I believe it's The Washington Post that once a year runs a contest asking readers to take a word, make some small change to it and then redefine it. There's also a recently published book with hundreds of these "new" words (can't really call them neologisms, I suppose, maybe "newlogisms"?), but I don't remember the title. Anyway, I tried my hand at it a while back and came up with around four dozen, some of which I'm posting today, others at another time. And, better yet, send me yours! I'd love to post them. Also this week, an Edward Lear nonsense poem (did he ever write anything but nonsense?), including a link to a great EL site plus a New Yorker clipping.

MY LIST

sincentive: encouragement to break any of the ten commandments

liebrary: repository for politicians' speeches

obitchuary: death notice for a female dog

Pulletzer Prize: for the best book written by a chicken

pretaliation: hitting back first

liquorice: the perfect combo of candy's dandy but liquor's quicker (Thanx, Ogden!)

younique: yes! you are special!

urinade: a poor substitute for Gatorade

sinvitation: a request to be adulterous

toylet: what Barbie uses

Mrs. Sissippi: a married state

copulite: foreplay only

pastorize: baptism in boiling water

origummi: how to make cranes from gummi bears

cattlelac: a luxury cow

Genesisn't: the rebuttal

procrastina - never mind, I'll finish it later


This Edward Lear poem is from his nonsense story "The History of the Seven Families of the Lake Pipple-Popple".

Here's a link to it and lots more of his wonderful whimsy:

http://www.nonsenselit.org/Lear/ns/pp.html • Saturday

 

Lettuce! O Lettuce!

Let us, O let us,

O lettuce leaves.

O let us leave this tree

And eat lettuce,

O let us, lettuce leaves!


Finally, here's a clipping from a New Yorker magazine of many years ago:

A Christmasy piece of flash fiction this week, a doodle, some whimsy and some humor. And, yes, I keep trying out new templates for the blog. Bear with me—sooner or later I'll settle on one. For a while, anyway.


I wrote this flash fiction piece as part of a writing exercise. The idea was to write several stories with the theme of "Where were you last night?" I'll probably share some of the others down the road.

“Where were you last night?” Her voice slurred the words, ran them together,mangled them so they came out "Wawuryousnight?" He felt torn. He hated her for the drinking, for the lack of self control. He hated to be around her when she was like this. He glanced at the bottle of sloe gin on the table, noted it was almost empty. But he also understood, even though he didn’t want to because it was in good measure due to him and his job that she drank. He knew she hated the forced isolation, the extreme weather (it was always freezing here and she was born and raised in Miami, for Chrissake!)  There were no other women around, just the male workers and she had nothing in common with them.

“It was December 24^th, dear, remember? I was delivering toys.” Santa sighed.

*      *       *       *       *

"If Only I Could Draw!"

Cartoon #31: Setting: produce section of a supermarket. Scene: display of lettuce with sign that says “Iceberg Lettuce”. Disappearing stern-first among the heads of iceberg lettuce is a small model of a passenger liner with “Titanic” on the bow.

Cartoon #42: A sailor has climbed the rigging up to the crow’s nest on a three-masted sailing ship. He looks in and yells down to the captain, watching from below, “There’s a bunch of crows in here!”

THE WORLD SHOULD LAST TILL THE BEER IS GONE

Okay, right up front, I'll say it: I'm a beer snob. First, I don't drink pseudo-beers (you know the ones I mean—Bud, Miller, Coors, etc.) or the faux-lite cousins (Bud Lite, Miller Lite, Coors Lite, etc. lite). Give me a good import or, even better, a good US micro-brew, any time. Any brewery that goes for quality over quantity is going to brew not just drinkable beers and ales, pilsners and lagers, but very good ones.

Second, I want my beer in a glass. Not a bottle. Not a can. (Putting beer in a can is like putting a Rolls Royce in a demolition derby.) Pouring a beer down the side of a glass releases aroma and flavor, making the beer still more enjoyable.

