476 Ninety-nine Hundred, or 22 22

This blog will expire sooner than most, so if you must read it, either do it soon, or you’ll have to seek it in the archives or the trash.  It’s absurdly long, apparently pointless, and tortured. I doubt there’s any value in wading though it, but some readers will rush through it. It is strictly for them that I leave it, for the nonce. By the way, I don’t recommend rummaging through trash.  I’ve done more than my share of that sort of thing, and it isn’t as rewarding as it may seem at first. Just let it go. Let go.

(This was an object lesson in clarity of grammatical structure, continuity, and transparent composition, overly edited, to the fascination of me. We haven’t gotten around to the love of me, which we may not have time for. It contains no gags, the funny bits left out. That is, it is no longer amusing, nor entertaining, just long, a divertimento, which is not a term of grammatical “can’t”, as far as I know, but I could be mistaken. I was just mistaken about “can’t”, wasn’t I?) Okay, here’s how this started originally:  (You can’t end a sentence with a colon, or can, being quite liberal and in the mood, you?)

(305) 476-9900 has a lovely outgoing announcement, and delightfully easy phone mail system. Those who aren’t inclined to listen to the love announcement of Gardner’s Market, the one on Bird Road, that is, can speak directly to the management directly, by depressing the seven on their telephones, due to a very convenient feature of highly-technological software engineering, briefly announced toward the end.

Unfortunately for them, 476 can’t be remembered.

Lee’s wallet, well known to all, was found, retained, identified, and secured, thanks to the alert attention and perspicuity of their finest employees, who, upon discovering it, lain peculiarly, next to the cash register upon the counter, precisely where Mrs Browne, who remembered quite accurately, had posited it, remembering to call them soon after alerting her lazy house-servant, me, Marshall, who ain’t too clever at closing her gate.

(It is Lee who is known to us, not the wallet. The wallet isn’t known to all, she is. The wallet’s just known to us.)

It was left open by the fine and illustrious home maintenance man from Boca Raton, who drives, very dutifully, and entirely at his own expense, to supply her every domestic need, without even bothering her with advance calls, for he knows how disturbances can detonate the sweet tranquility of the kind, elderly, and utterly gentle lady’s delicate beauty rests. She’s known him for years.

Her delightful, sweet vocal call roused the rake’s needless unconsciousness in the garage outside, where I was sleeping like a loaf, or an oaf, and, like Thor, I bolted, to the door.

Jim the Roofer, it seems, the fine gentleman we have introduced earlier in this missive, at the beginning of the paragraph immediately precedent the previous, had carefully opened the gate, but neglected to close it.

This brilliant apparatus, the clever invention of Mrs Browne, herself, the sweet denizen of the manse we all know, and at 85 years of age, bless her little heart, quick as her whip despite many, long years of suffering the unfortunate affliction of her sole remaining sons this paragraph should be broken, right about here

[This, such as it is, is called stylistics, but amateurish.  But that’s what I am, so far.]

with that dreadful scourge of psychiatry, dementia praecox, more precisely known, in our present times, to many as “schizo-” meaning “split”, with “-phrenia”, universally recognized by all of us today as the scientific term for “personality”. [Everybody knows what personality is, me idiot! What did I say that for?!]

That means that they are quite, quite mad, and evidently, but inexplicably, at her, living, as do we all, in blessed peace and tranquility, in this lovely house near the famous and excellent hospital, Mercy, a dreadful condition, of no fault of hers, of course, but with which she simply must cope somehow, to the end of her days. A house, may she add, which nobody, in all her days, has ever said was deficient in any way before!

Her now long-damned husband, [It’s getting overly stylistic at this point, but I have my reason; that is, I haven’t quite lost it.] long-term president of the American Institute of Architects, now located in its lofty skyscraper in Manhattan, had chosen it himself, and with her approval, hadn’t he? When they came from Key Biscayne?

I needn’t excoriate, if that’s the right word, which it isn’t, long, and long-windedly, upon the illustrious foundation and admiral, which is again the wrong word, subsequent development of Our Lady’s fine institution, except to mention that it occupies many of Miami’s most beautiful acres by the Biscayne Bay, including many fine parking lots, now closed, due to the recent economic crisis, which has rendered their use difficult, and unprofitable for valets, who set their vestigial, tailor-related, employments aside for a small, slightly remunerative consideration. I shall break this paragraph off here, giving my readers a chance better to guess what is going on.

