St. George And The Fish

St. George (the town, and perhaps the Dragon Slayer -- history makes no comment either way) has a fish whisperer. Most of us, I think, will require a few moments to digest that fact. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Enough time. But I feel I must repeat: St. George has a fish whisperer who serves not only St. George but all of Southern Utah, curiously he doesn't seem to swim into Nevada or Arizona. Since I don't wish to appear judgemental if any readers of this entry need a fish whisperer to annoy their fish feel free to call, he's listed in the St. George Yellow Pages. I won't know and if I find you've called I won't tell ---------- not at once, anyway. I have so many questions: Does he stick his head into the fish bowl? Conversing with the fish: BLUB, BLUD, BLOOP -- but he's a fish whisperer so I imagine its: blub, blub, bloop. Does he only whisper to fish who have a bowl big enough that he can get his fat head into it? Is he a she? Does she have a buzz cut or does her hair clog the filter? Does the fish reply? When the fish replies does it swim up to the whisperer's ear to whisper and if it swims too close for an intimate whisper, does it ever get stuck? When the whisperer gets a fish stuck in his ear, does he rear back, shaking his head like a wet poodle? And when she shakes her head, does the fish fly across the room? And when the flying fish lands in a hot frying pan does the fish whisperer enjoy a fried fish meal? So many questions, so few answers. But so it goes. DJA P.S. Sorry, now Google isn't honoring my paragraph breaks.

Dateline: Kanab, Utah

This is in the nature of an interum blog about the Grand Canyon/canyonland trip dw and I are presently taking.
I'm writing in Kanab, but this is just a short note regarding the Flying J service station/rest stop/petting zoo in Scipio, Utah.
The petting zoo was of mild interest with (among other things) an emu, a goat, a zebra, a zebu calf, a donkey and lama. Prominently posted was a disclaimer sign noting that any or all of the animals might bite, spit, or stomp and the petting zoo accepted no responsibility should you be dumb enough to pay $5 (?) to let your five year old be bitten, spit on, or stomped on.
All common stuff, but worth a stop should anyone be in the area.Displayed near the cash register: "Grandma's Nasal Brush". Something I've never seen before, from Grandma or anyone else. You might think it's a brush for a remarkably hirsuit guy. Or perhaps an old geezer who has let his nose hair run amok. It's nothing of the sort. The instructions directed the purchaser shove it up his or her nose and twirl. -- rinse and re-use as needed. Good for colds, allergies, pollen, dandruff and scrofula -- or some such. If any readers need a nasal brush let me know and I'll try to buy you a set (Grandma's Nasal Brush comes three to a package). And so it goes. DJA
Note: gmail blog program presently makes it nearly impossible to fix typos or mis-spellingsto delete or insert words or phrases. Or to add photos. I believe it's their problem and not mine. If it continues I'll start a new blog with a different host. dw tried to make a correction to this blog and said: "This is unacceptable." DJA

A Road Trip Of Modest Proportions

   But first, a moment of silence for the effective passing of Perry Mason, who for nearly fifty years(as all Portlanders know) was firmly settled into noon re-runs. Alas, the station featuring Perry moved him to the Siberia of 8 A.M. on some -- Hah! you think you're a real TV station -- channel. Admittedly it has been some years since dw and I watched him, but it was always a comfort to know he was there. 
   The regulars knew which episodes to watch and which to turn off and perhaps do something vaguely constructive. The ones to definitely skip would involve a little blond curly-haired girl insipid, with a sappy little voice just begging to have a sock stuffed in it. A little less skippable would feature an artist, a hippy, a musician or a beatnik, always languid -- overwhelmed with ennui -- sometimes good for a laugh, particularly the inevitable beatnik coffee house. Nearly as entertaining as when Paul Drake would haul out a cement block sized portable phone. 
   Alas, it's nearly unreachable now. A moment of silence. .........................................................

   To the current point: dw and I have started a modest road trip. We're driving to the Grand Canyon North Rim where we'll meet Steve and Kay (bro and SO) We'll hang out a bit, do a few small (anything dw and I do will be small) hikes, and then Steve and Kay will run their second marathon in a week and dw and I will look for some doable slot canyon hikes.

   The drive to Twin Falls, ID was uneventful. Just the usual assortment of other drivers who bust their asses to pass, pull in front, and then slow down. Or the other ones who park in the left lane (By God! I'm almost driving the speed limit and that's good enough for everyone else.).  I regularly tell myself: "Patience is a virtue." ------ After some thought I need to admit -- I've never claimed to be virtuous.  But so it goes. DJA