Never Ever B4 seen photos of a Goldwing

[sunnbobb]

Ha! How does the forty creek compare to Crown?

[Patriccio]

It's 11:30 already, & I'm only on my first cuppa Joe.

I talked a darn good talk yesterday when it came to viewing the "super blue blood moon." I said to anyone who would listen to my blather, "Oh yea, I'll be there peering up at the sky. I've got my planisphere, & if the moon isn't too bright I'll be checking out all the stars." Then after a couple of beers & some smooth whiskey, I was ready to hit the sack. And I did. I was still thinking the think as I set the alarm clock for my favorite 11:00 a.m. "No way I'm getting up at four A. M. to view something that has probably appeared, what? a million times in four billion years? I can't do that math--too early.

But Mother Nature had something in store for me. Ya know, beer & whiskey have to wend their way through the GI tract & into all those cracks & crevices & worms & tubes & then it ends up in the male bladder. And the male bladder doesn't really like to feel full, so it wakes the owner up. Mother Nature told my bladder to smack the inside of my brain at exactly four o'clock in the morning. Mother Nature made full moon light flood the master bedroom, plenty of light to stumble over to the bathroom. "Grrrr, somebody doesn't like me. I might as well peek up at the moon." The eclipse had just started, bladder had just emptied, no coyotes in the yard, outside beckoned. With my 100% cotton jammies & 100% cotton bathrobe & my polyester blend winterized motorcycle jacket, I stepped into the west yard to view this phenomenon.
Just then my son walked around the corner of the condo into the front yard. He too had the bladder condition & decided to view the moon. Gosh, what a coincidence, right Mother Nature?

For an hour we stood & watched the eclipse. The shadow slowing overcame the face of the moon. (I was wishing for some background music, Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd, perhaps.) Then the reddish tint blended over the moon. From our stance I could still spot Ursa Major, just a bit of Ursa Minor, & to the west Gemini's two brightest stars shone.

My son said, "I've got to get up for school in twenty minutes. I might as well say up & watch for a bit." And we did, father & son, in the morning chill, quietly.

[CYBORG]

sweet

[5speed]

Ha! How does the forty creek compare to Crown?

I'm not a whiskey connoisseur so I don't think I can explain it..
It just taste better in my humble opinion.

[Sugs]

Cool, I caught the tail end of it about 6:30 this morning.

[Sundance]

"There's a kind of hush...all over the world, tonight..." Most excellent spiel Pattriccio!

[wheeliedog]

Thanks Patriccio, once again.

You never fail to entertain, and impress us with your weird and wacky take on the world

[sgwilly]

I haven't looked at this thread for 3 or 4 years because, seriously - how many new old photos could there be? And then I find out it's masquerading as a poetry slam!

Nice.

[Beetleman]

You would think since the moon is really an alien space obsuvatory that they could make a super blue blood moon eclipse when ever they wanted, maybe a little earlier in the evening. (Nice try fooling me government spooks!)

[Patriccio]

P2280645.JPG (84.5 KiB) Viewed 179 times

I have a new member in the nursery.

[Patriccio]

I accessed the whiskey web sites to see where my palate stood w/ the pros & amatures. They're all nuts. There's no rose, or honeysuckle, or peat, or bog or slag or acorn. When I sniff the stuff, there's whiskey. When I taste it, there's whiskey. No hint of this or that. Maybe it's the Irish in me. There's a full moon, so I won't be able to sleep until dawn. Lupus Patriccio, that's what I am. Instead of howling, I guess I can type & sip.

Tonight after I closed that albatross-around-my-neck pizzeria, I climbed onto the Puppy, let it warm up, & on the way home just let it rip through a rather chilly canyon on the way home. This bike is so comfortable it's like I've grown a clone of myself between my legs.
Too weird? OK, I almost retract the above statement.

When I sip the Dalwhinnie, I am zoomed back to 1961. Whiskey is magical, so you can go anywhere & visit any time zone. After a couple of sips, there I was back at Oakwood Elementary School in Pgh, Pa. Sixty one--I was in first grade, & my teacher was Ms. McGwaine. But the whiskey doesn't take me right to Ms. McGwaine; it takes me right to Mr. Graham, the janitor. Mr. Graham was about one hundred six years old in 1961, & he probably had the easiest job in the universe: He was the One And Only Janitor of a Four Room Elementary School. He was long & lean, built like a stick bug, & the veins on his arms were like purple worm ropes. He spent hours upon hours running that giant dust mop along the marble floor in the big marble-floored foyer. The dust mop was shaped like a big dead sheep dog on a stick, & Mr. Graham & his bushy mustachio, his cap, his uniform spent hours whisking dust from the paths of all the children. He smelled like whiskey.

Standard protocol in those days was to lead all the children down to the bathrooms at the same time. Group relief, I guess. According to Education Code at the time, all the bladders of children fill to capacity at the very same time. And so the teachers in that building would lead all the children into the hallway & let them clappity-clap down the stairs to the bathrooms. Kindergartners first; then we proceed through all the grades up to sixth. Ten o'clock sharp the process started.

My second most wonderful teacher Ms. McGwain (second because my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Woodburn was Queen Teacher of the Teaching Universe), knew that all childrens' bladders did not fill to capacity at the same time. I was tall for a first grader, & I sat at the rear of the row. To my left was the cloak room, the place where all the coats & lunch pails & galoshes were stowed in the winter. Ms. McGwain would occasionally adjust her hose & garter belts in the cloak room. Boyz, in the olden days there were seams along the posterior section of womens' silk hose (stockings).

Often I caught a glimpse of the adjustment process, & to this day I have an appreciation of straight lines on just about anything female. (Curving lines also, of course.)

Ms. McGwaine would let me venture down into the bowels of the school all by myself. I would dart straight down to Mr. Graham's lair. He was in charge of the coal-fired furnace! I would whip around a corner into the furnace room, & there would be Mr. Graham shoveling coal through the giant double doors of the furnace. It could be fifteen degrees outside, & Mr. Graham would be shoveling coal in his sleeveless undershirt. Iron grip, sinews of steel. Coal shovels are wide & sturdy. The old man shoveled mound after mound of coal into the furnace. He checked the dials, rested, shoveled, checked the dials--and then he would see me watching him from the doorway. The room blazed into the millions of degrees because the double doors were open. Fire mesmerized me. Mr. Graham would hold out the shovel, and I would scrape a quarter shovel-full of coal from the great mound & toss it into the oven. I'd get five or six donations into the oven before Mr. Graham would say "Good job. Go now."

Truly, there is nothing better than a wonderful fifteen-year-old scotch to help resuscitate fond memories.

[5speed]

to summarize
whiskey smells and taste like whiskey. I agree
Ms McGwaine had very nice legs.
Mr Graham is the type of man you would want to have a beer with and listen to his life stories.

[toolbox]

I have a great appreciation for a good story. You sir, have my appreciation.

[Patriccio]

Thanks to all who read this. It turns out this build blog is probably way more productive than a $200 an hour therapist.
5speed, we'll be looking for a review of the Glen Breton Single Malt, sir.
toolbox, you are certainly welcome. Perhaps I can delve deeper into my psyche for another good story.

Gosh, you meet the nicest people at NGWClub.com!

[Rat]

Back at you ....

Gord