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The day was perfect but for what wasn’t. A nagging sinus infection(or is it a tooth?)came to the local vicinity of my head.  I’ve had this before and gargling salt water often seems to alleviate the symptoms.

I’ve read yoga can help.

Butt, being a Library Specialist in our Children’s department kept this ditty ringing thru my ears.

Maybe, this was on my mind as I hurried out the door on my way to work this morning. Then, it happened.

‘Why isn’t my car door opening?’

I had my work lanyard and building pass on, my second pair of glasses in hand, my two meals of food for the day in my igloo container, my coffee cup, my emergency asthma meds just in case, my eye drops for pollen season, my cough drops, loose change, license, charge card and food discount card in pocket….

‘Whoops, I didn’t pick up my key off the key rack—dang, left it inside; worse, I’m locked out!’

Crap usually comes in bunches, right? Unless, of course, you need a laxative….anyway, I had several ‘backed up’ plans. Sorry….anyway, backup plan number one was our neighbor has our house key in her house. Backup plan, ‘number two,’ was another stored key in a secret location with her just as we have her key secretly stored. Perfect!!!! Her car was in the driveway as I made my way to her door.

‘This will be simple—I’ll knock on her door, get the key and voila! Everything will come out fine!’

Thing is, I’d no idea the freight-train of Fate was about to pass through! Remember those pennies you left on the train-tracks to get flattened like a watery pancake? I was about to resemble those.

‘Okay, no answer from my neighbor, but this is just what the number two 😉 backup scenario, the so-called “secret outside key location,” was all about! Don’t worry.’

Well yeah, not to worry was timely but not to find the key in any secret location was also the moment….Drat! And, splat! I had to go! (…to work.)

I briskly walked back to the house to check for any window that might not be locked. Gosh, are we diligent on that! Every window was locked; are we anal? I crawled through the dog door in the back room to find the huge sliding doors were locked tight as well…Poop!

‘Sometimes Life seems less than perfect.’

But, as luck came my way ( haha…as if!) one strangely shaped, two foot wide, four foot high window in the downstairs bedroom was not locked!!! My Eureka! would soon become a freak show.

Imagine, if you will, a seventy year old guy trying to crawl into a two-foot wide space that is half-blocked inside by a heavy piece of furniture.

Well, it didn’t happen because after a futile attempt to bend into a pretzel, I thought trying my neighbor’s hidden key location again was a better idea. I looked everywhere with NO luck.

My stupid phone had fried two weeks earlier after I’d recharged it for three straight days? Go figure? So, I found a neighbor home at the fourth house I tried who had a phone I could use. I called my wife somewhere in the universe to tell her about my situation….she didn’t pick up. BUT!!! There was backup plan number three; I just had to go into relax-ative mode.

‘Hey, my other neighbor has the key to the neighbor’s house that has my key in it! Yay! I’ll call her, open up my neighbor’s house with that spare key, get my key and open my home up with that!’

Backup plan number three would save me until it didn’t…

Of course, the other neighbor I needed wasn’t home.

‘Here’s the beauty—being this deflated has to mean I’m losing weight.’

It’s the same principle that’s in play when you sit on the pot for three days with a stomach flu of some sort. Those pounds are drippin’ off! Anyway, this was a great thinking moment!

I headed home and looked more at the skinny one foot opening in that two foot window and knew this wonder boy could do it! I’m not sure what my ass looked like as I headed face first through that opening.

 

‘Getting stuck half in and half out this window with no phone could be bad.’ Double splat.

My legs hung outside with my butt wiggling over the bottom windowsill as I strained with my arms to pull myself into the room. Oh, to be twenty again. Visions of all those sugar plums I shouldn’t have eaten danced in my head.

I got into the downstairs bedroom before remembering this room had a steel door between it and the rest of our house. I stepped through the room up to the door.

‘Sometimes we lock it from the inside; other times we don’t.’

Yikes! We are SUPER diligent about locking things up tight! I was almost starting to think I was having a bad day!

Two and 1/2 hours later I decided my luck was flat-out, plain out to lunch. Of course, I’d called my wife again, no luck there. What is luck, anyway? Some sort of fiend that runs a muck to splatter my day with ruinous platitudes of down on your luck, the creek plum run dry and swimming upstream metaphors? Yes; exactly.

‘Well, if Luck’s out to lunch, I might as well eat mine.’

This was my last thought before my wife came home and saved the day! Here’s the best news: I’d missed most of a staff meeting at work!?!?!How cool was that?

It’s a lock—my luck had turned around!

