Out of Time

I have just been informed that a locket and a Victorian pocketwatch, just like that of the White Rabbit's in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, has mysteriously turned up at Lost and Found.

For some reason, the people there, believe that it might belong to Richard, aka jazzolog, aka The Good Doctor, aka The Gentleman from Ohio.

The problem is that no one knows where Richard is to be found. Some of you have been asking about him, and since I have known him the longest here, with the exception of his good friend Quinty, I feel that it comes to me, out of a sense of duty and the respect due my old friend, to try to reassure people and say a few words as to his whereabouts. Unfortunately there is not much that I can say. As some of you might know, I do come and go a lot, and I do not stop here as often as I used to. The truth is that I haven't been much in touch with Richard of late. Like some of his good buddies here at The Wulfshead, I can only hope that he is well.

One rumor has it that Richard's absence has to do with Lent, a time of penance and a penitential frame of mind, and that our good friend has temporarily given up blogging and all related activity for the season. Lent technically ends on Holy Thursday, the final days of preparation before Easter. By that reckoning, there are those who believe that, just like the Easter Bunny, Richard will make a much awaited reappearance on Sunday, April 12th.

But then again, a part of me is concerned that he might have fallen into some dark hole... And Oh dear! Oh dear! He doesn't have his watch with him.


  1. I don't know how Tom happened to notice it's my birthday today, but his tribute is a wonderful gift. The ladies also are bracing in just the right places.

    Nor could Tom possibly have known I just had finished making a retrospective CD of Johnny Hodges for a music theory friend of mine at OU, before stopping by the watering hole. Johnny's nickname was Rabbit, certainly because of his quick skill with female admirers---sometimes one after another and other times all at once. So it comes together at this moment here and now.

    As to my absence, well---you know how time is on the Internet. When was I here last? A couple of reasons emerge. First, there appeared a new feature at Wulfshead that shows recent visitors and the number of comments they've made. I seem to be at the top of the a long shot. That was a bit shocking, and as I prefer never to dominate a site I thought I should shut up for a while and see what kind of atmosphere develops. I have been known to be quite adept at emptying a room.

    The second thing is the club has become increasing difficult to access for those of us, like most of the planet, still using dialup. At home, our computer has taken to freezing up at the very thought of clicking in here. Possibly it's all the YouTubes members have so creatively pasted (or whatever the process is for lifting videos from other sites) on these pages. I don't know, but YouTube is impossible if you don't have broadband.

    And of course Spring is coming to Appalachia. The peepers are out of the trees and into the ooze. The winds are blowing and buds are budding. For rabbits it's a special time to watch out for the owls. Be of good cheer, friends---and now let's have a round for everyone on the old boy!

  2. Yes, bonne anniversaire. That shot looks like the last library symposium I attended.

  3. Happy Birthday dear. Send the owls to me, could you? I'm over-run with squirrels.

  4. Happy Birthday Jazz from the mystic seas or is it the mystic seers or the searing mystic! Gosh. As you can see, I am totally confused so you can perchance forgive my for passing by your birthday as there was no intention to bypass anything. I offer you a tall cool glass of moonshine and hope it drowns you in its beauty. As for owls, their haunting cries I often hear on midnight walks, but their eyes remain hidden even from me.

  5. Utah, meet Indira...who has a special way with owls, and many creatures. I don't know about squirrels though. I imagine they sleep safely in her lap by the light of this amazing full moon.

    My problem recently has been raccoons---which have become a lot nastier than I remember them as a boy. It seems nimals are increasingly impatient with our careless presence. Fortunately The Wulfshead provides asylum.

  6. Nimals? I've never seen a nimal, however I shall keep my eyes open for them. Do owls eat them?

  7. Mmmmm...yes. Well, nimals are devotees of a "game" called nim, made famous in the 1961 Alain Resnais film Last Year At Marienbad. Indira is too young to remember this, but it drove all of us crazy for weeks until we learned the secret of winning every time. That was how the menacing cadaver of a character always forced his opponent to take the last toothpick. The toothpicks (or whatever) are laid out in rows of 7, 5, 3, and 1. You can take as many toothpicks as you want from any single row. Whoever is stuck with the last one loses. That guy would be perfect for The Wulfshead.

    In fact the movie, scripted by Robbe Grillet, could take place in here. For all I know, The Wulfshead is IN Marienbad---or was it Frederiksbad?

  8. Too young? you say, well, I can remember into the future which leaves you a baby in its cradle, now bring me a Ligthtning Grass, she seethed, which for those of you who do not know, is a drink made far into the future, right here at this bar, which gains worldwide recognition and pulmits Wufshead right out of obscurity; alas, its passwords are stolen and sold making certain pirates wealthy, just so the Uninvited can hack their way in for a taste of Lightning Grass. As for what it tastes likes, you'll have to live long enough to get into the the future Wulfshead and sip it for yourself. Hint: think violets untouched by human eyes in a deep dark forest.

  9. It took over a week, but the Bartender finally returned from the Future, Lightning Grass ingredients in hand. He looks none the worse for wear, as if trips back and forth across time and space are frequently done in his line of work. Heh, he also returned my pocketwatch, for which there was a handsome gratuity. He said it somehow had fallen into the hands of a very beautiful sorceress.

    Now, as for the drink, Ms. Indira, I'm relieved to discover this is not alcoholic at all. It's tea! Refreshingly enlightening in fact, and a most wonderful gift. It was worth waiting for and I am most grateful. There never could be something this healthy and good from fermented grass.

    I see what you mean about the gentle taste of violets. It's not like the perfume or incense fragrance I expected, thank goodness, but more of a shy essence with sudden riveting flashes of brilliance. No one with an ounce of experience trying to keep violets out of one's vegetable garden in Southeast Ohio would ever call them shy though. Our forest here this week will be blanketed with them in shades of white, yellow, marooon, and of course purple. I plan to lie among them, weather permitting, and write a poem.

    One interesting side effect to Lightning Grass: I stepped out of The Wulfshead just now, and discover I'm not longer in Ohio at all. This is Asheville, North Carolina! How in the world did that happen?