Third, I want my beer at the correct temperature. "Ice cold" beer leaves me cold. Cold subdues the flavor. A beer served at around 57º, give or take a few, has more flavor than the same beer served straight from the fridge. That means I have two choices to get my beer to the correct temperature. One is to remove it from the fridge half an hour or so ahead of when I want to drink it (not always possible) or (brace yourself, this will probably come as a shock), I can microwave it. Yes, microwave it. Pour the beer into a glass, nuke it at full power for 10-15 seconds, and presto! it's at the right temperature. Doesn't affect the flavor, there's no foaming, no loss of carbonation.  

The following bits of beer info are from http://hubpages.com/hub/beertriv.

    • Beer is the second most popular beverage in the world, coming in behind tea.

     • Pabst Beer is now called Pabst Blue Ribbon beer because it was the first beer to win a  

       blue ribbon at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893.

    • To get rid of the foam at the top of beer (the head), stick your fingers in it. (But do it to your glass only!)

    • Monks brewing beer in the Middle Ages were allowed to drink five quarts of beer a day. (I would have been a monk.)

    • Bavaria still defines beer as a staple food.

    • Tossing salted peanuts in a glass of beer makes the peanuts dance

    • Samuel Adams Triple Bock is the strongest beer in the world with 17% alcohol by volume.                 

    • In Japan, beer is sold in vending machines, by street vendors and in the train stations.

    • To keep your beer glass or mug from sticking to your bar napkin, sprinkle a little salt on the      napkin before you set your glass down.

    • The Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock because of beer. They had planned to sail further south to a warm climate, but had run out of beer on the journey. (Smart, those pilgrims!)

         We attempt to find truth through Art, but Art is a guidepost, not a destination. When Art genuinely touches us, we know we're on the right path. Truth lies, if not ahead, then at least somewhere along the path we currently tread and therein lie the beauty and power of Art. Art helps us to discover and know ourselves and because "ourselves" is a collective term, expressing universality, we tap into the collective love and goodness of all of us who are "ourselves". A life without Art is a life without life.

*    *    *    *    *

 In a moment Truth would come flouncing through, throwing open wide the hinged saloon-style doors (you know the ones, they always hit you in the ass because you forget to move through them quickly – it’s so embarrassing) and come sashaying over to one of the round tables, probably the one with a leg just a tad bit shorter than the others so that people were constantly taking their napkin or a a matchbook or a business card or once even a five  dollar bill, folding it and putting it under the short leg to rebalance the table. One time a man representing everything good and wholesome in the little town had put a matchbook under the wrong leg and drinks went sliding downhill. It made the morning paper next morning.

Yes. Truth. Truth liked flouncing almost as much as Truth liked sashaying. Truth had once tried to flounce and sahsay at the same time but decided people wouldn’t understand. It was too much like mixing  Crest and Baco-Bits.

Anyway, truth flounced through the hinged saloon–style doors (but we’ve been through all that), sashayed to the table and whoomphed into a chair. There was only silence as the piano rinky-tinked away in the corner, kind of like little Jesus away in a manger or the dog in the manger maybe. Truth had something to announce, something important, and all who were there that day knew it, expected it, waited for it, savored the moments leading up to it, fondly recalled it in the remaining days of their lives. It was not the kind of announcement that would change a man’s life, change the town, or even cause anyone to change their mind. It was, however, a nice change.

“I have an announcement,” pontificated Truth (Truth did so admire the Pope!) and I want you to hear it. Otherwise, why would I make it?” Truth waited  to see if anyone would laugh. No one did. “Mange!” was the first word out of Truth’s mouth, followed by “Manger!” and finally, “Mangere!” Silence while the import of these three words sank in. Mange. Manger. Mangere. Two in English, one in Italian, the latter, perhaps,  no, almost certainly spoken at one time by the Pope himself.

Clearly, the connection between Mange and Manger was crystal clear. But no one had ever made the next obvious connective leap to Mangere, Italian for “eat.” Now there were three. Now it was complete.

Truth stood. Truth turned. Truth waved. Truth was finished. Truth moseyed this time, moseyed to the hinged saloon-style doors, flung them open and strutted into the street, embarrassed when the saloon-style doors hit Truth in the ass. The piano continued to rinky-tink and silence continued golden.

