's face a gaunt and haggard look even more pronounced than was usual. He sat, sprattle-legged in the corner of a tiny white room, which was coolly devoid of both decoration and furnishings. His head bowed heavily toward his chest, and his mouth hung slackly open as a thin dribble of saliva escaped onto the lapel of his garishly plaid coat. His knees were slightly bent as his feet each pointed outward in opposing directions due to the dead weight of lime-green, size 47 clown shoes. The smudged grease paint of his face was accented by swollen bluish eyelids and a pale white and slightly pock-marked nose. The complete relaxation of his repose could only be achieved by sedation, deep sleep, or death.
The only clue that his condition was not indicative of his demise, was a soft snoring, interspersed occasionally with muted whimperings, as his slumbering brain replayed already half-forgotten scenes of the last four days.
Days which had been filled with half-waking nightmares of awkwardly submissive positions and gleaming metal objects, interwoven into a slow motion ballet of corporeal violation. Of black and gleaming eyes staring unblinkingly, behind spindly fingers silently probing the various orifices of his body.
Only just lingering in the recesses of his mind, was the memory of a soft bed of meadow grass, where he had lain among his twisted legs and broken bones to await the final quietude of an imagined eternity. Where he had seen through fevered eyes the rising of his last bayou moon. A glowing golden orb between the still-bare branches of bank-side willows, and which had grown into a great and softly pulsating disk, filling the bayou meadow with a strangely electrical hum and smiling down at him with the brightness of a thousand cold suns.
The old man murmured again, exhaled, and suddenly opened the puffy lid of his left eye. As he wearily lifted sleep-deadened hands to massage his bushy brows, he slowly became aware of his surroundings. Dragging his feet closer to his hips, he supported himself with the angle of the walls, and rose to a wobbly stance. Shaking his head slightly to rid it of the remaining cob-webs of his slumber, he reached down and gingerly took inventory of his knees, then hips and elbows.
"Well I'll be dam. Good as new.'
A couple of tentative waddle-strides took him to the open front of the sterile cubicle, where a red line on the floor ran from wall to wall. Leaning out to peer beyond the side walls, his head impacted an unseen solid surface, as if a pane of totally invisible glass was standing above the red line. The old man placed his hands on the transparent surface and stretched them as high as he could reach, then down around the sides to waist level before stepping back slightly.
"Well now, don't that just boil yer crawdads. They's got me locked in somehow. 'An whoever 'they' is, they better know that this ole boy needs to drain the radiator."
Again placing his hands on the invisible surface, he leaned his face close and used all the volume he could muster.
"Ahhhhh-EEEEE! You boys better fetch me a coffee can in here!"
A sudden low growl within the cavernous recesses of his oversized striped clown trousers prompted him to add,
"An' a little wash-tub full of court bouillon wouldn't hurt nobody's feelin's none, neither. You HEAR."
As the echoes of his voice faded away, he again looked around his area of incarceration. It seemed to be a large circular room lined with other cubicles identical to the one he occupied. In the ones just, or nearly opposite his , he could make out other shapes starting to stir with interest in the sudden intrusion of noise. As they walked , crawled or slithered to the front of their individual cubicles, he could see that the creatures sharing his current situation were only recognizable from childhood nightmares; a brilliant yellow wingless bird-like creature with a metallic blue pig's snout; an opaque dumpster-sized creature with it's internal red and green organs clearly visible like some kid's science project; and a one-legged head with large watery eyes, elongated proboscis and fleshy appendages which apparently served both as ears and wings.
" Well, now whatta you know, a flyin' little elefunt. Yo! Dumbo! When's feeding time for the critters in this zoo, anyway?"
Suddenly, seamless doors opened in the floor of the room's center, and a noiseless elevated platform brought up one of the creatures from his disturbingly half-remembered nightmare. About four feet tall and covered in what appeared to be wrinkled latex, it moved with fluid grace and constantly changed from one subtle color to another, as though it were an oil sheen on the dark water beneath the bayou dock. It was accompanied by a floating dome the size of an overturned kiddie pool.
The old clown rapidly stumbled back as the creature approached the front of his cube, and passed easily through the barrier.
