Kenneth Weene

                                                      In kindness I will call myself eccentric—not in every manner but in some and then defiantly so. I shall share but a few of my idiosyncrasies here and in the process if not inform at least amuse. First there is the matter of tea. I love tea. My wife and I at last count had over forty canisters, small green metal boxes each capable of holding approximately 100 grams of leaves and other ingredients. Some are black teas from China, Africa, and India. Of course there is wonderful chai and rooibos teas from everywhere. There is mint tea—wonderful hot or iced. Fruit teas make wonderful iced beverages. And on hand I keep a few condiments to enhance my drinks—dried orange and lemon peel, lavender, and honeys, yes there are varieties of honey to be considered. To brew a good cup, I use individual bags into which I spoon the leaves and such condiments as may be desired; then I add hot water from my Japanese-made water heater, which keeps a supply at 208 degrees Fahrenheit—perfect for tea or coffee. Given my tea obsession, it should not surprise that I have a dedicated tea mug. Bought in Sedona, thick walled, tan with a quail in relief: this is my tea mug, and nobody else is to use it. Thankfully my wife, who might otherwise tweak me by ignoring such personalization, finds it too heavy for her use. Otherwise, I think she might use it to soak dentures or otherwise drive...

There was a man who loved his daughter, and as such loving fathers do, wanted her to be most happy. The problem was a simple one, she wished to marry; and she being very beautiful would surely have no difficulty in finding a husband—no difficulty were it not for the fact that this loving father was a pirate, the captain of a black-flagged ship that sailed the Caribbean preying on merchantmen from every land.   Although the father was himself a buccaneer, he would not accept a scurvied sea dog for a son-in-law.  His daughter, he knew in his heart, deserved more. He wanted her to marry well. And, having his lost his own wife overboard some years before—she having run off with a merchant who was being held for ransom—the pirate knew his daughter too might run away rather than spending a lifetime priming cannon and pining for love.   The captain was a brave man. He did not quail at battle nor fear death, but the thought of losing his daughter was more than he could bear. So great was his concern that he contemplated surrender. He would sail close enough to the coast of England or some other land of decent suitors and in the middle of the night steal off with the girl, throw himself on the mercy of the courts, and be content in the knowledge that his beautiful daughter would then be free to find her man.   That would be a plan; he...

  “Hank.”  What’s wrong now? “Yeah.”  “Your sister.”              “Elena? What about her?” “She’s on the phone.”  “What does she want?”  "Ask her yourself.” Yeah, she’s angry.             Hank picked up the phone. “Hi.” “Did you call Mom?” Elena wasn’t one for small talk. Hank could imagine her in one of those gray business suits she seemed to always wear. She probably sleeps in one. He smirked to himself.  “What?”  “Mom. Did you at least call her?”  “Wh…”  “It’s Mother’s Day you moron,” she added.  “Mother’s Day.” Oh shit, I didn’t… What the hell am I gonna do? Judy will be soo pisssssed. Even in his own mind, Hank drew the words out.  “Yeah, Mother’s Day. You know a little consideration wouldn’t kill…”  “You’re right, Sis. You’re absolutely right. Sometimes I just forget. So busy … work … you know how it is.” He stammered out the rationalization knowing that his big sister didn’t buy a word of it; she never had.  Elena had always been the organized one; he was something else: Self-absorbed his friends said. Narcissistic was the word most other people used. Elena just called him inconsiderate. Judy’s term was “a selfish little prick.”  “Not so little,” he had tried to joke.  “Fine. A big prick.” “I’ll call her now. Right now.”  Elena started to say something; he didn’t listen.  “What did she want?” Judy hollered from the bedroom. Hank could visualize her, still damp from the shower, long light brown hair hanging to her shoulders. Wrapped in...

They walk the shady paths of the park. He pushes the carriage, which holds their sleeping child. “Have you told your secretary we’re going on vacation?” “Don’t worry about it. Just let me run the office.” He remembers a phone call that must be made. Two weeks later, now alone, she understands. Certainly the secretary had known his plans....

  Cutting taxes as a way to the poorhouse.  A commentary for my fellow Americans No question, government agencies can blow through money. The recent farce at the GSA gives new meaning to the term government waste. And I am surely not the only American who wonders what Secret Service agents’ cavorting with prostitutes has cost taxpayers. Then there are the super-expensive items, those ashtrays, hammers, and toilet seats—mostly purchased by the military—with obscene price tags. Generally they have been defended as meeting special requirements, such as the toilet seat not disintegrating when suffering a direct hit from a bomb. It always seemed to me that the toilet seat disintegrating would be the least of any sailor using the head at such a moment. However, who am I to judge? And, of course, there are the many instances of inter-departmental duplication. While there may be a reason that salmon are considered by the ocean fisheries agency, the fresh water fisheries agency, and the streams and rivers agency, etc., it does seem to me that one salmon ombudsman might contribute to all the agencies rather than having staff talking lox in so many places. With every intention of sarcasm, I am sure the bagel department could provide a staffer for the job. Having made my anti-waste sentiments quite clear, I feel sufficiently cleansed to point out how easily cutting government spending can cost a great deal more in the long run. I first understood this when we bought our first house on...