Truth was happy. And that’s the Truth.

"A good many young writers make the mistake of enclosing a stamped, 

self-addressed envelope, big enough for the manuscript to come back in. 

This is too much of a temptation for the editor.”

Ring Lardner

            Many of us write. Some of us, at best, are mediocre, turning out prose with all the zip and bounce of a bowl of gruel. Others of us are able to rise above that, writing stories and essays that are at least acceptable, occasionally rising to the level of very good. A few  (and I no longer say “of us”) rise to great heights, writing in ways that make the rest of us (there it is!) shake our heads in envy, frustration and admiration. This kind of writing is a gift, but it’s a gift that these writers have worked at  cultivating, usually for many years. Pinpointing precisely what it is that makes these writers so very good is impossible. For one thing, their talents are uniquely different, one from another. For another, there are so many ways in which writing can rise to the level of greatness.

             Some years ago I read Adam Bede by George Eliot, followed by Zora Neal Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God and Dust Tracks on a Road. In these three novels I found at least one element that helps boos a writer from the merely “good” category to “great,” and that’s spice.

As an example, a good cook regularly turns out tasty, appetizing dishes; occasionally she’ll put a little something different in her stew or casserole, something unexpected that makes the diner sit up and say, “This is great!” Great writers do the same thing. Here are some “spices” served up by Eliot and Hurston. Enjoy:

From Adam Bede:

• Adam’s father has drowned in the creek and his mother is saying, “But if thy feyther had lived, he’d ne’er ha’ wanted me to go to make room for another, for he could no more ha’ done wi’out me nor one side o’ the scissors can do wi’out th’ other.”

            • From Mrs. Poyser, the wife of a tenant farmer: “Ay, it’s ill livin’ in a hen-roost for them as doesn’t like fleas.”

            • Mrs. Poyser, talking about the fuss made over someone after they’ve died: “It ‘ud be better if folks ‘ud make much on us beforehand, I’stid o’ beginnin’ when we’re gone. It’s but little good you’ll do a-watering last year’s crop.”

            • Mr. Poyser has just come into the house to find the old Squire, his landlord, talking with Mrs. Poyser. “As he stood, red, rotund and radiant, before the small wiry, cool old gentleman, he looked like a prize apple beside a withered crab.”

            • Mr. Poyser entered “ . . . warm and coatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind him, looking as much like him as two small elephants are like a large one.”

            • Lisbeth, Adam’s mother, telling a young woman (Dinah) why she’d be better off marrying Adam instead of his brother, Seth, who is much like her: “The runnin’ brook isna athirst for th’ rain.”

            • And finally: “Mr. Craig was not above talking politics occasionally, though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight than on specific information. He saw so far beyond the mere facts of a case that really it was superfluous to know them.”

Zora Neal Hurston – from Their Eyes Were Watching God

She throwed de door wide open and stood dere, lookin’ outa her eyes and her face. Look lak she been livin’ through a hundred years in January without one day of Spring.

You, behind a plow!? You ain’t got no mo’ business wid uh plow than uh hog is got with uh holiday!

You cannot have no town without some land to build it on. Y’all ain’t got enough here to cuss a cat on without getting yo mouf full of fur.

An her with her hair jus’ as close to her head as ninety-nine is to a hundred.

You don’t know dat woman uh mine. She got ninety-nine rows of jaw teeth and git her good and mad, she’ll wade through solid rock up to her hip pockets.

From Dust Tracks on a Road

Like snowflakes, they get that same look from being so plentiful and falling so close together.

I felt as timid as an egg without a shell.

A few posts back I lamented my inability to draw (or, at least, to draw something on purpose). I have, however, come up with dozens of ideas for great cartoons. Here are a couple of more.

Cartoon #18: Smokey the Bear is sitting on a couch in his living room. Across from him sits his wife who’s saying, “Smokey, I want you to stop fighting fires with your bear hands!”

Cartoon #22: A dog being walked by its owner is commenting to another dog on the other side of a fence, “Yep, I’ve got a new leash on life.”