"Now just you hold on a minute, there Michelin boy. My leg ain't broke now, an' I just might kick yore little green,.. uh, yellow,... uh, orangish butt."
The creature carried a small futuristic etch-a-sketch which he now rapidly manipulated and held up for the old man to read.
"GreETinGs eArtH OnE. aRe You nOT ouR gUeST? WitH PePpEroNi! DO yoU nOT hEar thE FRothY-mOuTh rAVinGs oF yoUR mINd? nO? YEs! BegONE!"
Whereupon the levitating dome opened to reveal an empty Folger's coffee can and a small wash-tub of steaming catfish court bullion.
The old Clown's mouth opened and closed slowly several times but he could form neither tangible thoughts nor available words. The now pinkish creature again held up the miniature screen.
"SilENcE!!!!!! aND enjOY!! JAckaL!!! InFEDel!!! CAn yOu NOt seE tHE cIRcuS oF yoUr inSaNItY????? DO yoU nOt hEar THE bEllBoY At thE dOOr???? GooD mORniNg!!! WitH HyEnAS anD OvER eaSy!!! i hAte yOU!!!!
As the creature turned and retreated toward the platform, leaving the Star Trek room service cart, the Old clown stuck a tentative finger in the Creole delicacy and then carefully touched it to his tongue. The grease paint smile began to turn up at the edges, as he realized the apparent house rules of his little prison.
"Now just a sec, there Zircon, or Xenon, or Farfegnuggen, or whatever they call ya. You mean all's I gotta do it AST fer somethin, and you fetch it up here?"
"I mean, you wouldn't have none of them Cuba seegars, now would ya? Or a jar of cuzzin Iggie's jiggle juice, or, or, one a them girly picture magazines, huh?"
The creature stared with lidless, emotionless eyes and disappeared through the doors in the floor.
--------
Old Lon the clown pushed the armrests forward, and raised the footrest of the burgundy leather Barcalounger, took a small sip of clear liquid from a pint fruit jar, and surveyed his now double-sized cubical which was draped with orange and white canvas, and carpeted in two-inch rainbow shag. Above a round, queen sized vibrating bed hung a large portrait of a young woman, dressed in transparent flowing silk scarves and waving as she rode standing astride two magnificent white stallions.
He shivered slightly with pleasure as he swallowed, and then carefully unwrapped and lit an fragrant Conquistador El Presidente. He blew a large smoke ring, and as it expanded above his head, shot another smaller one through it's center, then continued his dissertation to his fellow travelers.
" Now, like I was sayin'. The secret to being a successful attraction, is to find a sideshow what appreciates it's geeks. I mean, remember the tattooed lady I was tellin' y'all about? The one what had Elvis on her pelvis and Conway Twitty on her left, er,..uh...breast? Well her and I hooked up with this little cat and pony show once, down on the bayou back home, an'...............
------------
- EPILOGUE -
A full blown party was in business at Sheryl Bon-bon's cafe. The day had started with the Crusade of Peace and Light, which turned out to be a phenomenal financial success for the Reverend Dr. Night Driver, and progressed into a New Orleans style street procession of clowns, jugglers, acrobats and circus animals. The joyous sounds of a restored calliope wagon accompanied the revelers as the rowdy funeral procession marched all the way into town from the bayou meadow. An empty horse-drawn hearse was filled with newly gathered meadow flowers, and brought up the rear, behind trailer cages of birds, barking seals, and a particularly ferocious orange cat.
Leading the parade, in matching sky-blue majorette costumes were Miss Mary Kay Goodbody and the equally stunning Miss Gezelle Guilbeau, who had been recently released into the custody of the pony-tailed preacher, upon his considerably elegant and persuasive plea for clemency on her behalf.
The sun was gathering courage in the east for it's assault upon the mists loitering in the shadows of newly-leaved pecans along the low bayou bottoms when the partiers began to drift home for a recharging nap before beginning their second day of bereavment. Only a single yellow topped table was still occupied in the little cafe. The interchangeable Canukian animal trainers, Chris and Trish, were finishing each other's sentences.
" Well, I guess he's really gone now,"
"But the circus is here again, he somehow saw to that."