Franque23

 

 

 

 

 

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I’d split from work ready to let loose and let my freak flag fly! I’d a foxy old lady hanging at home; it was gonna be a gas(we’re pretty old…). I was sure she’d give me some skin. Can you dig it? Far out.

I’m not sure many of you know the phrase: “A spankin’ good time!” Yep, we used to say it and mean it in a fun way. So much has changed now-a-days, but this here tickle monster rumbles on!

I got home late last night after work to find my five grandsons sleeping over. You know what this meant! It was,’spanking time,’ for everyone! The mad scramble to escape ensued. I’m usually a tickle monster like my dad had been as I grew up, but, no, tonight these good kids needed the spankin’ of their lives to control the silence!!!

“Ah-run for your lives!” I heard their attack call loud and clear.

I saw their strategy immediately. They decided to form one huge pile of boys whereby only one would be left on top to get a pop on the butt! Even Shadow realized he’d better get in that pile, pronto!

It was an out of control battle, perfect for bedtime calm down moments—the kind my wife loves me to start. She doesn’t have to tell me this, I just know by using my secret, ‘Manly,’ instincts. Once she has read to the boys, snuggled them down to soft thoughts and music, it’s time for me to start an all-out rumble!!! Butt why does she always yell, “I’m calling a lawyer! I’m calling a lawyer!!”, at times like this?  Ha! That’s a funny thing to say, don’t you think? I never understand how this fits in to a rumble but as I always say, “To Each their own.”

Anyway…

I roared, I blew air out of my nostrils-that was horrible to do during pollen season-I approached with hands clapping with delight!

“But honey,” my wife explained,” They’ve been good all night!”

“Ha, ahaha, ah,,,,” Said the mean ol’ man, me, “All the more reason for the spankin!” (This is the best way to teach logic 101. I bet they do well in the subject).

More wiggling and screaming went on…butt not a one would get away from the tickle monster now gone raving, spankin’ mad!

At last, it ended as I knew it would from the ,’Daddy’s home,’ get-go. Arron, the youngest, known as the, ‘Padded one,’ was to be sacrificed. Bottom’s up!

Of course, this could only mean one thing of many. The fun-time rumble was over and now it was time to brush our teeth and begin the get-under-the-blanket wiggles, to begin the, no, don’t go into the kitchen, no, get off the floor, no, we aren’t watching t.v., no, we can’t go out, nope, this is not a time to draw!, we’re done eating—we’re completely done with food of any kind!  Yep, a new phase was upon us, the who’s sleeping where, in what room, on the floor or bed and with which brother or two ordeal of an hour longer had begun!

Then something happened…Me, as the last man standing as my wife snuggled on the couch, the house got spooky quiet. The quiet aliens had landed, slithered in the house and stolen all sound. The silence was loud, or maybe my ears were still ringing, yes, that was it. But none of that explained the aliens. I thought of waking my wife to consult about the quiet but I preferred to live.

The night had ended…sob.

Somehow, with the help of beer(s), I forgot about the aliens and went to sleep.

The next morning I awoke to two-year old, Aaron, standing in my doorway. “Goo morrring,” he beamed a smile.

The breakfast was basically the sound of morning children-birds who’d become a herd of munching faces. A pound of bacon, a dozen eggs and quart of home squeezed OJ consumed and heck, look!, we had room in our frig!?!?!

Then, the children went home; the sky cleared. I looked to my faithful buddy, Shadow, as he rested by the window, peacefully collecting himself after being roughed up the previous day  by the Bell gang of five. I looked at him lovingly; he looked at me.

I held up my arms and proclaimed it: ” It’s time for…..a doggie spanking!!!!”

“Wait! Did you say, “Doggie spanking?”

Cheers….nothin’ like having a, ‘spankin’ good time!’Please send any complaints about spanking to Santa Claus—but don’t mention my name.  I’m still waiting on the Lamborghini. Thanks.

Franque23

 

 

 

 


This post is back from 2013.  Readership has gone up to 65 countries now, and more than twice as many people read the glob than did six years ago. I saw someone read this post today, I re-read it and decided to re-post for fun…Plus, I still have these questions?!?!?

(Avatar Magic, by Gerald Franquemont, is out on Kindle and it can be downloaded onto most readers.) *Now, a completed trilogy.

Why do swim suits most often look like fishing lures?

Why are garden hoses so often made to look like snakes?

If men never hear what women are saying why do women keep talking?

If money is the root of all evil why does everyone work for it?

Cain Killed Abel, but most people fear snakes more than politicians.

Here’s some food for thought–if you can afford it. $1 of 1960 dollars would be worth: $7.87 in 2013. $1 of 2013 dollars would be worth $0.13 in 1960.  Shouldn’t the dollar shrink in size in accordance with its real buying power? Think of the money we’d save when buying wallets or printing money!

