And Gutenberg Lived Here: Of Corona, Linguistical Nonsense, And A Musician’s Shaggy Dog Story.

As I wrote in my last blog entry, we here in Gutenberg land,

Or at least the “we” who are

apparently,

more than temporarily locked in here,

in our magical hopefully corona-repellent apartment,

unless the Gutenberg scientists,

who are the ones here in Germany working on the shots,

the ones that will finally bring our lives back to normal,

before Christmas….

hmmm…

but, since we are true Gutenberger,

and trust in,

no matter what,

God and the mardi gras season,

we know that, at the latest, we will be out of here by February.

And if not, they will simply hold the mardi gras when the shots are here.

And so we stay inside.

Or put on heavy duty masks,

to go shopping,

where we are more or less acosted

by senior citizens,

begging us to talk to them about cucumbers,

and which frozen peas are better,

since, with the limiting of contact during this survival at all costs period,

those who get their daily dose of what is going on in Gutenberg,

from the local tell it all human newspapers,

are unable to get their daily gossip.

And so, we, unfortunately, walk past wistful eyes of the gossip starved,

and, to be fair, just plain human contact starved,

and promise them, “it’ll be over soon.”

And it will.

Gutenberger are crafty.

And survivers.

And have great scientists.

And so we stay inside

and do the eight brocades (that’s qi gong, for you lazy ones who only lift weights.)

And then we cook.

Healthy.

With lots of lemons.

And garlic.

Which means the apartment smells of that,

and not the fact that we are inside all the time.

Playing couch potatoe.

And then we clean.

Everything we have.

And when that gets boring,

we pull out the ancient blogs

we always wanted to get around to posting some time,

re-open the blog,

and put it on our page.

No matter what season we are supposed to be writing in.

And so, since I found this in my box,

and it is always good to plan ahead,

and how is that for an intro?

Here is the story I wrote last year,

and then chickened out of publishing.

Hope you like it.

 

Since musicians,

like the sailors who once carved delicate and beautiful scrimshaw,

are experts at the useful spending of time,

(and if you believe that one, I have a Bridge over the Hudson you can have cheap),

while waiting for the forty nine hundred bars in Wagner’s Ring to be over

so they can finally play six tones and go home to bed,

I thought I’d send you a small story,

the musicians’ highly beloved Shaggy Dog Story,

just to keep my hand in while waiting for the Gutenbergers

to get over the holiday sugar rush,

and get back to work.

It goes like this:

Many many years ago,

at the time that the Viking Eric first landed his small Kontiki boat in New York,

at Sutton Loo, now called Soho,

his main helmsman was a Lapp,

called Rud,

who had brought his favorite reindeer along for company.

The reindeer was named Dolph.

Unfortunately, Rud was a short-tempered and violent man,

who beat his too full of Christmas spirit reindeer unmercifully

with a wooden riding crop.

But Eric, being a gentle man, and an animal lover, took the crop from him,

and used it to smash Rud’s most highly prized Ostrich egg,

gathered during a previous journey around the world.

This gave him such pleasure, he then developed the game of Dolph,

later known as golf by the first New Yorkers,

who had a slight problem with Ds.

It was practiced on that very spot ever since

by the animal protection people of New York,

in commemoration of the bloody nose given by Rud to the most famous reindeer of all,

Rud’s Dolph, the red nosed reindeer.

May our next Christmas be Corona free.

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