Robby Red Socks nodded an uncharacteristically sober head, which was mimicked by the others sitting slumped in their chairs, or leaning their chins heavily upon elbows or hands folded on the scrub-worn Formica surface. The once-upon-a-time, double-breasted Ringmistress spoke the thought on every mind.
"Well, whadda we do now? The barker's told us all about the little legacy Old Lon left in his safe. Do we just divide it up among the circus family, or give it away, or what?
A veiled gypsy beauty wearing a daringly low-cut red and gold blouse, lifted a small crystal ball onto the table and stared into it.
"Velll, now darlinks, I zee a great and glowink biggsy topee. All britey and lonelyz sittink un ze meadowz, watink for ze kiddiez."
Linda still wore her gold lame' covered clown nose, and spoke with a slightly nasal impediment.
" Wood id be poddible? I mead, we're all so, so chaged dow?"
Sweet ol' Bob, who had ridden his three wheeled motorcycle with a stuffed gorilla on the back, the short distance from Lake Charlie to join his friends in this last tribute, absent middled scratched a crescent of white belly which protruded beneath his circus band tunic before he spoke.
"Well, Old Lon himself was 'poddable'. and if HE was, then anything in the whole wide world is."
The inventor of the famously successful elefunt-Zamboney rose from his chair to fill the room with iridescent light from his sequin studded tu-tu, and settled the discussion.
" Well, I think I know what we're all thinking, or not thinking, or may be thinking, or think we're thinking, and we're all right, that is if we're not all left, when we head straight."
Greybear rose to join the linguistically astute engineer, lifting the tiny unicycle which had been wedged in his considerable posterior for most of the day, and pointed to the door. The others began to jump from their seats, and following the great shaggy man-bear's cue, let out the ancestral battle cry of the once-before, and forever Great and Magnificent Yourdon Circus.
"Ahhhh-EEEEEEEEE!!!
They all stumbled out of the cafe in a strange sleepy state of euphoria. Gayla, still wearing her flesh colored riding leotard and flowing yellow Lady Godiva wig, slipped her arm through Rob's and looked at the last twinkling stars.
"Old Lon always talked to the elefunts on stormy nights about 'La Belle Etoil', the Starlight Girl. Do you really think maybe he's just he's gone looking for her at last?"
The sun was just about to clear the line of moss-bearded grandfather live oaks to the east, and the weary, hollowed-out crescent of the moon was struggling to it's bed through soft newly grey-green branches of stately Cypresses to the west.
As the little band of circus family shared the final moments of moonset engulfed only in the silence of their thoughts, they failed to see the fleeting silhouette of a lone and furtive figure, eating a slice of fruitcake, and nursing a jar of jiggle juice, which he held aloft for a brief moment, then faded into the gathering shadows of a new day on the ancient and living bayou of the low country.
FINIS
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), March 01, 2000.
Whew!Thanks all for inventing the characters I had to play with, and for your consideration while I hogged the thread.
It's 2:03 am now, and I gotta hit the sack. (I still kinda have a business to run, when I'm not too busy here) :
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), March 01, 2000.
P.P.S - And S O B, that should have been "absent-mindedly"Dang know-it-all spell checker
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), March 01, 2000.
Well, I've had almost five hours of sleep by now, and I'm being jarred awake by the frightenly sad result of last night's effort.I see that I got some long and unweidly sentences, weveral extra "an's" and "he's", and I even messed up the spelling of Etiole.
Well, that's what comes of proof reading at 2 a.m.
And who the hell can spell "farfegnuggen", anyway?
Thanks again, y'all; I hope you had as much fun as I did.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), March 01, 2000.
Diane, did the forum newbies have the dubious benefit of reading my y2k song lyrics, i think they're worth a link if you can find 'em. or perhaps some of my orginal limericksthose were the days
Ta
-- Sir richard (richard.dale@unum.co.uk), March 01, 2000.
Lon:Magnifico!! Haven't laughed so hard in ages!
'Scuze me while I go drain the radiator (Oh, my sides are achin'!)...
btw, if you or your gentle readers are interested, the deadline is midnight tonight (this is Feb. 30, aina?) for the "Rename this goofy thing" contest. Click here for details.
