Gingerbreads:
The 105th day of my imprisonment has nearly passed. Outside the walls of my Fortress of Solitude, I hear the dogs of melancholy, baying mournfully, mocking my ineffective attempts to regain consequence. It is this fetid condition that breaks mere mortals; it is here that I wallow in unyielding despair, dangling just above the pit of doom unsurprisingly however, I remain blithely unaffected.
It is because of this, my unflappable optimism and unlimited reserve of good, good, good, good vibrations <shout-out to Brian Wilson>, that I'm able to channel this positive energy for the benefit of mankind, rather than evil. I receive nary a one literally hundreds of inquiries each day, requesting information or (naturally) sage advice. Typically, my staff handles these missives with indifferent aplomb; lately however, my schedule is sufficiently cleared to permit me to respond to several of these myself. This exercise, commonly known as Speed's Mailbag, is a popular feature of this blather, so why not pander to the appetites of those less blessed than I? Let's dig in.
Q: Did I say something wrong? - P. Dean
A: Clearly, there is a threshold of how many sticks of butter one can eat - after which, the brain becomes like the tree around which Little Black Sambo watches the tigers run. My God, now you've got me doing it!!!!!!!!!
Q: Do you know a good lawyer? - A. Hernandez
A: Let's see: you had the house scrubbed, you tampered with the surveillance video, you lied to investigators; nope, there's no one that good.
Q: Do you think I'm a patriot? - E. Snowden
A: I suspect you already know what I think. I suspect you also know where I live, who my friends are, where I go, and what I had for breakfast. You're like Santa Claus, without any of the cheeriness.
Q: Why don't I get no [sic] respect? - J. Bieber <Editor's note: this is just one iteration of the dozens of entreaties Speed receives from the Biebs - who seems to have some dark fascination with your beloved author>
A: For the life of me, I cannot fathom why anyone wouldn't consider you a legitimate artist. We take you as seriously as we can.
Q: Did I do the right thing by coming clean? - M. Douglas
A: Oh my; sometimes the truth doesn't set you free.
That's all for now webelos; my G&T is nearly gone, and time is running out on this mailbag edition. I do want to alert you to watch for the next installment, wherein I'll once again regale you all with a review of the 2013 Killa Flotilla. I anticipate clear skies, calm seas, and yet another sighting of my mermaid - the siren who draws me inexorably toward the rocks. Until then, pax vobiscum....
Chicklets:
As this seige enters its 86th day of enforced idleness, I look to others who've travelled this path before me, for inspiration. To combat the stultifying sameness that envelopes me, as a result of my cruel attachment to the IV drip of b...o...r...e...d...o...m that accompanies my unemployment, I study the techniques of those serving extended prison terms.
I have no pets, as a result of the court order (still in force) obtained by my neighbors, when - in my youth - I admitted to pulling the wings off flys and scorching ants with a magnifying glass little interest in pets, so Alcatraz's Birdman is no role model; I have however selected another famous prisoner to emulate - Papillon. His ability to maintain sanity and a sharp mind serves as a roadmap for the balance of my incarceration, however long it may be. I've copied his clever method to combat the numbness that each day just like the last can bring; I find that breaking each 38 hour day into manageable chunks works best. Here's how it goes:
Morning - Every article I've read about my situation advises to maintain, as best as one can, the former routine. As such, I rise each morning with the dawn, PCT. That way, with most of the morning already spent, I have but a few hours to kill before entering the next pupal stage of my daily existance. After a hearty breakfast (remember, the most important meal of the day), I watch the clock hand's inexorable swing toward noon.
Afternoon - As most of you know, I'm an admirer of many cultures. So, after an expansive lunch, crafted by my own hand, I take a cue from our friends south of the border, and go to my quiet room for a well-earned siesta. Again, the beauty of this maneuver is the passage of time while I'm unconscious - thereby minimizing my suffering. This is, of course, pure genius on my part, and is a major irritation to completely fine with my house-mate.
Evening - Admittedly, this is the hardest portion to endure. While others are returning home from their achievement-laden day's activities, my commute is much more banal; I pace, aimlessly, from room to room, awaiting the dinner bell. Then, after sharing my repast in silence (another trick I learned from watching prison movies - if you say nothing, the screws won't bother you), I settle in for an evening of channel surfing and snacking. It's only then, after lights out, that I hold my Justin Bieber doll and cry myself to sleep.
It seems that I've settled nicely into this routine, to the point of slavish compliance with the above schedule. Naturally, with so much attention being paid to passing the time, I've neglected some other areas of my life that no longer seem important - like bathing and shaving. Of additional benefit, is not having to choose a different outfit each day; the one I wore all week is just fine. I suspect my Father's Day gift will be an intervention.
