Dear Uncle Zeke,
I am sorry that I haven’t written for a while. I hope that you’re out of solitary confinement. Remember, the screws are lifers too; just ignore ’em. You’re due for a parole hearing in the next couple of months, and you don’t want to jeopardize your chances by doing something stupid. I bet now you regret using the kool-aid powder to make your teeth blue for the last hearing. Sure, it was funny, but who got the last laugh? You’re still in.
It’s been busy here. Keeping up with the OJ Trial, alone, takes time each day. And I’m spending an hour or two on e-mail daily (TRHoerr@AOL.COM) chatting with folks I hope never to meet. Then there’s the time that I’m spending training my dogs’ pets. That’s right, my dogs’ pets, the pets that belong to my two dogs. I’m not sure whether or not I wrote about this earlier, but the first wife and I decided to that we would get into the flea-training business. You see, the dogs, Moxie and Boomer, have fleas again this year. Having fleas is sort of a summer/fall ritual in St. Louis, like complaining about the humidity and being disappointed with the Cardinals. Regardless of how often we bathe the pooches in flea soap, clip them, or use vaseline and tweezers to catch the fleas, they keep their pets.
“So why not train ’em?” we thought! I mean, how difficult can it be to get these little fleas to jump through hoops and pull tiny wagons? We’re not talking about solving quadratic equations or performing in a marching band here! This is not Rocket Science.
Given the number of fleas on the doggos, collecting them, unfortunately, was pretty easy. It was easy as shooting fish in a barrel or identifying fools at a Republican National Convention. We just picked the buggers—fleas, not Republicans—off the dogs and stored them in an old pill bottle.
Training the fleas, on the other hand, was much tougher than I expected. Fleas must not have ears because they couldn’t hear me telling them what to do. I mean, they just hipp-hopped everywhere! Assertive discipline didn’t work at all; neither did using the MegaSkills.
I was able to get one little fella, I named him Napoleon, to balance on a toothpick. Actually, he did it twice and then I lost him. Heaven knows where he’s balancing now, but there’s a mysterious itch in my beard! Three fleas did show some potential. At least they haven’t escaped to a flea resort somewhere in the house. To help develop rapport with them, we’ve named them Donner, Blitzen, and Ralphie. It’s not the easiest of tasks, Zeke, but I figure that this has the potential to be a great show for local cable TV company. Already the team and I are more interesting than anything on HBO or the Family Network; Home Shopping Channel, on the other hand, would be much tougher competition.
Here’s the big news… The first wife has been approached by Zephyr Press about doing a coffee table gift book for the ’95 holiday season! Yes, we’re pretty excited. It’s always gratifying when someone you know has their interests, expertise, and talents recognized. She’s worked hard for years, and deserves this. It’s only in the first draft stage, but the working title is *SHOES I HAVE KNOWN AND LOVED*.
How this came to be is an interesting tale in itself. Apparently representatives from Zephyr Press went to Ireland and talked to some shoe factory executives (you may remember that we visited the shoe factories there a couple of years ago). The Zephyr people already had the topic for the book but were looking for someone, a collector of note, to take the lead in organizing and writing it. They told us that every shoe executive they met, a dozen or so, gave them two or three names, but that Karleen was the only person who was named by each and every one of them. That’s no small feat! (Get it, Zeke?)
Thus far the first wife has spent her time conceptually, focusing on creating categories for the book. Some time in the next few months they’ll send someone to come by for the actual photographs. She’s far from finished, but the initial categories center around: season; lace, slip-on, tie, or Velcro; country of origin; nickname; family lineage, and color. Fortunately, the first wife has all 300+ pairs of her shoes recorded on 3X5 cards and listed by name and other variables, so this isn’t as daunting a task as it might sound.
But enough of me, Uncle Zeke, I hope that you’re holding out OK. The wife and I loved the last photo of you, really of your newly tattooed back. No, you’re right, I wouldn’t have recognized you. Heck, your skin is just like a mural with all those tattoos. I can see why the other prisoners call you “Sistine!” And it’s remarkable the way that they could re-make the old tattoo of your ex-wife. For a minute or two I thought it was an original drawing of Flicka, but then I recognized that the eyes belonged to Babs. Your ex-wife always was a nay-sayer. (Get it, Zeke?)
I will try to send you some newspaper clippings and cookies. I’d like to write longer, but I have to go now. My good friend Judge Ito is about to make a pronouncement about the use of electronic devices in the hallways.
Best,
Hawkeye
