OK, I've run out of things to say.
(Just kidding. Everybody knows I've never had anything to say.)
But, seriously, folks. This is apt to be a bunch of mindless rambling. Consider yourselves fairly warned.
The clouds began to thin late in the afternoon, sunlight washing their ramparts white as it streamed through broadening patches of blue. All the wet leaves and grass and flowers shone, and birds flew singing through the bright air. Many of the camellias were still bent to face the ground. Blushing a deep pink they seemed to be concealing their shyness. A few which had been held face-up by leaves displayed shameless yellow stamens. It occurred to me that the face-down attitude of the flowers might be a mechanism to protect the pollen from being washed away by the rain. In that case, those which had been held upright by stems and leaves will receive no attention from bees. This made me wonder if flowers are excited by bees and other pollinating insects. Do they have some sort of response that might be the botanical equivalent of climax? Suddenly, I pictured a bee rolling over, lighting a cigarette and saying "Was it good for you?" That's when I stopped thinking about flowers and insects having it off.
Then I went in the house and made spaghetti. (Thanks, Italy.) After dinner, I made some tea and turned on the television for a while. It is surprising how little effort the networks put into Saturday evening programming. People who live in interesting places probably all go out on Saturday night, leaving television to little kids and the old folks who watch those endless reruns of The Lawrence Welk Show on PBS. The only thing entertaining that I could find was a Father Ted marathon on BBC America. They'll be running that all night. I might watch more of it later. I find the show only moderately amusing, but I'm struck by the likelihood that such a show could probably never be made in the United States. It makes fun of priests! Somebody would be bound to be offended by it. Angry letter would be written, boycotts would be threatened, humorless Catholics would march in protest, humorless anti-Catholics would criticize the show for not presenting at least one episode dealing forthrightly with problem of pedophile priests, and the sponsors would flee in droves. These days, unless it is confined to marginal cable channels, or targets an approved goat, American humor must be kept as bland as
But enough of that. What else can I babble about? Ah, the rain has put a damper on those various airborne substances which had provoked my allergies for the last couple of weeks. I am no longer sneezing on Sluggo's monitor, for which mercy both I and (undoubtedly) Sluggo are grateful. Of course, the first warm day will bring the pollen back, and I'll be sneezing again. Wait -- have I returned to the subject of plant sex? I was done with that! Avaunt, dirty vegetable thoughts!
Speaking of Lawrence Welk, a while ago that's what was drifting into my ears from the other room where my mother was watching it. The guy has been dead for years, now, but the show goes on and on. Tonight, they were playing music in the style of all the big bands which Welk's, the blandest of all, had outlived by decades. (Heh. Lawrence Welk and his Big Bland. I just thought of that.) I don't know exactly what it is about Welk's music that makes me wish my ears would explode, but I suspect that the accordion has a lot to do with it. The accordion can make a great many sounds, but most of them are sounds which ought not to be made by anything not in great distress. I don't mind the little relatives of the accordion, such as they use in Tango and other exotic forms of music, but the full-on Cadillac-sized American accordion always sounded to me like a set of closeted gay bagpipes.
Fortunately, the music they were playing on tonight's show didn't include much accordion. The near-recreations of big band hits from the 1930's and 1940's reminded me of those summer evenings when I was very young, and my father would play records from that era on the big Silvertone in our small living room. The Silvertone was a console radio-phonograph combination which was the most expensive piece of furniture in the house. In fact, aside from the stove and refrigerator, I think it was almost the only item in the house that had been bought new, fresh from the store. That was before I was born, and by my time, it was wearing a bit, with a few nicks and scratches in its wooden cabinet, and faded spots in its grill cloth. There were nicks and scratches in the 78 RPM records it played, too, but I always enjoyed listening to them, and the hum of the vacuum tubes as they warmed up would always bring me from wherever I had been in the house when it was turned on. Later, when the Silvertone quit working, we got an old hand-cranked portable Victrola which we used for several years. It just wasn't the same. I missed the hum of the tubes, and the glowing lights of the radio dial.
But enough of that, too. How much have I written? The client still hasn't frozen up. If I were writing something I considered important it would, I'm sure. Technology is perverse that way. Or I'm perverse in imagining that technology is perverse that way. One of those. Anyway, I want to go take a shower, and I'm tired of my mindless babbling as well, so I'm just going to post this crap and let Sluggo nap.