MEET THE 2010 WALDEN PUDDLER OF THE YEAR

On April 24, Sara and John tied the knot in a beautiful outdoor wedding ceremony in a town much nicer than Walden Puddle. Most towns are.

The Management of Walden Puddle Gift Shop has known Sara since she was an infant. We watched her grow up and become a person of grace, compassion, sensitivity, accomplishment, and every other good quality you can think of.

John, meanwhile, is also a person of countless admirable qualities. They both got lucky -- Sara and John -- in finding the ideal life partner.

All that's just fine, but you have to do a lot more than that to be named Walden Puddler of the Year.

You have to make room in your schedule -- on your wedding day -- to read the most recent issue of Walden Puddle, which is what Sara is doing in the photo above.

After she was all caught up with events in Walden Puddle, Sara got married. Her unswerving devotion to Walden Puddle earns her the title of Walden Puddler of the Year.

That title, by the way, comes with perks. Sara and John will receive a free lifetime subscription to Walden Puddle, plus a link to a frightening full-size picture of Sergei of Kamchatka (which none of the rest you will have until you do something to earn it).

May all manner of blessings abound for you, Sara and John. Everyone in Walden Puddle -- bears and humans -- wishes you a ton of happiness. An absolute ton of happiness.

The Management
Walden Puddle Gift Shop



May 19, 2010, Vol. 1, No. 15


SPECIAL NEW ENGLAND
MUD SEASON ISSUE


CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)


THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Dr. Whipple shelves her plans for a Bear Wrestling Camp for Rich Kids. Meanwhile, a lovelorn Sergei of Kamchatka, overcome by loneliness, e-mails her again.

CLEANUP IN AISLE SEVEN
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Things worked out beautifully for Sara and John. Too bad we can't say the same for Rafe and Katy.

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
During Mud Season, do you have trouble distinguishing your pets from your children? Here's how to keep everybody clean.


THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: May 10, 2010. I hate Mud Season. Everything that isn't paved turns to slop. Did you know that during Mud Season, bears get stuck in the mud more often than cars? Well, they do. I spend the whole damn month of May pulling bears out of the mud with chains.

They should be grateful, but after I pull them out, they shake their fists at me. Since I am a scientist, I can read bear body language, so I know this gesture means they are annoyed with me. I believe they blame me for getting them stuck in the mud in the first place.

I don't understand their logic. Sometimes, I feel like I don't understand bears at all. And I have a Ph.D.

So, what the hell, if I can't understand bears, at least maybe I can make some money off them. Like with my Bear Wrestling Camp. Now that's on hold, too. Someone asked me if I had taken out insurance policies for the camp. "Insurance policies?" I said. "Hell, I can't afford insurance."

They pointed out that if one of my bears should get carried away and rip the head off one of my campers, I could be looking at a personal injury lawsuit. We live in a very litigious society.

So I have called off Bear Wrestling Camp for this year. Fortunately, no children have signed up, so I don't have to mail out any refunds, because I would have spent the money by now.

Nothing good happens during Mud Season.

As further evidence of that, I got an e-mail from Sergei. He wrote: "For all our squabbling, I believe we were meant to be together. We argue only because we are too timid to confront our own passion."

I wrote back: "Confront this." And I put in a picture of me making a certain universal gesture.

Finally, with Memorial Day coming up, I would like to share my favorite light summer recipe with you. Here it is:

WHOLE ROAST PIG IN MARINADE
1 medium-size pig (250-300 pounds)
20 gallons pancake syrup
86 lbs. brats
152 boxes Stove Top (any flavor)
106 bags Doritos (Spicy Sweet Chili flavor)
15 cases Old Milwaukee beer
Lousiana Hot Sauce (to taste)
a pinch of orange zest


Grind the Doritos into tiny flakes. Mince the brats well. Mix both with the Stove Top and moisten with Old Milwaukee. This is your stuffing.

Stuff the pig through the usual opening. Let the pig marinate in pancake syrup and Old Milwaukee for 36 hours. Remoisten with marinade often, using one of those plastic enema things.

Roast the pig over a low open fire for 4 days or until tender. Garnish with orange zest for a hint of citrus, and for more attractive presentation. Serve with a nice chilled Chablis. A delightful light summer meal. My bears love it. Your bears will, too.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin near town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.



CLEANUP IN AISLE SEVEN
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
1,357 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

It was spring, better known as Mud Season, and at Walden Puddle's only supermarket -- Edible Foods -- Rafe and Katy were in love. They had been in love since the seventh grade. However, both were too shy even to say good morning. They had never spoken. They had never even looked each other in the eye.

After high school, they took jobs as stock clerks at Edible Foods. Rafe worked in pickles and condiments. Katy worked in apples and oranges. During Mud Season, they spent endless hours mopping mud off the floors. One morning, as they were mopping Aisle 2, each bursting with love for the other but too shy to show it ... their shoulders brushed.

"Excuse me," said Rafe.

"Excuse me," said Katy.

They raised their heads, and their eyes met ... for the first time ever. Suddenly, all their unrequited longing was behind them.

"Rafe," said Katy.

"Katy," said Rafe.

