…and the SPAM tries to take over.

Consider it bombed.
Bad word to use these days and I suspect it triggered all sorts of alarms in the various NSA and CIA computers monitoring the Internet.

I also suspect the DHS SWAT teams will be ramming through my front door before the weekend is over.

The price of vigilance.

Anyway – Vegas was a bust and the Mayor of that dusty city gladly took my money.

I ride the plane back with someone, somewhere, who was harboring some of the most vile bacteria known to science and made sure he passed it off to me before we landed.

Bronchitis sucks.
Literally.

The truck that hit me took 5 days before it left town.

Anyway – it’s time to ask for some advice…
I’ve decided to learn to play the piano at my advanced age.

Being the center of any party has a certain allure.

I bought the digital keyboard, stand, candelabra, etc and I’m ready…
except I have no idea what to do next.

I’m pounding on the white and black things but that doesn’t seem to make music, as I understand it.

The word “exercises” seems to be in there but YouTube is not the answer.

Someone recommend a piano teacher in central Oahu to get me started.

I’m not looking for a lifelong commitment.
Just someone to get me started and check back with occasionally.

I’ll continue from there on my own.

Age is not important.
Sense of humor is.

I have the need to make it as difficult as possible and that should do it.

Every time I begin to feel like some of the people I hang around with are getting a bit too stuffy – something like this comes along.

I feel much better.

As I prepare for my yearly donation to the Las Vegas economy, I leave you with this story of gastronomical love.

I haven’t got a name for this Russian guy but I have pictures and that’s better.

He has married a pizza.

That’s weird.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

His reason is, “Your love to a person is a temporary affection, however love for food is eternal and stays with you till your last day. Pizza won’t cheat on you and won’t give you up. I love pizza sincerely”.

Hard to argue with some of that.

So he gathered his friends, dressed up a pizza box with a bride gown and lit the ceremonial flame heart.

And then they got married.
Really.

A Russian legal marriage certificate was officially presented to the guy.

He was also given a knife and fork.

I pronounce you man and pizza.
You may eat the bride.

That was a short marriage.

See you folks in 10 days.
Don’t be grumpy.

It’s crisis time at Harrington Manor.

We are 9 days from our yearly pilgrimage to the family Thanksgiving roundup on the mainland.

Followed by visiting my money in Las Vegas.

Maybe I’ll leave some more to keep it company.
Again.

I’d rather leave it here but some anal-retentive political types feel it would damage my ability to live a wholesome and upstanding life.

It’s too late for that but I have hope some form of Vegas love will still happen here.

How to you think they’ll pay for that massive over-budget rail system down the road?

Yup.
Lottery!

You wait and see.

Anyway, back to my imbroglio.

The wife is on one of her cleaning binges while balancing her obsessive need to pack a week in advance.

She’s looking at the dozen suitcases stashed in the back room – trying to decide what color she wants this time.

In the past she has solved this problem by buying new ones.
This year she apparently is trying to do things a different way.

Use what you got.
Great concept.

Being married for what seems like forever, I’ve learned how to handle this.

Stay out-of-the-way.

And when she comes to say, “How about the purple one with pink polka dots?”…

I just say, “Sounds good.”

I’ve given up on hitting the mega-bucks even though *someone* has to win it so why not me?

The problem with that bit of optimism is *someone* always seems to do it a couple of days before we arrive.

The casinos dial the slots back to “no pay” and I start paying for their new room renovations.

Hope springs eternal.

Come to think of it – this is Friday the 13th.
Yipes, no wonder I’m grumpy.