Gotta run now (Oh, it's on the edge!)...
-- just a bored (struggling@screenwriter.wannabe), March 01, 2000.
Now waitaminute here Lon and Tricia!First off, I wasn't never in dat Circus thread to begin with (but I was here at the begining of the FRL, I took a sabatical and you guys guys ran off with the circus while I was gone!)
Second off, I paid my limelight in greenbacks no less. Did Tricia spit out a penny for it yet? nooooo.
But, since I'm not greedy, and since I'm a good standing FRLian (although always sitting), I guess I've had enough limelight for 20 bucks (1250 uk-pence, not sus-pence), so I'll let Tricia bask in my afterglow. Robert you can freeload too. Heck you can all freeload! I feel generous today.
-- Chris still relishing her 15 minutes of fame (#$%^&@pond.com), March 01, 2000.
ROFLMAO Lon!!! I just now got to read the last installment.BRILLIANT! Absolutely FRL'ing brilliant! It was dIEteR all along ofcourse! Who else!!
And awwwwwh shucks! You made twins of me and Tricia. How sweet! *hugs and smooches Tricia* I sowwy Tricia, wish I read the original Circus threads more closely...honest, I woulda said something if I knew you were the Official Cat and Bird Trainer on the originals.
-- Chris in a rare softened-heart moment (#$%^&@pond.com), March 01, 2000.
Thanks Chris!But DiEter is actually the hero of sorts, you know. I think he arranged for his "friends" to beam up the broken, and forgotten old clown just at what may have otherwise been his last moments. Afterall, he and Old Lon were buds.
Speaking of buds, I just read Diane's farewell. I shall miss her smiling face.
So many of the old gang leaving. I hope they all remember to stop by occasionally.
Y2K may have come and gone for many of us, but friendships remain.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), March 01, 2000.
Forums come and go, even this amazing wonderful wild gem rough-hewn out of the Wild Cyber Nest -- yet friendship, true rare blossoming friendship, lives eternally in the sacred memory-record of God, Who holds Love precious in His diamond garland of noble qualities, and blesses real friendship with immortality.Thank you Lon for ending with such a high sweep of nostalgia, tenderness, colorful creativity, and true FRLian twisted genius ;^)
Already we have nursed a long quiet mourning, finding solace in the gentle comfort of the Lord's sweet recognition smiling on the unique troope journeying herein.
-- Ashton & Leska in Cascadia (allaha@earthlink.net), March 02, 2000.
Lon and everyone, do you realize this could be the end of us here?? I'm choked at the thought. A&L said it well, Lon your Circus saga was a beautiful and fitting ending to...to what? This forum? This thread? Did you have a premonition Lon?Did I have one?
I started an FRL "rest home" a few weeks ago, have tried to enlist as many FRLians as I could without advertising it here (due to my paranoia with trolls), but now I think that I should before the "plug is pulled" on us.
Those interested to remain in FRL touch, email me and I'll send you the address to join. Include your TB2K handle name so I know who you are if you post anonymously, please.
-- Chris (catsy@pond.com), March 02, 2000.
Lon, I am truly impressed! I enjoyed reading the story very much. I loved the DiETeR twist at the end. :-) Thanks for sharing your heart with us, and for all of the time you spent writing. I hope this forum stays up. It's a one of a kind place, with some really wonderful people.
-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), March 02, 2000.
Gayla,I am so glad you enjoyed the story. I truly did not mean to tie up the thread for four days, but the story just kept flowing.
I am having the same wotties as Chris. I wonder if EY is going to pull the plug on us. I'm going to try Chris's retirement home anyway, but may have to replace the old computer first.
BTW, ain't Spring grand on the Gulf Coast? I'm sitting with all the windows open, just enjoying the mocking-bird concert. Kit and I leave for a few days in San Antonio on monday, then on to Brownsville. The early flowers should be great, I'll try to pick a few for everyone here.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), March 02, 2000.
Lon, are you able to join Ed's new TB2K forum on EZboard? I hope so! The new types of forums are so loaded with new tech, many people with old computers and/or browsers are having difficulties. This forum was unique in the simple way it works. Perhaps all you need to do is upgrade to newest version of Netscape?Gayla, would you please email me? I lost your address. My address book got deleted.