Later this week, I intend to try resuming activities to spur my will to live. The unfortunate cancellation and (potential) rescheduling of this year's Flotilla weighs heavily on me. I must return to the sea................. Otium sugit
Citizens:
Clearly, your beloved author is having trouble getting the engine of inspiration fired up; the foggy malaise that serves as my daily companion apparently functions as a speed restricter, insidiously attached to the Formula-1 like creative machine under my hood.
Fortunately, the taproots of innovation and resourcefullness run deep. I'm determined to not allow a few minor setbacks, speed bumps if you will, as I roar down life's highway, dampen my outlook. Enduring vicissitudes such as unemployment, expiring health care and the numbing feeling of sameness that accompanies each dawn, usually results in an armadillo-like curl into a fetal position, accompanied by repeated shrieks of "It isn't fair!"irritates me not; in fact, my stoicism in the face of circumstance that would break lesser men, is downright Churchillian.
It is because of this unflaggingly sunny disposition, and the positive karma created thereby, that my legendary generosity invariably bubbles to the surface. As I approach yet another anniversary of my birth, it occurs that others celebrate birthdays - and, if they're anything like me, the gifts they receive are coveted far more than the solicitous actions that accompany them they appreciate even the smallest gifts, and value their relationship with the giver, above all. In light of this, I'd like to offer my thoughts regarding some gifts that might be appropriate for a few notable folks, on their next birthday.
Linda Thompson - More than anything, our current, but soon to be former Mayor needs a hug. She placed a dissapointing 3rd in the recent Primary Election, losing to 2 other candidates whose primary qualifications seemed to be that they were NOT Linda Thompson. Though her spirits were initially low, she was apparently bouyed by her strong showing against the 4th candidate, whose campaign was seemingly co-managed from afar by the firm of Hazelwood & Schettino (you're on your own for these references - if you teach a man to fish, etc.).
Sergio Garcia - Holy cow, has any golfer not named Tiger Woods ever had a worse 3 weeks in the public eye? It wasn't enough to engage the aforementioned TW in a petty b-slapping episode at the TPC a few weeks back, but he's now decided to impart some fairly tone-deaf whisky wisdom regarding his rival. Sergio should receive a gift certificate to the orthodontist of his choosing. Wiring his jaw shut for a month or so would serve this career B-lister well.
<Editor's note - if more than one certificate is made available, it should be forwarded to the Governor's mansion>
Andy Dick & Wynonna Judd - 2 right shoes; enough said.
O.J. Simpson - It's amazing how this worthless POS keeps popping up on our collective radar. As he awaits the ruling on his latest appeal, and according to statements is planning a speaking tour when he's finally released, he's in desperate need for a Weight Watchers membership. I was unaware that there were buffets in prison.
Well kids, the grey veil of hopelessness once again attempts to envelope me. I've reached a point where, since legitimate, legal career options are few and far between, I muse about a life of crime. As I've often fantasized, with no base in reality as I gaze lovingly in the mirror been told I resemble Warren Beatty, I'm thinking about emulating the Barrow gang, with their high-speed chases, daring exploits and outwitting the authorities. I'll need a Bonnie though; any takers (applications currently being accepted)?
Another thought is to take the trail blazed by that paragon of deep thought, Soupy Sales; frankly, this has significant appeal for me. The guy was a genius. http://www.snopes.com/radiotv/tv/soupy1.asp
That's all for now cherished ones; stay warm. Aliquando ego ipse stupet..........
Sycophants:
Undoubtedly by this time, word has spread even to the farthest reaches of the kingdom - the Emperor has no job. These past 38 days of career stagnation have had a profound effect on even my hair's breadth from delerium rock-solid psyche.
Fortunately, I am medicated of sturdy stock and find great comfort in the panoply of menial tasks that have now become my companions. For example, rather than gather the household trash on the eve of the mid-week visit from our local refuse hauler, I now empty each room's cans every day - thereby providing me with a much-needed sense of accomplishment and boundless pride. What remained missing however, was that inspirational spark, that super-noval burst of pure genious for which I'm known (rightfully so - cue the applause).
As I tended to yet another mindless chore, idling at the corner of Nothing To Do Avenue and All The Time In The World To Do It Street, I felt a small, still voice from within - at first, it seemed but a whisper, but then grew stronger and more intelligible - saying "create, create, create"; in that moment, my vision was cast. I would henceforth use my estimable powers only for good, and would begin by reordering the only universe in which I am god <Editor's note: small g> - my pond.
