El Periodico

They say a watched pot never boils. As well, a watched porch stoop never produces the morning paper. I have pathetic weekend habit. I get up out of bed, and instead of dragging a comb across my head, I peek out the front door in hope of seeing a freshly folded, entombed in clear plastic, morning paper. It never happens. I usually repeat the ritual every 3 minutes, 42 seconds until the paper finally appears, albiet too late for me to read over a cup of coffee as I have already had three cups and am about to leave on a pickled mission of some sort. By then it technically isn't the morning paper, anyway. It is the mid-morning paper. Or the late morning paper. Or news that is so late that it is not news anymore; it is history. I'd complain to the good folks at the Pepinoville Press ("We give you an objective perspective of a slanted point of view. Every day," boasts the masthead), but that would compromise my already distant relationship with the paperboy, Melonhead. He is one of those sweet, quiet adolescents who could just be on the eve of blossoming into a huge, angry teenager. I want to stay on the distant side of him. So my weekend paper comes belatedly each weekend morning, and I continue to pace back and forth from the kitchen table to the front door, like a dog in some sick psycologist's experiment. Like the wacky doctor's canine, I had been programmed for this behavior since I was a child in midievel Detroit. You see, the paper in those dark ages would come in the wee hours of the morning; a 6 a.m. arrival was late, kids. Yea, you could begin reading the Detroit Free Press while it was still dark out! Imagine... And get this: there were two local papers in those ancient times. And they were independent as well. Yep, two different owners and two different editorials. So you read the morning paper in the morning, then you came home from work, school, or gangland activity and read the evening paper, the Detroit News, in the evening! Hey, the fudal Detroit of my youth may not have offered much more than a corrupt, race-baiting mayor, thrillingly unsafe streets, and a court-mandated bus ride to a school on the far side of town, but atleast you could read about it first thing in the morning. And then again before you went to bed...

Desesperando,

Pepino Lector

Huele Pescado

Smell that? Yep, them's fish frying. Pepino Sauve and the Sultans of Sole will hold their sporadic-weekly pilgramage to the Blessed Breading Lenten Fish Fry. See you there. We'll save you a seat.

Super hambriente,
Peppy

PD I'd be much obliged if you'd pass me your second's tickets, seeing as you're going to toss 'em anyway...

A Pepino Pause

Knowing all truth is less than doing a little bit of good.

- Dr. Albert Schweitzer

Bondad,

Peps

Pescado Al Horno/Pescado Frito

Last night la familia Pepino went to our first fish fry of the Lenten Season. We missed the first two fries because of a sickness and a late soccer practice. Both times, our pickled pal, El Calificador, attended alone as his bride was on a humanitarian shopping trip in the Bahamas, and we bailed at the last minute and without warning. I lured him and his tanned wife to the dinner last night by calling them from the fry location, Blessed Breading, and told them I was waiting for them in the shadow of the Mother Mary. They came, as did the good Pastors Lama and Obejo, and their daughter Lana. It was interesting to note that the choices of fried or baked went along political lines. We always thought it was a Michigan State, University of Michigan thing. The Pastors aren't football fans.
The fish fries are a festive occasion, especially on St. Patty's day. I can see how a faith endures centuries if the faithful are allowed to show piety at dinnertime, and then drink to dawn accompanied by Irish music. Go Catholicism.
The highlight of my teaching week occured Tuesday when a student exclaimed in Spanish, "!A mi me gusta Moco Loco!" ("I like Crazy Booger"). That kind of impromptu language shows real, purposeful acquisition. The low point was that most of the class and some of the staff felt it was inappropriate. I borrow a line from the Zombies classic: "Please don't let me be misunderstood". Carry on.

Hasta la proxima comida,

Pepino Pescador

Pepino Politico (continued)

Pepinita's Pepinoville Lighting lost a nail-biter, 7-2, in the last 45 minutes of the game. Not bad for the first game of the indoor soccer tournament. We return you now to our Pepinoville Political Update:

Bushel, in true Machiavelian manipulation, gave the rest area management contract to the the Brussel Sprouts. The local press got wind of it and put it on page 8, buried under a lifestyle piece entitled, "Don't Pour Out the Pickle Jar: There Are Plenty of Uses for the Juices! ", and all Heinz broke loose. The Sweets, for years accusing Bushel and his cabal of racism, xenophobia, and arrogance, went full tilt against the rest area contract. They marched on main street with placards and shouts, "We are Insecure!", "Remember the Compost!", "This Stinks!", "Civil Right, Civil Shmights, Protect Us!", "Go Back to Where You Came From!", and other sentiments unprintable on a blog as esteemed and widely read as this one.