This must be why we don't keep cows
as indoor pets.

  How is that little children are so intelligent and men are so stupid? 

It must be education that does it.

            Alexandre Dumas fils

      The above quote reminds me of something a second grade girl told me many years ago. "You know, Mr. G., kids are like butterflies and adults are like cocoons." I doubt she'd ever read Dumas. 

      I'm now in my 40th year of teaching and I like to think I'm still a butterfly. Teaching little kids does that to you, keeps you young in heart and spirit if not in body. (It never used to creak when I bent over!) Children have few preconceptions, few biases (I like to think they have none) and a wide open belief that anything is possible; they are well-springs of spontaneity and creativity. They open the doors of my own imagination when I listen to them or read what they've written. Einstein famously said, "To know is nothing; to imagine is everything." I believe he, too, was a butterfly. 

     Here's an assortment of similes penned by second- and third-graders. In most cases, I supplied the first half and the students finished it.

• The trees were bunched together as closely as a crowd of people around a
   talking cat.

• The water in the lake was as still as death.

• The flower stretched to the sky like a man begging for light.

• Her teeth chattered like tap dancing feet.

• Fresh snow covered the land like frosting on a cake.

• The path twisted and turned like a never-ending pretzel.

• The trees were bunched together as closely as the candles on an

   old man’s birthday cake.

• The buses ram their way through traffic like worms struggling

   through dirt.

• The desert was as flat as a map on the wall.

• The babies were crawling all over the place, like ants on an old

   doughnut.

• The runner was out of the starting blocks like pop-tarts out of a 

   toaster.

• The teacher was as mean as an unfed dog.

• The old woman’s face was as wrinkled as a boy’s shirt.

• The book she was reading was as boring as a room full of

   business people.

      On a darker note, consider the following. Pacific Northwest magazine some years ago noted that in the 1940s, teachers listed the following as their top seven student discipline problems:

            Chewing gum

            Dressing inappropriately

            Not putting paper in the wastebasket

            Passing notes

            Running in the halls

            Skipping class

            Talking

      In the 1980s, the top seven student discipline problems faced by teachers were:

            Assaults

            Drug abuse

            Possessing alcohol

            Possessing weapons

            Skipping class

            Theft

            Vandalism

      And not much has changed since then.

      Finally, a wonderfully whimsical little poem by John Updike; it appeared in the New Yorker  probably forty years ago:

                       The cars in Caracas

                       Create a ruckukus;

                       A four-wheeled fracacas,

                       Taxaxis and truckus;

                       Cacophono-comic,

                       The traffic is farcic;

                       Its weave leads the stomach

                       To turn Caracarsick.

                                 John Updike

Many years ago, when the Seattle P-I was not only still around but competitive with the Seattle Times (and the Times was still an afternoon paper), the P-I had a cartoonist by the name of Ray Collins. Ray created a cartoon strip featuring Cecil C. Addle and his sidekick, Dipstick Duck. His cartoons were whimsical and at times wry or satirical commentary on life in the Puget Sound region. Cecil and Dipstick appeared for only a couple of years, as I recall, before Ray returned to his native Ohio where, a few years later, he died. Nonetheless, Cecil and Dipstick live on in my memory and in the two cartoons below that I saved. If there are others of you out there who remember Ray and his creations, let me know. If you have cartoons of his, I'd be glad to post them. In any case, thanx, Ray!

A whimsical letter, also
from the P-I.

In my first post I mentioned that it was my hope to provoke you into thinking and responding. Here's the first attempt to do so. My Mom always said never talk about sex, religion or politics with people you don't know. Sorry, Mom, this one's about religion. So, whether you agree or disagree with what follows, please let me know. If your comments are short, use the comments box (I think I've got it fixed). If they're longer, you can use the comment box or email me directly and I'll include your thoughts in my next post: davgg@comcast.net. 