These fine young men, who keep traffic away from the doors in their spare time, have recently announced that the parking lots are driving down business, too close to the point of extinction, at the lovely new parking garage within easy walking distance, just down the entry road, and visitors needn’t even traverse the empty lots, now abandoned, but maintained, in the corner of the site, by the bay, where nobody but car traffic and city buses goes anyway.

Besides, they are on the wrong side of the building to get into the front door, visitors would have to go around the corner, that way.

The riders on our these buses barely realize the fine vistas passing by, we report, exclusively, harried as they are by problems such as poverty. This horrid practice of paupers’ gazing, being necessitated, I wot, only by the Metro-Dade Transportation Department’s very own imbecility, must cease immediately, of course, and be denied to bus riders, for the experience of viewing the bay is too precious a gem for such as they, and the rightful property of the city, which is in direct communication with the Vatican, which apparently is callous, or negligent, in this civic matter, a direct conflict between Church (Catholic) and State. Unfortunately for us all, such conflict does indeed occur, and no one’s to blame.

The view across the parking lots is delightful to their (Vatican’s) precious retired and under appreciated religious, no longer mendicant nor importunate, and is hardly impeded by the bus traffic, passing seldom and quietly by, far away in the distance, between themselves and our priceless clean seawater wavelets beyond. Please pay attention.

Mrs Browne alerted the reprehensible me to what was happening with the live oak leaves entering through the gate, and I stumbled to stop them and evict them from the laundry room, formerly a long, disused half of the garage, immediately adjacent to the kitchen door, from which she observed them, approximately forty in number, and attributable to me (but put there deliberately by Aeolus the wind, who enters the gate whenever it is left ajar), as we have determined, and as in this event, is constantly left open (Oh, that paragraph was going to go on forever.)

(not the leaves, but the gate) by persons unknown, but suspicion must be directed towards me, in light of its frequent occurrence, plus the incontrovertible fact that I am always dozing here, aren’t I? My duty is to observe the gate at all times, and keep it shut, and each leaf excluded, come hell or high water, which I can’t, the water getting right through it, but she doesn’t want to hear such drivel. My job is my job. High water, her foot.

Twenty to 22 hours a day, I get to attend to my duties (for such are my own stupid vigils, though Heaven knows why) and dearest Jim, poor Jim, ancient and unfortunate (having been afflicted with cancer, as he was) Jim, coming all the way from Boca Raton, and charging her so reasonably, never, ever leaves the gate open (oh yes he did), and besides he wasn’t (was) here today, earlier, was he? She hasn’t seen him in ages!

Somebody will approach Gardner’s Market for the wallet. The Mercedes’ keys, all one of them, cannot have gone far in two weeks, and is sure to show up in my room. I’ve looked under the rug.

It’s a small rug, besides, and it, being large, cannot possibly be under it. Well, I must look under it again, and not bother her, she’s exhausted after spending all day doing chores. I am trying here not only to elucidate and explicate, but also to educate, so please do pay attention. There will be ample opportunity to ask any question you like, but later.

Three bags of garbage were found again today and put on the steps! Where it all comes from, with the boys out of her hair, and her the only one in the house, and the phone constantly falling out of its cradle beside her is deep and mysterious, madly peculiar, but

one can easily communicate with her somehow, dammit, meanwhile, I must leave her alone and attend to myself and the leaves and the mail, which she’s sure she thanked me for, when I so disturbingly made noises all over the house, trying to get on her nerves. Didn’t I know she’d just left the kitchen, for Christ’s sake?

I brought in the newspaper, not her.

And I must stop these damn noises! But thanks, but no thanks, for the mail, let her see now, was it late?

Please we’d be overly delighted to hear from the many, many visitors to our sight, particularly in answer to a question, if they,re our any. There are only the four of us working here now. Three, I mean, counting myself.

We are, of course, all in our head, and this style is called “tortured to the point of illegibility”, which, unfortunately, all too often occurs, which is, in our case, a lesson which we positively must learn, and towards which we are making only regress.  If I don’t delete this blog, it will surely be a crime, but I must learn my own lesson my way. I’ll be sorry.  I mean we’ll be sorry, which is its equivalent, without an apostrophe. “Its”, that is. It mustn’t and doesn’t contain an apostrophe, which is no big deal to most.

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One Response

  1. Re. That should be re, regardless. What an idiout, “they, re”!

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