This well-known saying is part of a phrase often attributed to Benjamin Disraeli and popularized in the U.S. by Mark Twain: “There are three kinds of falsehoods: lies, damned lies, and statistics.”  The odds are even that this is true.

Why are size ten shoes in Japan equal to size six shoes in America? Why can’t one country or the other be happy to be either a ten or six and call it good.

In fact, the sound of one hand clapping can be heard. Try the Clam clap.

Recently, I thought I might have had a tick on my back but I’d fallen asleep and then gone to work the next day forgetting to check on it.  I worried all day about that tick! Turned out when I checked in the mirror that night that I had a nose strip suck to my back.  What a relief, sort of.

You can’t go that extra mile. You either do it or you don’t. Show me an extra mile and I’ll show you an extra dollar.

NO one who was scheduled to retire at 65 for most of their life but then had their retirement age moved to sixty-six should think of retiring at age 65 as an “early” retirement. Dude! Do you want more S.S. money or what you thought you’d get most of your life at age 65?

Statistics boggle the mind while History teaches.

Gary Friend and Sue Patterson know lots of stuff.

Why does the same girl who looks good in a bikini on the beach cause car accidents by wearing shorts while walking on a sidewalk in town?

The following numbers seem right after looking over a number of recent polls: 1/3 of our population, 34%, believe in Ghosts and UFOS; 74% believe in the Devil and 92% believe in God. Have you ever wished upon a star?

Consider: for every shark-related human death, we kill 10 million of them.*

*http://www.discovery.ca/article.aspx?aid=18384

Cheers!

Franque23


Ah cranberries! Life is too short! Soon, I’ll be rollin’ out of here so I butter have fun before it’s gravy time. Eventually, I’ll be nothing but soggy leftovers wattling my way to de-boned. Life isn’t a piece of cake no matter how it’s sliced.  But can I have seconds?

On second thought….

The more years pass, the more I look like a Thanksgiving turkey.

I’ve grown a turkey neck and a nice plump belly along with a nibble, gobble face. Gizzards! Life is moving at break-neck speed. I’m still walkin’, but maybe without my head! (My dad used to talk about seeing chickens and turkeys run around after their heads got chopped off!)

If I’m not gobbling while stuffin’ my face, I’m wobbling on ancient toes—the ones attached to what my wife used to call,’perfect feet.’ Please pass the bunion; I’ll have another: two just isn’t enough.

Ever see a turkey’s knees? Never mind, just look at mine in beach shots for a quick overview. Turkeys like me are essentially bald but they have feathers. Me? I have a feather duster.

Racing to the bathroom is when I strut my stuff.

 

And about that famous roasted turkey smell as it wafts through the house. Here’s the yin-yang of this turkey-talk: if only a whiff of me smelled that good after doing garden work!

Nope, my flowering youth has been turned upside down and slowly roasted in the sun by years looking for scratch.  My young self has been basted and tented; my clock has been cleaned but for a smidgen of a second left before that big timer in the sky goes off. But, is there pie in the sky? Yep, soon I’ll be car-soul-rolled and placed into a container to be stored until moldy.

Wait! I’d like more seasoning! Another sprig of a spring with more summering would do nicely.

Cheers-I hope you had a good one!

Franque23

 


Can you spare a minute?

This post may have started with the 9:09 PM starting time of the Milwaukee Brewer’s and Dodger’s game on Oct 16th. Why, for the love of anything you pick, would a game start at 9:09? Googling the question reveals that the TV time slot actually starts at 9 PM but announcers (and it’s got to be ads) have stuff to say for, like, 9 minutes. Okay, but 9:09 still seems a bit random to me. Why not have announcers fart around for another 6 minutes to reach that even 9:15 PM time or, better yet, could they just shut the hell up and talk after the 9 PM game starts?

The Babe knew how to ‘time’ his swing…

Little things matter. People, fans, have enough to do work-wise and drinking-wise (This is , after all a Brewer game) to nail a 9:09 time slot. It’s all wrong, but it gets worse. It turn’s out a local High School has lunch scheduled at 12:17 PM and its normal school day ends at 2:37 PM. There’s one for all you driven crazy by parenting driving pick-up moms to focus on. “I pick up the kids at 2:37; at 2:37; at 2:37.” All over town mother’s and dad’s stare into a mirror and repeat this over and over the night before every school day.

Me and my guitar along time ago….

