Life, love, lust and lunacies from the Sage of Topanga · A Bard Doesn’t Take Out the Garbage

I am having a little difficulty convincing my wife that now that I am the Bard of Los Angeles, as officially designated by the Huntington Library, I am due certain perks and privileges that non-Bards do not, and should not, receive.

That does not include possessing the right to have someone beheaded or imprisoned in a tower and I do not expect to be honored with a concubine of any sort or free drinks at Abuelitas but I do feel that a Bard should not have to take out the garbage or feed the dog every night.

Those of you who keep abreast of small events accorded to eager little people such as myself know that the Huntington has collected my life’s work and has it currently on display under the imposing title of “Al Martinez Bard of Los Angeles.”

Because the Huntington is an institution of prestige and knows a Bard when it sees one, I have accepted the title with all of its glorious manifestations. I do not wear tights and a ruffled collar, but I do shave more frequently, wear socks with my sneakers most of the time and limit my martini intake to one at a time and not lick them up like a dingo at a watering hole.

On the other hand, I see no reason why a Bard must continue doing menial chores around his Bardom, such as the aforementioned garbage chore or feeding the Bard Dog. I have suggested to the Bardette, which is to say my wife Cinelli, that it ill befits one who bears the Shakespearian title to be found engaging in tasks that demean it.

I doubt, for instance, that Will ever did anything but throw everything into the street outside his home, which was a common practice in the 16th century. Since there was no PETA back then, dogs were not offered special care and were forced to rummage for their food in the garbage that Shakespeare and the Missus tossed into the street.

“Are you suggesting,” the Bardette asked, “that we throw our garbage into the street in front of the house and let the dog eat whatever he can find in it that is edible?”

“Sort of,” I said in the deep baritone I had acquired since becoming a Bard.

“And you would sit at a table with a quill and scroll writing sonnets while I, your wench, did the housework, cooked, shopped, dusted, swept and polished and fed you wine and a whole suckling pig the remains of which would be thrown into the street for the Bard Dog to eat?”

“Well, since you put it that way,” I said, “the Bard could probably help out a little. Perhaps thee could just throw the dog food on the floor and let the Bard Dog consume it and lick the floor clean at the same time.”

“Good idea,” she said, “and we can throw your dinner on the floor in another part of the house which you can lick clean as you dine.”

You can guess how the rest of it went. The Bardette continued to bury me in truths and satire until my position weakened, my voice lost its deep, commanding baritone and I began squeaking like a parakeet.

I have since reassessed my position as the Bard of Los Angeles and will continue dutifully feeding the Bard dog in a spirit of reconciliation with the lovely Bardette. We have also agreed to share the garbage chores on an every-other-day basis.

The rest of the time I can sit on my big Bard ass and rewrite Hamlet. Not a bad life for a Bard. Martini Glass

Almtz13@aol.com

Once in a country far, far away, two young girls lived in a town called Berkeley. Patricia, who had escaped from Sterling Illinois and Sheri who took her first airplane ride from Utah, for a writing job at the Naval Air Station Alameda. This was all temporary, since they met and decided that they were never going home again and were going on a great adventure.
Patricia, worked at a number of jobs, selling land in Tahoe, freezers and food. And then she got a temp job at the Oakland Tribune. There she discovered the Oracle. A man who held truth. wisdom, irony, and laughter in his typewriter. He would share it with those who could read.
Patricia and Sheri loved his columns and as their adventures crumbled around them (Sheri got an A in Abnormal Psychology and thought she would get extra credit for running off with a sociopathic sailor, and Pat went home to help her mother as she faded into death by breast cancer.
Throughout 43 years these girls held on to their friendship and reminded each other that Oracle Al had once told the world that most things were better than having a tree growing out of your nose. We comforted each other through a thousand sorrows, and gave the small things perspective, often through those words.
Pat said perhaps her purpose was to learn how to continue. Sheri’s task was to learn to let go.
On April 26, 2011 Pat left her tiny, bald, broken body and continued on to the sky she loved so much. I have still to let go. This is worse than the tree you wrote about.
Pat said that she worked with the Oracle who wrote so beautifully, and the
writer from Sterling, who made the New York best sellers list, by plagiarizing Lord of The Rings, and had a friend who wrote 43 years of letters just for her.
Thank you Al. Your words were always with us.
Sheri Hogle
Sheri

To Sheri Hogle: Brief and beautiful story of your time with Pat, and your eulogy for her. The closing poem in OUR WORLD, by Mary Oliver, commemorating her life with renowned photographer Molly Malone, comforted me a lot after the death of my husband:

AFTER NOTE

How often now I just sit, with my
elbows on the desk and my hands
holding my face bold and upright,
and stare into the past.

* * *

I’ve learned that our truest wealth is in our memories, the good and the bad. May your memories, because they’ll always be with you, help you to move forward.

I follow your column regularly when it appears in the Daily News and was so disappointed to learn you were no longer going to be contributing. I am a 59 year old newspaper READER who has witnessed the slow decline of the once heavy and worthwhile plop onto my driveway of the best day-starter since coffee. How sad that there are so few of us left. I am still sans computer at home, having only access at work, and I am a voracious reader as well. I will miss your incomparable style and insight as well as the sweet sidebars into your family life. Thank you for sharing, Mr. M.

This may not be the very best place to write this but here goes. I was dismayed that you will no longer have a column in the Daily News. I am writing them to object to their decision to end your Monday morning delight. I understand that newspapers are having financial difficulties. Without your input at the paper I just might add to their grief of one less subscriber.

Don

I second the comment from “Don”. Your column was funny as well as inspiring. I have a suggestion for “filling your time”. I would love to have a book of your best columns written as far back as you wish to go with such musings. Possibly you have done this already, but then an updated version would be nice.
Keep the world updated on this sight and enjoy whatever you do.

Nancy

To my favorite columnist from your favorite reader (your words),

I was dismayed, to say the least, that my favorite DN column will no longer appear. I E-mailed the publisher/president and told him how upset I am and urged him to reconsider. I hope that he does and your column will resume. However, if not, I am happy that I discovered your blog. It will keep me connected to you. Meanwhile, as they say, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. Enjoy this new stage of your life. I know that you will find new wonders to fill your time.

Charlotte Gussin-Root
Tarzana

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A Bard Doesn’t Take Out the Garbage

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