They flung their bodies into a passionate embrace.

They spent the rest of the morning trading love notes, and peeking at each other from behind Ring Dings and other sugary items.

"Rafe," said Katy at lunchtime, as they sat on the loading dock, "when I see you with that pricing gun in your hand, I just melt. The way you hold that pricing gun, you look ... so ... so ..."

"Potent?" said Rafe.

"Yes. Potent," said Katy. "You look potent."

"And when I see you tenderly handling the apples and oranges, as if they were your children," said Rafe, "I feel so ... so ..."

"Protective?" said Katy.

"Yes," said Rafe. "Protective."

They decided to remain in the store after it closed. They would picnic in Produce. The rest ... they left unspoken.

Closing time came. The night lights switched on ... as romantic as candles.

"Mortadella," said Katy, slicing a pound of it.

"Baguette," said Rafe, grabbing one.

"Monterey Jack," said Katy.

"Emperor Penguin grapes," said Rafe.

They loaded a cart and headed for Produce. Just then, Rafe saw Wiggy, the supermarket cat, curling up for a nap in Aisle 3.

Happy beyond words, Rafe wanted to share his bliss with all living things. He found a bag of catnip and poured a large mound of the stuff next to Wiggy, who began to devour it.

Meanwhile, in Produce, Katy had prepared their picnic with a woman's touch, strewing parsley on the floor to simulate grass, and spreading a checkered tablecloth she'd found in the bakery section. When Rafe arrived in Produce, he was stunned by her beautiful arrangement.

"Katy," said Rafe.

"Rafe," said Katy.

They flung their bodies into a passionate embrace.

Back in Aisle 3, things weren't going as well. Wiggy had overdosed on catnip and begun to hallucinate. For his first number, Wiggy hallucinated that he was Raymond Burr ... in character as Perry Mason ... cross-examining Neil Armstrong at the Last Judgment.

"On July 20, 1969, Colonel Armstrong," said Perry Mason-Wiggy, "as you set foot on the moon ... you had been given, by NASA, just one simple little line to memorize and recite for posterity. You were supposed to say: One small step for ... a ... man. One giant leap for mankind. Is that not so?"

"How should I know?" said Neil Armstrong.

"Apparently you didn't know, sir, because you said, and I quote: 'One small step for ... man! One giant leap for mankind!' You left out the all-important article a, and without it, your quotation for the ages became ... utter gibberish!"

"So?" said Neil Armstrong. "Let the English majors fret about it."

"And then," said Perry Mason-Wiggy, "you stood by smugly ... while all humanity had no choice but to look the other way, and to sweep under the rug your barbaric mangling of language and logic!"

Neil Armstrong spit tobacco juice.

"Children ... innocent children ... read history books," said PerryMason-Wiggy, "that held on high your utterly senseless pronouncement 'One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind'!"

Neil Armstrong spit tobacco juice again, but up close, one could see his lip was quivering.

"And you, Colonel Armstrong, stood by indifferently ... as if to say, just live with it, people ... just cope ... like guests a dinner party pretending that the host hadn't really farted at all!"

Perry Mason-Wiggy's withering cross-examination finally broke the man. Neil Armstrong wept. "I'm sorry," he sobbed. "Forgive me. It was stage fright. I know I screwed up. The worst thing is ... I never apologized for it. My apology had to be dragged out of me at the Last Judgment."

"No further questions," said Perry Mason-Wiggy.

Thanking Raymond Burr for his time, Wiggy went back to Aisle 3 and ate more catnip.


Meanwhile, over in Produce, Rafe and Katy reclined upon their bed of parsley, feeding each other chunks of canteloupe topped with Redi-Whip. Suddenly, they heard the sound of breaking glass.

"Oh, my God. Burglars," whispered Katy.

"Nope. Breakage in Aisle Seven," said Rafe. He knew the exact location from the sound alone. When you work in a supermarket long enough ... you just know.

"I believe," said Rafe, "it was two jars of dill pickles and one jar of red bell peppers."

Indeed it was Aisle 7, and indeed it was two jars of dill pickles and one jar of red bell peppers. Wiggy had knocked them over, while careening through Aisle 7 like a pinball.

Wiggy was panicking because now he was on a bad catnip trip, hallucinating that he was Pope Inclement II in the year 410, fleeing Rome as an army of Visigoths descended upon the city. Desperate to escape the Visigoths and keep his job as Pope, Wiggy had knocked over some jars.

Rafe sighed. "Cleanup in Aisle Seven," he said.

"Don't go, Rafe. It's dangerous," Katy pleaded. "There's broken glass there. The lights are dim. And there may be burglars."

"I must go, Katy," said Rafe. "I do not know what fate awaits me.... I only know I must be brave.... I must clean up in Aisle Seven.... Or lie a coward in my grave."

"Please, Rafe. It's not worth it!"

"I must go, Katy. Pray for me."

"What's more important, Rafe?" said Katy. "Our love? Or Aisle Seven?"

"Our love means everything to me, Katy," said Rafe. "But I live by the Code of the Warrior Stock Clerk. A man's got to do ... what a man's got to do."