 

When did our ,’Minute Madness,’ start? It vaguely seems correct to think minute madness origins can be found in airplane schedules. They always had weird departure and arrivals times but have you ever seen a plane land or takeoff ,’ON Time,’ no matter what weird time they picked for either event? Me neither. Thing is, this every minute matters approach filtered down into our society like a fungus on tree bark. We’re consumed by bizarre time punctuation. And here we are, a society semi-sprung from parts world-wide where the afternoon breaks for nappy’s, wine or chatter used to be 3-ish or 4-ish to five-ish.

I guarantee Napoleon did not invade Paris at 3:13 PM. No, our paid, fired, hired or hounded by the minute life is not the stuff of history.  I’ve never read that Isaac Newton’s brain-dent from an apple happened precisely at 1:02 PM.  Nope, survivors of the World now gone minute-mad call that an, “aha moment,” and leave it at that. Can we just walk away, call a time-out, and avoid being hit by another apple in time?

Time-out. Now time for this or that, not enough time, time lost, time gained, saved or wasted, time spent, time-in, time forgotten, time can be so many things—that’s the good news. The bad news is time is the task master of us all now-a-days. Worse, time not only exists in our heads, on phones, watches and punch-in clocks at work but it’s especially adorned by Cuckoo clocks, and rightfully so. Never has a true unknown ever ruled over the world like our vague concept of time.

Salvador Dahi painted melting clocks

To be fair, man does have an AC/DC timeline in place… whoops,, I mean a BC/AD time line in place. ( BC=Before Christ and AD=After the Crucifixion)So sure, we know stuff happened before Christ was born and then lots after, but the trouble is when he was born can slide back and forth by ten years, some say twenty, others say up to sixty years or more! I ask you, how much of what we do today can be off by, like, thirty years? ” I build houses and yours will be up sometime within the next thirty years.-That’s a promise!” A man runs to catch his train but he’s two minutes late getting to the station. The train is nowhere in sight so he asks the train station attendant, “Did the train leave?” The Train attendant looks over his records. ” Yep. That train left about a week ago-sorry.”

Time is based on nothing but agreement formed in the backrooms of history. Time truly denotes nothing but has the power of the leash and lash we’ve given to its practice. And wouldn’t you know it, I asked one of our many volunteers at work tonight when she was leaving. “8:12,” was her answer. I stared ahead in disbelief, knowing I’d write this glob and not ask her why, ‘8:12′?

You know, I finished this post in the nick-of-time….whew. That’s called ,’split second timing.’

TV aired a show about people living off the grid and one fellow, a man with an engineering degree who’d been well employed as such, said the greatest thing about his life in the boonies was that he didn’t wear a watch, and he had no idea what day, month or time it was.

My brother, Ed Franquemont,(Harvard Grad.) lived in Peru for ten years with his wife and children. Ed once told me the best thing about living as he did was that there was no specific time, only day and night, and the passing of the sun and moon in between.

once upon a time at our home on Long Island, Ed and I shoveled a lot of snow…

Hurry here; hurry there: this time thing is a madness, and we are all bound to this fever. Sad. Can we have a re-do and think this thing out one more time over a four-ish nappy and bottle of wine? We might find we get less done but we are much happier with all that progress.

Franque23 doesn’t wear a watch , or have a, ‘smart.’ phone. I’m still dancing.

 

 

 

 

 


Please, everyone who wants to, go burn every shoe you have then take a hike.

The question is simple. Is there any kind of war that’s not happening now in America? Randomly, I’d say the only thing most American’s agree upon is that ice cream is at least okay.

All the rest, the North, the South, the Bread Basket zones and Coastal cities, the whites, blacks, minorities against minorities or not, the radical right, left, with the melting pot Brillo-ed out, the rich against the poor, the old in the way of the young, the war on fat or too thin, the what kind of man are you?, what bathroom to use or slate to clean?, no guns or fire away, it’s all up in air lifted and swirled by misunderstanding, hate, fear, mockery and assault.

We’re yelling at ourselves!?!?

Some days, I sit and listen to this song and dance in the living room just to get away from the mess of our society, never mind what I’m wearing. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiQIisyncY0

(Want to feel better? Listen to Fogerty’s song in the link in this glob and watch the fall clip at the end…cheers! And oh, please forward! Thanks.)

Is America being undone? Or, is American being re-tooled by internal disorder that will lead to a more perfect union? Don’t ask me—I asked you!

Me? I might be in favor of how the Democratic party seems to be changing while I flat-out hate the way the Republican party is heading. Currently, cramming the hearing making process of a Supreme Court nominee down the throats of legislators who in the recent past couldn’t get their guy a hearing for almost a year feels wrong.  It brings to mind warm poop for breakfast. (or anything else as disgusting-use your imagination.)