Taking my cue from the Good Book, it seemed sensible to perform this transformational miracle using the template provided therein. I mean, why reinvent the wheel? The following is an account of the past 7 days:
Day 1 - The western end of my pond was formless and empty - darkness was over the surface. I separated the weeds and the rocks, preparing the place; I saw that it was good.
Day 2 - I dug a pit in which to place the cistern which would hold back the waters. The pit was in darkness; I created a channel to drain the water and allow in the light.
Day 3 - The land around the pit was ready to receive its inhabitants - the bricks and stones from which the waters would spring forth. I began to place them there, each in its own location. This lasted from morning to evening.
Day 4 - The darkness of the ground was joined by the lightness of the sand, upon which more bricks of different sizes, each according to its kind, were placed. The formless void became somewhat recognizable.
Day 5 - The cistern was placed, and the pump that would generate the life-giving nature to this garden was acquired and installed. The vulcanized liner was inserted, in the image of the trench in which it lay, channeling the flowing waters to and from the pond.
Day 6 - The placement of the stones was completed, and power was supplied to the pump. The waters began to swirl and cycle throughout this biological wonder. I saw all that I had made, and it was very good. 
Day 7 - I rested.
Remember cowgirls, to whom much is given, much is expected; my creation in a small slice of the northeast corner of the Brisco compound portends greater things. I'm obviously destined to slip the icy bonds of tedium - and when I do, my demons will be the first to know.
Mercede sua magnitudo est.......
Worker Bees:
Well, it's been nearly a month since my career did a spot-on impersonation of the Challenger disaster. Since then, I've spent most of my time considering the implausable circumstance in which I find myself. Though contemplative thought is an obvious byproduct of a superior intellect, it remains nonetheless a fairly unmarketable skill.
Of coeval vicissitude, is the stark reality that the market for older folks, nearing the end of their useful life well-seasoned mensas, with an inordinate gift for hyperbolic rhetoric, is a narrow one indeed. As such, my efforts to re-employ myself have, to this point, engendered results that might charitably be labled dismal. I also bear the burdon of maintaining a certain joie de vivre, that my demons have come to expect. It ain't easy bein' me - this is harder than it looks.
Thankfully, the gods have gifted me with an abundance of pomposity ingenuity and self-reliance. This is evidenced by my decision to pursue a different course. It seems that traditional career paths do not present the opportunities necessary to support my self-indulgent lifestyle; therefore, I shall pursue non-traditional avenues to acquire gainful employment. Having divined such, I feel compelled to share my epiphany with you, my ardent supporters and lucky subscribers.
With the past four weeks to guide me, the following represents those career paths which I believe hold for me, the most promise - and my reasoning for each:
* Proofreader - Since most days begin with a laser-like scan of the daily paper, it's an uncommon occurance if at least a half-dozen errors/typos aren't discovered. I cannot imagine that the good folks who publish our local pulp aren't getting down on their hands and knees - praying for someone to rescue them from their fecklesness.
* Stalker - It's apparent that I am completely unnoticable; what other explanation could account for the consistent indifference with which my multiple resume/application submissions are met? I could simply follow folks around (with no malice intended, I assure you) and remain unrecognized - regardless of the length of the assignment.
* Plastic Bag In The Tree Collector - This is a perfect springtime assignment. My daily wanderings reveal a plethora of these pesky polymers; so, rather than join the raucous rabble in their useless complaints about this mischief of Mother Nature, I'd actually do something about it. Imagine a world without plastic grocery bags hung up in the branches of trees - you're welcome!
Consider this the most unorthodox resume you've ever seen. My salary requirements are quite negotiable; however, a generous benefits package remains a birthright. Serious inquiries only......
Taxpayers:
As some of you know, but most do not, I've been involuntarily freed from the bonds of the workaday world; oddly, my career path became self-immolating. I was promoted from Whipping Boy, to Scapegoat, then finally to Sacrificial Lamb.
Fear not though dear readers, I shan't degrade this high-minded literary space with acridity; my superior intellect dispenses with such course, urbane indulgence. Rather, I shall remain unfailingly positive, seeking only the higher purposes for which I am destined.
To that end, it seems appropriate to utilize this neck-jolting foray into the abyss unsettling turn of events as inspiration for yet another edition of Speed's Top 10 - the subject of our examination today is "Top 10 Benefits of Unemployment" - here we go.