Following my comments on God are a couple of pix I took in Mexico at various times and a couple of word cartoons. I'd love to be able to draw but it's an art that escapes me. Nonetheless, I've got a collection of some 90 cartoons I've visualized over the years which I've written down. You'll have to supply the visuals. Here we go -

“So, do you believe in God?” This seems a simple enough question on the face of it, requiring only a “Yes, I do,” “No, I don’t” or “I don’t know” response. But there’s another question that never gets asked, one that has to precede the question of belief for any meaningful answer to be given. That question is, “What do you mean by God?” For unless we establish common ground, or at  least arrive at a mutual understanding of what each of us understands by “God”, the belief question is meaningless. This is probably less true for two people who are both steeped in the Judeo-Christian tradition: they share much in common already as to the who or what of God. But even in this case, much is to be gained by asking “What do you mean by God?” And for two people who do not share a common tradition this question is essential. I can’t answer your question until I know what you understand by the term “God”, nor can you answer mine. And I’m sure our conceptions will be vastly different, particularly if you are a Christian or a Jew.

What do most Jews and Christians mean by “God”? God is an iconic figure for most people; God’s assigned characteristics represent the reality for Christians and Jews. What are these characteristics? And why do I call them “assigned” characteristics?

Second question first. “God” is too important a concept to leave in the realm of the abstract. Humans want and need something we can relate to, something concrete and identifiable. Accordingly, over the millennia men (for men, not women, have been  instrumental in defining and describing God) have developed a God who looks like us and, in large measure, behaves as we do, only with allegedly superior morals. Thus we have a God whose characteristics have been ascribed to him by mortals.

What are these assigned characteristics? First, in the Judeo-Christian tradition, God is an entity, a being separate and apart from all of humankind, both before and after death. And, because God is omnipotent and omniscient, he is superior to everyone else. This means that heaven must have a hierarchy, just as corporations do here on earth. To borrow some mundane terms, God is the President and CEO, Jesus the Chief Operating Officer and the Holy Ghost is the Chairman of the Board, which is made up of the twelve apostles with a multitude of televangelists hoping the board will expand to include them. (For Jews, of course, God alone fills all three functions and probably has a different board). With this assigned characteristic of separation, we might join God but we will never be of God; we will be with God but never in God.

The second iconic characteristic of God is that he is a male. This has been so for thousands of years, ever since the evolution of the belief that there is only one God. There are, of course, a few who will refer to God as “she”, but that’s usually done humorously, not seriously. In the Bible, religious treatises, philosophical works, even when mentioned in passing, God is male. And, to add to the proof,  when God is depicted, he’s a male. Always.

Next, God is white. With the exception of some black churches, Christ is always depicted as a white man and, being the son of God, God, too, must be white. And, again, depictions of God always show him to be a white male.

God is old. He’s been around since at least the time of Moses. That alone is enough to qualify him as old. Going back to depictions of God, he is always shown as an old man with wrinkled face, long white beard and long, flowing white hair. This is an interesting concept. Old implies aging. Is God getting older? Will he become infinitely old? If he looks old now, what’s he going to look like in a hundred thousand years? Or a million? And if God is aging, he must have been younger. He must have been a young adult. He must have been a toddler. And, taking it to its logical conclusion, he must have been born! That’s as far as I’m willing to take this one.

God is perfect. This is perhaps the most intriguing characteristic of all. To be perfect means never making mistakes, never being wrong, but we’re going to paint God into a corner with this one. To begin to question God’s perfection, we could start by looking at all the wars throughout history and ask why God would let those occur. But those wars, it can be argued, are the result of humankind’s free will, our ability to choose one path over another, regardless of the consequences. But many of life’s miseries are inflicted on us through no choice of our own. The Spanish Influenza epidemic of  1917-1918 that killed millions. The Black  Death of Europe. AIDS. People born with defective genes that produce Down’s Syndrome, dwarfism, gigantism, deformities and hundreds of other afflictions. Leprosy, malaria, cholera, polio. We don’t choose these miseries; they are given to us, and, apparently, given to us by God. So there are two ways to look at this. If God is perfect, never makes mistakes, then these misfortunes are purposeful and God is cruel. (Can there be any possible reason for doing this to babies? To children? To anyone?) Or, if we refuse to believe that God is cruel, then we have to admit that God makes mistakes. Cruel or mistake-prone? Either way, God cannot be perfect.

