Archives for the month of: February, 2012

Donna Louise here tying my shoelaces. At the bank yesterday morning, I told the young female teller, “I plan to buy new running shoes. Unofficially it’s Sadie Hawkins Day tomorrow. I gotta be ready to catch a man.”

She asked, “Can’t you chase men every day?”

“These day, yes, but…” Then I thought, never mind. I’d end up explaining Dogpatch to a woman who won’t care.

Roshi told me to return after lunch to see Mr. Yamaguchi. When I did, he took me to his private office and put a hood over my head.

I hate hoods. My claustrophobia kicks in.

Roshi said, “Meditate. The hood is your own private meditation space. In case that doesn’t work, here’s a Xanax. Be one with the darkness.” Either the meditation or the medication worked.

Someone put me in a car. We drove for awhile. The car stopped. They led me into a house and up carpeted stairs. Someone unlocked a door, pulled the hood off my head and pushed me into the room slamming the door and locking it.

I stumbled. On my way to the floor, I saw Clematis sitting in the arms of an Asian man. Ito Yamaguchi?

Neither expressed any interest in my well-being. In fact, they didn’t move. Closer examination established they’d received a neuro-toxin injection that paralyzed their muscles. Clearly their hearts were beating and they were breathing, but nothing else.

I’d seen similar states in Borneo used by the forest people. That’s a story for another time.

Where was I? Oh, yes, in a room with a couple of stiffs. The door opens. In walks someone dressed as the blue Pokemon fish, Kyogre. In Japanese he told a crew of guys in black to “dump the blue fin tuna on the bed.”

They threw ten, huge, not fresh, fish on the bed as instructed. Fish Man said, “That’s enough. Now get out. These babies’ll explode in ten minutes.” He pressed a button on his cell phone. “I need to make sure this one [he pointed at me] doesn’t try anything.”

He thought I didn’t understand.

“Would you like tea while we wait for your friends to recover?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

He turned and I attacked. Thanks to the TKO training Guthrie, my personal bodyguard for the Miss Butter Cow Competition provided, I disabled Fish Man in seconds.

I opened the mouth of a tuna. The digital display showed nine minutes before we’d have enough tuna sushi to feed the neighborhood.

(To be continued…)

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Donna Louise here readying myself to meet Mr. Yamaguchi this morning after meditation. Roshi said he’d arrange it. Clematis thinks I’m staying after the a.m. session to talk with Roshi about continuing my Zen studies.

“Donna Louise, don’t get involved with him. We know he’s a fake.”

I listened and then said, “Even though the teacher is a wolf, if he leads the student to a peaceful, nourishing pasture, it is worth the danger.”

Clematis stared at me with her mouth open. “What was that bullshit?”

It was the best I could do at 10 p.m. when we talked. It sounded all sacred and holy to me, perhaps that’s why it sounded like crap to her.

Clematis informed me that she knew where Ito was staying and had scoped out the place and the security. He’s living in a private mansion not far from my house in the “real” Hyde Park. I live in what is euphemistically referred to as “South Hyde Park.” In truth it is Troost Highlands, but no realtors wants potential buyers to hear the “Troost” word.

Troost became famous as the Avenue of Racial Divide in the city, but the neighborhoods here are mixed on both sides of the divide. “Troost” conjures up images of crime, boarded up buildings, poverty, drive-bys, she-males, sex workers, pedestrians and other interesting elements of American society that no one wants to look at except from a distance or up close if they’re enjoying the services provided by the residents.

When I worked downtown at the pole dancing manufacturing company, I took the Troost bus in the early mornings, I watched in amazement as cars and trucks from various businesses (lots of construction companies) and cars from the Golden Ghetto with a white man driving would pass my corner several times before the bus came. I’d wave and smile, trying to be an ambassador for the ‘hood.

When I told my BBFF, Bob, things were looking up in the neighborhood because people were working on their homes and Golden Ghetto people were looking for houses here. He explained things to me and suggested that I not smile and wave at passing vehicles anymore. Reluctantly I ceased my ambassorial duties.

Clematis thinks she can sneak by the guards and get inside. I cautioned against such a rash move and she broke into that song from Chorus Line, “What I Did for Love.”

As Mason Cooley said, “Romantics consider reality vulgar.”