-- Chris (catsy@pond.com), March 02, 2000.
Lon,That was a fitting ending to our long fruitcake strewn "bumpy" road.
Thank you for sharing your gift so eloquently. Of course... Dieter did it!
Fare thee well all you fruits 'n nutz with a slosh of rum. See you at the FRLian Rest Home... occasionally.
*Mona Lisa Smile*
Diane
'''''''''''''''
Leavin... On A Jet Plane... Dont Know When Ill Be Back Again...
-- Diane J. Squire (sacredspaces@yahoo.com), March 01, 2000
http://hv.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id=002h5yFORUM IS MOVING TO NEW HOME ON EZBOARD
-- Ed Yourdon (ed@yourdon.com), March 02, 2000
http://hv.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id=002hHU
'''''''''''''''
-- Diane J. Squire (sacredspaces@yahoo.com), March 02, 2000.
Fare well Diane.Do keep in tuch with us all once in a while. We'll even let you do that cheezy fortune teller routine (that I couldn't come close to imitating)
And if you, or anyone, knows how to reach Unk D and Greybear, I'd sure like to know that they got to read the final Circus saga.
Chris, I've been thinking of getting a new computer anyway, so this may just be the push I needed. I'll try toget one with more than 12 mini-bites of memory this time!
I plan to carry some seeds away from these threads. They have been a treasure chest of impromptu humor, poetry and talent. Maybe with a little nourishing, we'll see our new home blossom with laughs and tears and sighs, and always remind us of here.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), March 02, 2000.
Wheee-ooo! What a rollercoaster ride!First Lon has me ROFL with his surprise ending - I knew the butler did it, I just didn't know that DiEter was the butler :-)
Then I read about Diane leaving and the forum moving/closing down. Tearful farewells to all :_(
I hope to see most (all) of you at the resthome. Once a frlian, always a frlian.
-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), March 02, 2000.
We came here to play and to relax amongst friends, to dance with the muskrats, beavers, nutria and such, and to hold forth lengthy discourse on matters of great import (to someone, I"m sure of it).Such as the great Rubber Ducky raid, the Stealth Geese operations, the stealth invasion from the Great White North of Canuckianiana into the lands of Uncle Deedah. These things and more we did.
We crafted our own stealth weapons, chocolate covered Cajun fried rice, the dread Fiat Fruitcakes!, and we talked to the geese - and they listened. Here we washed a cat named Muprhy (it's true - just look at the title ), recalled my daughter's cat "Tiger", who thought he was a dawg, and yet many other things we did. Together. We crafted a circus complete with lions and tigers and bears. And too, here we read of the fate of our clown.
Now we must close this chapter of "Wunderland" and seek our fortunes elsewhere.
Thus ends the FRL Part I.
This will be #127. The end of the line. See you on the other sid(t)e.
S.O.B.
-- sweetolebob (buffgun@hotmail.com), March 02, 2000.
Lon, I found the story absolutely captivating.
-- David L (bumpkin@dnet.net), March 02, 2000.
Thanks David, I did too (obviously).I first started out to just write one little scene and let everyone react like we used to, but then the story just took off. Actually, I was just as suprised as anyone to learn Greybears identity, and the disclosure of Ed's youthful discression liked to have knocked me over.
But, I think I enjoyed the scene in the lion cage best of all. I guess the tension ws just the thing.
Anyway, I enjoyed myself so much, that I will probably attempt a sequel. I just don't know where I'll get the inspiration and characters, if not from here. And I'm not sure if such FRL foolishness will be welcome on the new site. they all seem pretty serious over there so far.
Anyway, if we're moving, I've gotta start throwing some socks and underwear in a paper bag, and grabbing my fruitcake recipies, I guess.
-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), March 02, 2000.
Lon, have a word with Diane re FRL
-- Sir Richard (richard.dale@unum.co.uk), March 03, 2000.
Uh oh,{what happened Lon, did they call you out back behind the woodshed?}
-- flora (***@__._), March 03, 2000.
