Does the name Yoknapatawpha County ring a bell?

Yesterday would have been my brother-in-law's 90th birthday if he hadn't died when he was 84. Two days before that would have been my mother-in-law's 114th birthday if she hadn't died when she was 79. Earlier this month would have been my step-sister's 80th birthday if she hadn't died when she was 62 (I think). I miss them all.

All I'm really saying, I think, is Time Marches On. One by one we shuffle off this mortal coil, we strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are heard no more, to quote from a couple of Master Will's works.

To complete that last fragment, life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

I don't know whether I'm waxing eloquent or I'm mired in depression. Possibly both. But Someone Else (not Master Will) said I give unto them eternal life and they shall never perish, so there's that.

This kind of rambling in blogging is the "stream of consciousness" style of writing that James Joyce was so fond of. It came almost automatically to Gertrude Stein, rose is a rose is a rose; a sparrow in the grass, alas; and so forth.

All but my most loyal readers might be put off by all this folderol, but if you come here, it goes with the territory.

More proof of my advancing decline, I suppose. I get more like the late, lamented Putz every day. Most of you don't know who I'm referring to. I don't actually know if he is late, but he is very much lamented in these parts, him with his odd spelling and innovative punctuation.

I must close now as the men in white coats are coming. I feel it in my bones. <<< >>> <<< >>>

My computer printer is almost human

It doesn’t have arms and legs with which to walk around the room, and I would never ask it out on a date, but it does have one very human characteristic.

It talks to me.

Just this morning, as I was printing down the latest monthly statement of my checking account from my bank, the printer began saying, “That fool, that fool, that fool.” It was clear as a bell. I can only hope it was talking to me and not about me.

But then all of a sudden it seemed to be saying, “Pat Boone, Pat Boone, Pat Boone.”

I never know what the darned thing is going to say next. Last week it was chanting “Chickamauga, Chickamauga, Chickamauga” at me and sent my mind off in the direction of the American Civil War (1861 - 1865) .

Another time I distinctly heard it say, “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” and instantly I was transported to the death of Lady Macbeth and saw Birnam Wood moving towards Dunsinane Castle.

I kid you not.

I’m sure if you listen closely, you will discover that your printer is talking to you as well.

Let me know in the comments section what you have heard your computer’s printer say lately. I’d love to know.

The only question that remains is why my computer printer would be saying “Pat Boone, Pat Boone, Pat Boone.”

I don’t remember if I have told you this before, but our paths (Pat Boone’s and mine) crossed in the mid-1950s. Our school’s Future Teachers of America club had gone to a two-day district conference on the campus of North Texas State College (now The University of North Texas) in the town of Denton. There was a dance the first evening, and live music was provided by the college music department’s jazz band. The featured singer with the band that evening was none other than Pat Boone, who was a student there.

We actually breathed the same air. Yes, we did. So did Dick Clark and I in 1958 at American Bandstand in Philadelphia. I’m pretty sure I already told you about that.

This post and a small fortune could get me a room in a good psychiatric facility.

Not that I need one.

I am not crazy as a loon. Crazy, maybe, but not crazy as a loon.

Not yet.

P.S. - I looked through my archives and discovered that I have, in fact, already told you about crossing paths with Pat Boone back in the mid-1950s in this blogpost from November 30, 2012, which you should read, because it may convince you that I actually am even crazier than a loon.

Not that you need any convincing.