10. No more pesky calculating of remaining Vacation Leave.
9. Lunches at home - the economic benefit of monotony.
8. Fantasy office politics - you never lose!
7. Sweatpants are sooo much more comfortable than dress slacks.
6. Reviving that long-dormant relationship with your mail carrier.
5. Always available for daylight liaisons - hey, it could happen!
4. The liberation of no more meetings.
3. Gaining an appreciation for just how vacuous smart those women on The View really are.
2. No stressing over impending performance review.
1. Rediscovering the joy of poring over the Classified section.
It is my fond hope that my Speed Demons will recognize the example I've set; it's all about the lemonade, kids. Stay warm.....
Pikins:
Unplug the defibrillators, cork your anxiety; I have returned from my second home - a mere 8 degrees north of the equator - where both the weather and the reception were warm. This trip to Sierra Leone had, as its centerpiece, the dedication of the church built last year, in the village of Maboleh. However, the rest of the trip was not without excitement; permit me to regale you. ***Editor's warning: Although most of the snark has been excised from the following tome, this is a long one!***
We flew from Washington, DC to London, England on Tuesday, 2/26. Due to quirks in our flight schedules, we took advantage of a 16 hour layover and set off to explore The Big Smoke. Whooshing through the Tube at an impressive rate of speed, we soon found ourselves smack dab in front of Big Ben (it really is big). We saw that Ferris wheel thing (The Big Eye) that, frankly, would seem more at home at the Texas State Fair; I'm still not sure why it's there.
After a bit of a walk, we explored Westminster Abbey and were blown away by the history, architecture and impressive listing of its long-decomposed tenants. After a lunch of fish & chips, we made our way to Buckingham Palace, intent on visiting the Royals. Sadly, their calendar was full and we had to be content with meandering about the outer walls, with the rest of the rabble. After more brisk sight-seeing, we tubed our way back to Heathrow, to await our late-night flight to Sierra Leone.
I expected that our early-morning arrival at Lungi airport, situated near the Atlantic Ocean, just across the bay from the country's capital, Freetown, would be a raucous affair, replete with an endless stream of wanna-be baggage handlers; I was not disappointed. However this time, unlike previous visits, we did not take the ferry into Freetown to stay. Instead, we had arranged for a local boat owner to take our small party (6 of us, plus our driver - Edison) to Bunce Island, located upriver in Freetown Bay. Bunce Island has enormous historical and sociological import; it was used for years as one of the main points of embarkation for slave ships headed to the Colonies. School yourselves: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bunce_Island
Once there, we spent an hour or so checking out the ruins of the buildings that once housed hundreds at a time, 17th century cannons simply lying on the ground - still in a defensive posture, pointed out to sea - and visiting the abandoned cemeteries for both the whites and blacks that died on the island. This was at once an awesome and sobering experience; I feel privileged to have seen this.
It was on our return trip to the dock, that trouble ensued. Approximately a mile from completing our voyage, the boat ran out of gas. I'll spare you my usual rantings; suffice it to say, we were actually "dead in the water". Our intrepid Skipper seemed flummoxed, but eventually summoned enough reason to call for help on his cell phone. He calmly assured us that help was on the way - should be no more than 15 minutes or so. This proved to be the first of many overly-optimistic assessments made during our time in country. All the while, his 1st (and only) mate Gilligan, sprang into action and attempted to paddle us home, with what appeared to be a car's license plate holder. While he earned kudos for the effort, his actions had no positive effect, apart from entertainment.
At this juncture, a mutinous spirit swept the craft, and we passengers took matters into our own hands by waving down a passing fishing boat. After some initial wrangling over the price they'd charge to tow us in (started at 400,000 Leones <a little less than $100>, ended at 50,000 Leones <a little over $10>), we lashed ourselves to their boat and hung on! The ride back was a spray-filled event, that also gave the locals an opportunity to show off their morning's catch. After finally rendezvousing with the rescue party summoned an hour or so earlier, we limped back in to shore. We immediately set off by car for Makeni, and our home for the next 5 nights, the Women Of Hope guest house. Arriving in late afternoon, we ate and settled in for a nice warm night's sleep.
Our time in Makeni, a large city about 7 miles from our village of Maboleh, was spent mostly in activities related to the village's primary school, and the dedication of the church we built last year. Our first & second day in the village was spent serving as dignitaries for the primary school's All Sports Day. This is a sort of all-school Olympics (obviously scaled back from the wretched excess the real Olympics have become).Typical sporting events such as distance races, relays & sack races dotted the program; of additional interest were the "non-traditional" events, such as spoon/egg racing, blowing up the balloon racing, knowing your numbers racing, and a mind-blowing version of that well-known standard Musical Chairs. The event that topped off the proceedings was the Dance-Contest. The best, and most charitable way to describe this is to think Showgirls meets Sesame Street - OMG!!!