Yum.. (please tell me this is ice cream.)

On a side, just a thought, has anyone noticed that Trump keeps saying Mueller’s investigation is a , “Witch Hunt,” but only Warlocks have been arrested? So, maybe, Trump should leave women out of this—just saying.

Who else thinks herding teams of lawyers into a padded cell won’t help America out of our grid lock-and-load? How about using a bunch of pandering gerrymandering partisan warring politicians? Yeah, not that either. What to do?

Idea!

We eat ice cream, like all together. American’s should declare a huge Eat Ice Cream day; just do it, and gain weight.

Don’t give up, no matter what, eat the ice cream. Let the ice cream wars begin!

Then we could have a long, 1/2 of a day when we all diet together for a moment. We could skip afternoon snacks, maybe. The bonding we need would begin!

This might not work, but then again think about this: what if American’s saved whatever they could over the course of one year (whahahha, this a funny thought.) and spent it on buying stock in ice cream companies. Then, we all could agree to buy ice cream stocks over the course of one week just prior to Universal Ice Cream Day! Boom! The stocks rocket up; American’s sell their ice cream stock and buy our representatives brooms so they can fly away higher than the stocks before they crash!?!?! Okay, this won’t work either. Why? The plan is perfect but for 1/3 of all working American’s have no savings at all, while another 1/3 of working Americans have 1000 dollars saved.

Basically, American’s have been screwed for so long nails might go out of business.

Bonus picture shows the Beatles traveling in a van doing gigs before anyone knew they liked ice cream too.

Oh sigh, it’s time to study our problems in this country and find solutions. But, it must be hard being a teacher now-a-days. Imagine going from teaching one year that anyone can be president to the next and having to explain why the president is a compulsive liar.

But, change isn’t new in America. Women couldn’t vote at one time and now they get groped by preachers on national T.V.* This sort of change is part of my life, too. I used to drive through a tunnel going to New York City and I marveled at the cops standing on the underground walkways by the road. It all made me feel safe; protected.

Years later, I went back to the city and drove through the same tunnel only to find the cops had been replaced by hookers! It was as if Mad Magazine had come alive. I now have a case of bad tunnel vision.

Oddly, I can’t find a single picture of prostitutes walking these isles as I saw later on…go figure? Thing is, I wondered right then, how did people stop to pick them up?  It never made sense to me.

Relax-eat some ice cream and dream you’ve gone to heaven, or maybe we’re in heaven and meant to enjoy the glitches? If you’re old enough, you might recall a popular song that asked, “What if God were one of us?

But, what if God is all of us?

Even Trump likes ice cream.//wait? What?

Anyway-have the best days you can. And, maybe, chill with the video below. Fall’s a-coming!

Cheers,

Franque23

*https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuT1I36RVsU


About that Morgan-Franquemont conflict: The Royals verses the pirates.

It’s a miracle any Morgan Pirates survive, with Joe Morgan driving off of bridges as a kid, with ladies running a muck who need,’How to wear hat lessons,'(This photo blocked by the Who knows Who) and Dave Morgan, now gone, bless his soul, who once fell into the brink at age three without a care in the world or knowledge of how to float. Ripley’s Believe It or Not has maybe called me twice about this family,* but I’ve taken the high, Royal Road and decided to write this glob only.

To begin, it’s obvious the Noble Franquemont line is ready to take control.

It’s a Royal bunch…those who will lead us are pictured above and below.

We can rest assured of our humble Leadership.

And here is pictured the foundation of our Royal belief…our backyard entrance to our home’s Nobel courtyard in Germany-*(Thanks to my wife for this wonderful shot.)

Should you dare step inside the courtyard of our ancestral home, you would see this.

And here are some of our joined generation that solidified the Franquemont (okay, Morgamont) victory at Lake Bonaparte.

But, truthfully, most Morgan pirates need to be in jail. NO, really, I think I could sell them time shares in prison!

It’s not because of their politics, their thievery, their gluttonous drankin’ and absolute aversion for just about anything normal, no,,,these are their very best parts. The worst of the lot lie in the shadows of innocent looks, half bent smiles and spineless attacks when the Royal Franquemont Guard is sleeping, or talking , or eating, or just fartin’ around paying no attention to the Pirates.

Do you see how young the pirates begin to sneak their way into our unsuspecting hearts!

And Pirates the Morgan’s be, every lad and lass of them, the worst sort. Call the cops! No, wait, he’s one of them no good, double fistin’ potato chip eating lot.