So, in the Judeo-Christian tradition, we are told that God is an old white man who sits apart from all the rest of us, purposely creating or helplessly watching untold miseries inflicted on humans. Is this what people want from their God? Is this what they’re willing to put up with?

For me, the truth lies elsewhere.

PUERTO VALLARTA
BOTANICAL GARDENS

PUERTO VALLARTA

"MUTUAL-HELP FOR NEUROTICS"

Cartoon #10: A prisoner is in his cell, gripping the bars with his hands, looking pleadingly at the guard. The guard is saying, “For the last time, no! You can’t have a cell phone!”

Cartoon #13: A woman is standing in her bathroom. On the counter is a bottle of aspirin. Next to the woman is a large, mean-looking seal. The seal is wearing a badge, a guard’s cap and a large caliber pistol strapped around its middle. The woman’s husband, from outside the bathroom, is saying, “Don’t worry about anyone tampering with the aspirin, dear. It has a security seal.”

More offerings from The Uncommon Citizen, who also seeks your offerings. Got something to say? A poem? Humor? Lemme have it and let's see what happens. You should be able to click on "post a comment" to do so. If that doesn't work, you can email me directly at davgg@comcast.net and I'll publish your offering. Meanwhile, here are some random thoughts from a wandering mind this week and some poems. Oh - and a couple of doodles; it's how I spend my time at meetings. (Just kidding, boss!)

Searching, searching, searching. Surfing, surfing, surfing. If he'd been born a thousand years ago would his name have been Bennett Serf?... Writing, writing, writing. But never wronging, wronging, wronging?... What if Daphne du Maurier's had written a story called "The Butterflies" instead of "The Birds"?... If you can't do it, can you still call it the "Can-Can"?... If my freedom to swing my arm stops where your nose begins, move your nose... Searching, searching, searching. Lurching, lurching, lurching... What is the sound of three hands clapping? Would a rose really smell as sweet if it were called a stench?... Over the river and through the fog...Take attendance and at ten dance... The hose owes much to the emptiness that fills it... Over and out, under and in, this is where  I think I'll begin .

U N T I T L E D

Poor dude, kids rude, someone booed;

   Feeling crude, coming unglued, sit and brood;

      Been hoodooed, outlook skewed, bad mood.

           I'm screwed.

                                        

                         

 

Welcome back! Here's the second offering from The Uncommon Citizen. The first is a short piece I wrote some years ago after taking an autumn walk along Alki Beach (in Seattle, for you out-of-state readers). The second is (I hope!) some humor. Let me hear from you. 

Well, we're having the most unbelievably gorgeous Fall I can remember in all the years I've been here.  Temperatures are in the 60s day after day with bright sun, clear skies . . . it's wonderful. (Bless you, El Nino!) The leaves are still getting into their Fall outfits but now they're contrasted against all this clear bright blue weather instead of the usual: November Gray alternating with Bright November Gray or, more often, Dull November Gray. The wind is herding the water shoreward, causing great rolling WHUMPS! of waves to resound off the concave sea wall.

On my right, a grassy patch. As I came closer I noticed the birds, great numbers of them, seagulls, crows and pigeons intermingled, more than I’d ever seen at one time. Many were on the ground, on the grassy patch, but large numbers also wheeled deliberately overhead. I was buzzed by two seagulls as I began to walk by. They glided within inches of my head (shades of "The Birds"!), close enough to read their eyes, if one could but read seagull.

As I got to the far end of the grassy patch I heard a ruckus and turned to see scores of birds squabbling over something on the grass. I looked closely but couldn’t see what was provoking the disturbance. The circling birds began descending to investigate whatever might be at the center of the squabble, but too late:  the birds on the ground were already flying off in great slow-whirling circles. The scene was repeated a short time later and then again after that. And still I could detect no cause for the birds’ excitement. The noise was astonishing.