The two day event was a competition between 4 teams, or Houses. The Red House, the Green House, the Blue House & the Yellow House were pitted against one another, with each of the 4 male missionaries assigned to a particular house. Your author was assigned to the Green House - "Mighty Conteh House", and when all the results were tallied (and, to the surprise of no one) the Green House prevailed! Pictured is the celebratory winner's trophy and house-master hoist.
Sunday dawned, and the centerpiece of our trip was at hand - the dedication of the church we built in the village last year. Long-time readers will remember the history of this project - we razed a decaying mud-block church built in 1979 and replaced it with a cement-block structure designed to serve that village and the surrounding community for years to come. Dignitaries from both the United Methodist Church and tribal hierarchy were festooned in their finest regalia. The nearly 4 hour service was comprised of much singing, dancing, speech making and collection taking (5 collections in all); but honestly, the time flew, as both the celebratory mood and sweat flowed like a river.
After the ceremony, we joined with all in attendance for a feast prepared by the women of the church. We had funded this event, and portions of rice, chicken, fish and heaven knows what other hoofed, beaked or finned delicacies were prepared for the nearly 500 celebrants.
The next day, the team split up to accomplish a variety of tasks, all related to the secondary school in Makeni, where the students we sponsor from the village, attend classes. One team member spent the day at the school, and actually assisted with teaching a class; others toured the facility, then went into town to purchase supplies (chalk, slates, notebooks, etc.) for the students there. My life-partner Bearcat & I took the opportunity to scale Wusum - a mountain situated near the secondary school. Wusum is one of two mountains overlooking the city of Makeni, the other is Menne; Wusum & Menne means Father & Mother, in the local language of Temne. We had climbed Menne in 2011, so only the challenge of Wusum remained.
I shan't provide a step-by-step account of our ascent; suffice it to say, it was really freakin' hard. The school principal provided us with a guide, telling us that he would take us up the mountain "the easy way" <second overly optimistic assessment alert>. Apparently the English word easy, means difficult in Temne. About an hour and a half after beginning our ascent, I summited. Samuel, the teacher that had been selected to guide us up the mountain, said we were the oldest Oportos (whites) to have scaled the mountain. It was no salve to my ego to notice that nearly a dozen schoolboys, many barefooted, joined our trek, clambering about like goats, while I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. All hardship was forgotten when we reached the peak, and after a brief rest atop Wusum, we descended our lofty perch.
The next day and a half are a blur, owing to my exhaustion from the climb. We returned to the village, where Pastor Dave conducted a men's bible study, we presented a suitcase full of medical supplies to the nurse at the government clinic in the village, and following another warm night's sleep, presented gifts and stipends to the teachers at the primary school in the village.
We next travelled to Bo, the second largest city in Sierra Leone, where we stayed one night at the Missionary Training Center. The next day, we drove to Kenema, where the UMC Annual Conference was set to begin. Pastor Dave addressed the gathering of pastors and Evangelists, and after receiving a blessing for safe travel, we loaded up for the 5 hour drive back to Lungi - to stay the night and prepare for our flight out the next morning.
On Thursday, our driver Edison dropped us at the airport, where I endured a grilling and shake down that has sadly become old-hat there. Surviving that ordeal, I settled into our silver tube for the 6 hour flight to London. Again owing to an odd flight schedule, we were forced to spend the night at a nearby hotel, where we enjoyed our first air conditioning, a shower that was more than a cold trickle, and a bed that didn't have to be checked for critters before crawling in. On Friday morning, we returned to Heathrow and boarded another cylinder for the 7 hour flight to Dulles, where we were met by friendly angels and whisked homeward. The 38 hours of travel is a killer, but at that point, I was just glad to be back.
Obviously, this is a condensed version of events; I understand this is a shock to my regular readers, but circumstances have conspired to rob me of both my memory and inspiration. More on that next time............
The 105th day of my imprisonment has nearly passed. Outside the walls of my Fortress of Solitude, I hear the dogs of melancholy, baying mournfully, mocking my ineffective attempts to regain consequence. It is this fetid condition that breaks mere mortals; 
That's all for now webelos; my G&T is nearly gone, and time is running out on this mailbag edition. I do want to alert you to watch for the next installment, wherein I'll once again regale you all with a review of the 2013 Killa Flotilla. I anticipate clear skies, calm seas, and yet another sighting of my mermaid - the siren who draws me inexorably toward the rocks. Until then, pax vobiscum....