The fellow on the right is by marriage one of them, and he’ll arrest anyone of us on the spot—the cop that he is. The middle man, Nick Morgan, be just that, a go between who claims the Morgan name but not the politics. And on the left, a Royal, Craig the Car-is locked,(Carlock) member who listens to all sides.

Well, at least the Morgan’s will have trouble posting bail….oh wait, one of them was or still is a fierce bail’s man guys?

The Morgan man at Dakota’s back was once a bailsmen. Ben the Morgan is now an insurance guy. Ha! He wants to insure your life.

The Crime as witnessed this past July on the 24ish upon the dock of Innocence….

It was a clear day, the waters calm, as I stood unsuspecting on our new dock, recovering from three cracked/bruised ribs, a torn right leg and fatigue it’d cost me to build it**.  Mike the Smile, Pirate Murphy, as he’s called, came kayaking up to me all, well, smiles. Aye, if I hadn’t been in such a pleasant ruling mood I might have notice his smile seemed a bit skewed. Sure enough , our pleasant conversation was soon followed by Nick the Wicked and his protege, Blake, known as Blinko the Pirate, who laid my smiles to waist. I always take the high, Royal road so I never suspected foul play as Blinko raced up the stairs while Mike the Smile Murphy and I shared conversation. Moments later, Nick and Blinko hauled ass off in their kayak with my beers and soda’s in hand!!! Yellin’ all the while! This will forever be known as the Slithering Smile theft of 2018.

I’ll have em’ walkin’ the steps to the lake when I catch up to them.

(Our half way dock steps.)

They took my very best beer—not to be replaced throughout the reunion—and some super soda I’d never miss. It was a horrible sight, and then Mike, the bad smilin’ Murphy, slid like a snake away in his kayak to follow the pirates.

This is typical stuff from the Morgan Pirates; I have to cheer, Nick Morgan, however, who is smart to realize in his own words, “Trump is a con, a cheat and lizard eating suck head with no brains…”***So there is hope for the genes. Anyway, with our Franquemont Royal empathy I will spare the Morgan lot this time.

For now, let them eat ice cream!

(BTW-this is one shot of the new dock.)

The decree has been decried? It reads like this: “I don’t know, something will happen in two years at our next reunion…dead fish in the frig…something.” This man in a new Franquemont helmet guarantees it!

Meanwhile, I’ll be checking passports when getting aboard from now on.

But there is one more thing. Through tough negotiations, tireless days and nights on scotch and beer, we have decided to claim the Morgamont dock, ( a half-way dock located between the bluff and lake as pictured four shots above), as a safe heaven from any intentional farting, photo bombing or fire burning, stuff like that. It’s sorta like during World War 11 when countries agreed to not bomb special places like France’s, Versailles, as they bombed and killed 60 million people else where.

We will, instead, follow this new helmet wearing man to the,’New,’ Marina and camp ground…

It’s all good.

Franque23

Calling me the absolute, forever King will do for now.

  • Not true….believe it or not.
  • **Our ancestral home in Germany.
  • ***See previous glob—Bonaparte Dockin’
  • ****This may not be an exact quote….

 

 

 

 

 


r there dyslexic birds?

I’ve always been dyslexic, but because I was born one million years ago I only learned of the condition while in Clolege.  So here’s to putting hte cool in shcool. No wonder phonics wasn’t my best sujbect! It was a great relief to get to know how my head worked, and once I did my grade average went from a sub pair 2.0 to a 3.7!  All I had to do then is what I od now—question how I see things, realize when it’s backwards and correct my understanding of whatever it is I’m erading, looking at, or writing. I can convert anything-right or wrong:-)…

I write books that are on Kindle that make editors spell for me….I have to laugh, one editor once asked, ‘Why are yoru sentences always inverted?’

So tell me, how does it change dyslexics to take a light bulb?*

Thing is, really, my body just hasn’t gotten the message about this,’let’s not be so dyslexic,’-ont at all. No, my bodsy’ backwards from ear-hair to navel fuzz. Here I am, clearly a twenty-ish type pushing some other galaxy of age so why the bursitis in the left knee, or slow moving knees, why the left-eye occlusion and the turkey neck that makes me dihe through all of Thanksgiving tmie? Why can I talk to my jingling ellby? And Asthma inhalers are not the death of fresh air they’re meant to be but, man, they take the pharmaceutical’s money right!  See? My entire obdy is going dyslexic on me!