Talk about a one-eighty, Bushel finally got some support for his security message, as well as isolationism, and distrust of Anyone Not Like Us.

Bushel's plot went so well some Dill insiders predict that Bushel may propose to end all war, everywhere, and dismantle the entire pickle arsenal, hoping the Sweets will finally support more defense spending (the pea catapults are merely plastic spoons).

Bushel may even propose halting the construction of the new PickleMart planned just off the Interstate...

Comun y corriente,

Pepino Suave

Pepino Politico

Pepinoville politics heated up this week. The Dill Party ("The Dills") and the Sweet Party ("The Sweets") are at each other's throats again. Actually, it all began with an ironic coup on the part of the leader of the Dills, Bushel. For years his mantra has been security, yet his attempts at protecting his pickled costituency have often been obstructed by the Pickles Sweet. Well, he found an opportunity to get everyone in the same barrel when the contracts for managing Pepinoville's interstate rest areas went up for bids (the two rest areas, on either side of Interstate 57, are what put Pepinoville on the map). For years the rest areas were managed by a Cauliflower concern out of Weeki Wachee, Florida. Well, the Cauliflowers went bust like their former empire, and the contract was available for bidding this year. One of the bidders was a group of Brussel Sprouts out of Hells Creek Bottom, Mississippi. I am sure our audience is aware of the average pickle's suspicion, dislike, and thinly veiled contempt of a brussel sprout. For centuries the Cucumber nations and the Brussel Sprout nations have been at odds over the most germain element of each other's belief system: What is the best irrigation? Brussel Sprouts, of course, are trickle irrigationists, strictly speaking, and Pickles are direct irrigationists, with some splinter groups believing in hydroponics (but they are rarely taken seriously). Anyway, it has been a centuries-old conflict that has become unusually heated with the recent composting of thousands of pickles by an ultra-conservative brussel sprout group called "Moisture or Death".

Editors Note: This very important Pepinoville current event brought to you by the good people at Pepino Suave International Casa of Yippee Skippee Games, Stories, and Songs will be continued after Pepinita's soccer game. The ball drops in twenty minutes and the Pepino Suave Express isn't even warmed up! We gotta go....

Familia

Pepino Peludo, my barely younger brother, and his cherubs, Lobo Gaseoso and Bailerina paid a visit to the estate of Casa Pepino this weekend. Actually, Pepino Peludo dropped off his daughter Bailerina on Friday while he and Lobo (El Mas) Gaseoso continued to the lakeshore to sleep on a submarine with the remainder of their cubscout pack. Imagine a flatulent wolf in an enclosed submarine for a night. There most be a service patch in it somewhere.
Bailerina showed us how much more to a kitchen there is besides a microwave. She is quite the cook. Once Lobo Gaseoso and his old man showed up on Saturday, we decided to hike Pepinoville instead of our usual wrestling match (Pepino Suave is getting old and brittle). The hike was supposed to take us along the winding Rio Mocoso, but we ended up stumbling upon Pepinita's school. We decided to try the trek again on Sunday, only to have Lobo Oleroso fall into the creek. Oh, we became disoriented, again, as well. Next visit we'll just play dominoes.
As usual, it was enchanted visit from a fun family. Pepinita is in heaven whenever her cousins are near. I heard non-stop giggles all weekend.
They know they have a casita in Pepinoville, whenever they wish to return.

Un tio orgulloso,

Tio Suave

A Pepino Pause

My recent semester at the University of Know It All Yet Know Nothing has made the following quote all the more apt:

There is little room left for wisdom when one is full of judgement.

-Malcom Hein

Atentamente,

Pepino Escolar

El Viernes Es Nuestro

Feliz viernes, compadres. We made it. The personnel department at Pepino Suave International Yippee Skippee Games, Songs, and Stories is swamped with complaints from exhausted associates. Why, we had the Pickled Dads and Daughters camping last weekend, Pepino Suave's last class at the local University of Know It All Yet Know Nothing on Monday night, Parent/Teacher conference with Pepinita's fabulous profesora and pancake supper at church on Tuesday night, Ash Wednesday service on, you guessed it, Wednesday night, dinner with Opa on Thursday night. To wrap things up, Pepinita has soccer practice tonight. It's enough to make a guy feel like a jar of relish.
This weekend Pepino Suave's brother, Pepino Peludo, arrives with his two cherubes, Chilito, and Fresa. They're going to help us celebrate Pepina's 432snd birthday!

Al paso,
P.Suave