Some people at a picnic table tried to laugh off the birds, but they were clearly non-plused. What to do? Leave? Try to drive them off? Feed them? They tried feeding the birds, which only added to the chaos. They made a few faint-hearted attempts to disperse them, then they left. The birds had driven them off! Shortly after that, the birds left. Strange.

It was a singular experience, marked by intense imagery. Strong contrasts between the heavy yellow sunlight coming down in front of me and the rummage sale assortment of greens in the grassy patch. Bird wings, beating into the sun, took on an incandescence, became highlighted shadows, numberless birds rising and falling on the wind, sun splashing through their wings, backlighting them like an Indian shadow-puppet theater. It was a beautiful, but strangely peculiar, moment in time, one that seemed to suspend briefly the rules of nature.

TRITE, OF THE SQUAD!

IN

"THE TURN OF THE PHRASE"

Putting his best foot forward, Sergeant Trite  of the Cliche Squad resolutely marched out to meet his destiny. "Time and tide await no man," he said to no one in particular, "I must strike while the iron is hot! Fortunately, I don't have too many irons in the fire."

This last, a little louder, caught the ear of Inspector Bromide. "Remember, Trite, it's best to look before you leap. Haste makes waste, you know."

"Truer words never were spoken, Inspector, but I always say, he who hesitates is lost. After all, we both know that a stitch in time saves nine." Taking some tobacco from a pouch, Sgt. Trite put that in his pipe and smoked it.

With a stiff upper lip, Inspector Bromide extended his hand to Trite. Shaking it firmly he said, "Best of luck, Trite. When you've found your man I'm sure you'll make him understand that crime doesn't pay."

"Thanks, Inspector. You can't keep a good man down, you know. I just hope I don't find myself up a creek without a paddle, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Good-bye, Inspector."

"Have a good day, Trite."

Then, with the shoe on the other foot, (it hurt less that way), Sgt. Trite of the Cliche Squad rode off into the sunset on his trusty steed.

THE TURN OF THE PHRASE – II

"Whoa, big fella!" Trite gently reined in his horse. "I see smoke and where there's smoke, there's fire."  Realizing that time was of the essence, Trite had pushed on through the night after leaving Inspector Bromide. Even though it was darker than the inside of a tar-papered coal bin at midnight, he had spared neither himself nor his horse. Now he was ready to spring the trap.

Trite dismounted and began to move forward. His years of experience had taught him that silence was golden and he proceeded as though walking on eggs. Pushing aside a last bit of foliage Trite stepped into a clearing. There, no more than a stone's throw away, lay the man he had been pursuing so relentlessly these many months: Black Bart!

"He's catching 40 winks, I see," Trite remarked softly to himself. "May the arms of Morpheus embrace him just a while longer, knock on wood."

Slowly but surely he closed the distance between them. Soon, he was but a few feet from Black Bart. Taking the bull by the horns, Trite called out, "Rise and shine, Black Bart! As always, the early bird gets the worm. You're under arrest!"

THE TURN OF THE PHRASE - THE END

Meanwhile, back at headquarters, Inspector Bromide was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. "Where can Trite be?" he fumed as he paced worriedly to and fro. "That Black Bart is one tough hombre and Trite may have his hands full trying to bring him in. Hope he didn't bite off more than he can chew this time!"

"Never fear, Trite is here!" boomed out a familiar and hearty voice. "Better late than never, you know."

"Trite! You are a sight for sore eyes! Did you get your man?"

"The long arm of the law reached out and plucked him, Inspector," replied Trite. "It was like taking candy from a baby."

"Tell me how you did it, Trite," urged Inspector Bromide. "How were you ever able to get the drop on Black Bart?"

"There's more than one way to skin a cat, Inspector. But let's just say that winners never cheat, cheaters never win and patience is a virtue. It's curtains for Black Bart now!"

"Right you are, Trite. We'll lock him up and throw away the key."

"Well," yawned a weary Sergeant Trite, "I think I'll call it a day and hit the hay. By the way, Inspector, isn't there a reward for the capture of Black Bart?"

"Sorry, Trite. Virtue is its own reward."


(To be continued at a later date.)