I’m younger than a bean sprout but my face has age wrinkles, weird, my head is missing my hair, astoundingly bizarre, and my get-up-and-go is beating me to some place I can’t seem to find. What I need here is a good walyer. I’ll sue my odby and win whatever’s left of it. Vey, oh, why bother!

still, some people think they are beavers…so maybe i’m koya

Of course, some things still work fine: (I can’t believe you thought that-that’s just wrong, like really young of you.) I mean I can snap my fingers, wait, not so much; at least I can see, sorta, using a different set of glasses for every kind of seeing distance; I can whistle, no, actually I never could; I can do the tiswt, though I’d never try it again; I can talk about times I lived through but never knew; and I’ve got lots of stories to yell cause I’m still dancin’ inside, byba.

this is actually Billy the kid’s friend who shot him..but this has nothing to do with this post… ceehrs**

Yep, I’ve got my head turned around so it works but this body thing is a feakin’ dumb-ass diesitter. Yoga helps, but I’ve lost my mat and I can’t find the floor. Bending over to see things upside down seems all too familiar to me while breathing heavy while working out means some of that god hair I find under the couch is actually going into me instead of under the conch. I know it’s good to rush blood to my head while bending over but does it ever leaf my skull? No, this entire upside down workout cesspro may be why my ears and head aer twice the size they were ounce, gone lgoa.

Let’s ace ti: I don’t know my bowel from my elbow, but is there really umch of a difference?

the Cliffs of Moher never shave…

When you get right up on it, being dyslexic isn’t much the same as anything that’s so different. So hwy lla teh kalt about it…?

It’s odd , but spell check just isn’t ehlping.

Franque32

  • Slopped from aonther tighs.
  • **for some other glob.

*** “Body Language worth noting” (Translation)

 

 


Lake Bonaparte has a knack for drifting the sand while holding the heart.

This shot is of my first night out this year, just before my plans came crashing down along with my dock. But please, don’t ask me about the dock we HAD to re-build before this year’s reunion. Heck, the next glob is about that. For now, it’s all about my first night out fishin’ and me coming back all grins.

What you see here is a 5 pound bass, a 4.5 pounder, and two smaller varieties though one may be that huge sunfish I caught to kick off the night. I had the larger ones measured and weighed by a fellow who was also fishing in Mud Lake at the time with two lovely women. Some guys have the best luck! Thing is, it’s been near about ten years since I caught a monster bass, and these two came within 30 minutes of one another. All top lure, split Rapala’s.

I think they both went 18 inches, but the main thing is I’m as convinced now as I was then that this year is the year of the lunkers…Good luck fishing. One man in our reunion group caught about a four pounder off the dock, and another slightly smaller right in his boat house. But, perhaps the strangest catch was Dakota’s reel in of a good size bass that wasn’t connected to his line or lure at all, but to a line the fish had broken previously that got tangle in Dakota’s lure on the retrieve!!!!

I couldn’t wait to get out to fish again, but I about never did for the next of all the twenty day’s I had left to fish up there. There’s good reason—that’s the secret in the next glob.

It was a reunion year, and the Franquemont-Morgan gang had a freakin’ blast.

This is the cook-off contest and the five judges were clearly paid-off not to pick my stuffed mushrooms but some other foreign dish cooked by Nick with a name no one could pronounce.

But, before I sob in my gravy, someone asked me how big fish used to be in Lake Bonaparte, and although I’ve no idea , there’s this picture of a kid bringing in his catch to Priest’s so long ago. As a kid, I heard plenty of stories(all true no doubt:-0) of Northern’s pushing six feet long coming out of the lake. I’d give about anything to have those pictures that lined the eatery and penny candy store at Priest’s….One huge, gigantic fish after another,,,the types we don’t see at all anymore. (Thank you  Jesus since I skinny dip, or now, chunky-dunk)

This is an old photo of a typical catch long ago at Lake Bonaparte

We did a zillion things as a family this year, pirate hunt, pan fish, dance, bowl, Ice cream sundae day, games, dock-out, and rock out with painting them.

But, the Ice cream boat!!! Oh my…

We mobbed the boat every chance we got..the reasonable prices hit the mark and the selection drooled the mouths.

The two families slid in every direction and never met a face they didn’t love.

In fact, the Morgan—Franquemont families have decided to name our 1/2 way dock down to the Lake….Morgamont. Now, if you see the sign you’ll understand.

Of course, some couldn’t make it this year, and other’s never will as they’ve gone to the other side or maybe flipped the Venetian blind between us.

I’ll forever miss my cousin Rob Morgan

And so many others who did or didn’t know the lake.

The waters run swift in season in a State Park,  just east of Harrisville (Glenwood Falls)

But when the 21  children of our reunion handed me a petition to return our reunion to a two year cycle instead of the four we were on, I knew what had always been true:

Nothing runs as deep as the bonding waters of Lake Bonaparte—that’s the truth, and the soul knows.

Have a great August and Fall at The Lake….

Franque23

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


(Click the pic for a larger view.)

Anyone who knew me as a kid knows it’s an astoundingly, flabbergasting, jaw-dropping, stupefying surprise that I’m a father. Sure, I had a future even a wrong turn could help back then, but it also was clear from the get-go that another planet was, in fact, my home. I lived spaced out most of the time.

Still, there has always been a Father in me.

A fishing Grandpa….who knew?

 

Basically, my kid-self was a walking brain dent.

School was torture, a work around looking to happen, though girls were annoyingly interesting. Sports became my ticket to skate by on in high school. Next came a spin as class VP.  I spent a zillion hello’s on friends passing in school halls like a pseudo-millionaire with no money.

The politician in me continued to thrive through my non-formative years of college.

As a sophomore, the college paper deemed me, Apple Gerry, with a front page picture that showed me ranting about student dorm rights. Soon, I was appointed by the graduating head of , Group X, to be this organization’s next President. Now, Group X had two major agendas. First, our group wanted , ‘open,’ dorms with visiting rights for both men and women 24/7. (Seems my younger interests stuck with me). Secondly, we wanted visiting rights for women in the men’s dorms.  I know, these two agendas seem the same, but agenda two left men out of female dorms. Underlying our two hot pulsing agenda’s were rumors I made sure spread that Group X would host off campus beer parties. It all worked great until those beer parties took effect which is why I don’t remember how long Group X survived and when or why it ended…

Not to be detoured, my free-fallin’, dancing, singing self landed me a membership pre-facto of Phi-Kappa-Phi since I refused to go thru hazing but was made an off-the-record member of the fraternity house anyway. It was a great, wild , short year of being reprimanded by the College Administration. Before our house knew it, women weren’t allowed in our second story where the beds were, so, yeah, we moved all the beds down to the basement and slept there and stuff. This pissed Admin off but it wasn’t until we held a beer-bed floating party in the basement with strippers from Baltimore as hosts that our house got shut down! I mean, completely closed for a year!!! Can you imagine?!?! Of course, I had very little to do with any of this that I remember.

My successful political days weren’t over, but it was time for those college days to fog into post college days of running naked in the Ocala National Forest, jumping naked off lime pits east of Gainesville with 300 hundred others on any given Saturday afternoon and strolling by police cars while at a nude block party on NE 1st street here in Gainesville.  I know, I know, you’re thinking I was a nudist but, no, I wore clothes to job interviews and stuff all the time.

(Clothes on! This is the site of many Bonaparte late night ,’Chunky-dunks,’ but we can’t beat Ireland’s recent Guinness book world record-breaking 2500 nude swimmers at once!)*

All that college,’Fog,’ cleared into pot smoke that guided my way for a few more zillion years as I grew older without growing up. There’s a pill to take for that, but I forget the color!

Next thing I knew, my ears pretty much got too long for my face and my children stole my hair.

I remember waking up one day and staring into the mirror realizing very little.

I’d set down my principles and forgotten where they were unless I tripped over them while changing diapers. It was nifty earning money that was really other people’s money if I made it to the power company on time to keep the lights on. I was consumed with successful failure without notice or care but for my family. I have to say, that bunch got my attention.

I suppose it’s true to say one baby led to another and then another which led to seven others—so far.

(Here’s five of them being still all at once!?!?!)

But through it all I maintained my hat wearing image with uniquely obtuse discernment, a finesse of in-depth leadership and control.

Clearly, this is not me , but a look-a-like! Aaron is, however, wearing my glasses!!! Have you ever noticed children love to wear glasses, but that’s never good for the glasses?

As it turns out, I like to grow things, whether it be debates on issues (have you noticed), babies, grand children, properties, gardens and wrinkles….

Click the pic to see the start of hat construction and the  wrinkle lines I spent hours, days, weeks, heck, years putting on my face!!

I’m not sure what ticket I would have been on if you told me back in high school that I’d end up a  paper bag hat wearing, wrinkled eared, laughing Grandpa. Maybe, the one to the fast train to Berkeley or the over-life sleeper to the deep woods of Canada.

Yep. Throughout the laughs there was a Father in me after all. Man, this is great; a nice surprise, indeed. Who knew I had a plan all along? Me!

(This is my brother-in-law and his wife and me with my wife standing in front of what we believe was the location of my wife’s ancestor’s home. They were hat makers in Denton, England. I was making leather hats in a barn in Gainesville in the 1970’s when my wife first moved in with me! See? That’s called a plan:-)

Franque23

*https://www.cnn.com/2018/06/11/europe/irish-women-record-breaking-skinny-dip-intl/

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