"Well, fine. I've lost interest anyhow," said Katy, pouting and putting on her blouse.

"No. Wait for me, Katy," Rafe pleaded. "I promise I'll come back."

"Why? Why should I wait?" said Katy. "I'll always finish a distant second to your precious condiments!"

"Don't do this to me, Katy," said Rafe.

"A woman's gotta do ... what a woman's gotta do," she mocked him.

Setting his jaw, Rafe rose from their bed of parsley and started walking. He didn't look back. There was a cleanup waiting for him in Aisle 7 ... and he was a man.

In Aisle 7, Rafe found Wiggy, his eyes big as saucers, bouncing off the shelving ... convinced that he was Pope Inclement II fleeing the Visigoths.

"You did this?" Rafe said angrily. "You broke these jars?"

It wasn't my fault, thought Pope Inclement-Wiggy II. It was these cumbersome papal vestments.

"I'll be there in five minutes, honey," Rafe shouted to Katy in Produce. "We've secured Aisle Seven! It's just a mop-up operation now!" But Katy wasn't in Produce anymore.

"I'm out the door, you loser," she said. Then she was gone.

Rafe would see Katy at Edible Foods every painful working day for the next 40 years. His heart would break when she married Vince, the Senior Instructor for Weighing Cold Cuts With Your Thumb on the Scale. But in the truest sense, that night already, Katy had vanished from Rafe's life forever.

"What'll I do now?" Rafe wailed. "How can I live without her?"

What do I care? thought Pope Inclement-Wiggy II, scanning the horizon for Visigoths. I've got my own problems.

"You bastard!" Rafe said to Wiggy. "You've ruined my whole life! You little fish-breath bastard!"

Pope Inclement-Wiggy II glared even harder at Rafe. You don't talk to the Pope like that. I banish thee from Our Papal Presence, and I separate thee from the embrace of the Church. With those words, Pope Inclement-Wiggy II excommunicated Rafe.

Now, with Rafe excommunicated, Wiggy ran to Aisle 4, where he believed that the College of Cardinals, cleverly disguised as bearded peasant women, were waiting for him on a luxury yacht that would take them to a members-only resort in the Bahamas ... far from the marauding Visigoths ... far from Rome ... far from Walden Puddle ... far from the Cleanup in Aisle Seven.

That was one close call, thought Wiggy as he reached the safety of Aisle 4, allowing himself to relax at last in a deck chair by the Jacuzzi. Those Visigoths ... they don't take prisoners.


THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
At the Agreeable Doughnut, we asked Lois Millstone how to get mud off cars, children, and dogs during Mud Season. Lois's blog on housekeeping -- "Keep It Clean, Dammit!" -- has received 19 hits so far this month, all of them from Lois herself.

"If you have a driven, anal personality," Lois told us, "you've won half the battle already. It's the laid-back, non-compulsive types who can't keep up. The mud builds up on them and their families faster than they can wash it off."

What should untidy people do?

"Go down to the firehouse and get cleaned off right ... with a high-pressure hose. Filthy pigs. I hate them. I take my children down to the firehouse every two hours for a high-pressure hosing."

How do the little ones respond to that?

"I hate dirt. I hate filth. I hate mud. I just hate. You hear me?"

Yes, but how do the little ones respond to the high-pressure hosings?

"They get to used to it," said Lois.



NEXT POST: September 21, 2010


FEATURING: "The Day Walden Puddle Stood Still." Beings from the planet Flatula, bent on enslaving the entire human race as caddies, copy editors, and cocktail waitresses, abduct 25 Walden Puddlers and 15 bears for aptitude testing.

RETURNING: Those two old standbys, "The Bears of Walden Puddle" and "The Talk of Walden Puddle."

AND INTRODUCING: "Walden Puddle: You Are There," a new column in which the entire humiliating history of Walden Puddle -- going back to 1674 -- is recounted, anecdote by painful anecdote ... and ... you ... are ... there.


After a summer-long break for its shiftless Management, Walden Puddle hopes to kick off Volume 2 on September 21 at a new address: http://OnWaldenPuddle4.blogspot.com/

Over the summer you may want to revisit Volume 1 to catch up with posts you missed, or have a second look at posts you enjoyed. Volume 1 is always open. Here's how it breaks down.

Posts 1 through 5 are at http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/

Posts 6 through 10 are at http://onwaldenpuddle2.blogspot.com/

Posts 11 through 15 are at http://onwaldenpuddle3.blogspot.com/

We hope you had fun this year at Walden Puddle, and we hope to see you on September 21 for the start of Volume 2.

Have a fine summer.

Wear purple! Go Finches!


All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.

I NEED A HUG

April 30, 2010, Vol. 1, No. 14


SPECIAL ARBOR DAY ISSUE


CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)


THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Dr. Whipple plants a tree by checkbook ... while her mother, Ms. Priscilla Whipple, gets back in touch with the true meaning of Arbor Day.

I NEED A HUG
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Looming above the town, the Old Dumbarton Maple has had a front-row seat on everything that's happened in Walden Puddle for the past 347 years. Says the great tree: "It's been hell."

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
When you "train" a bonsai using farm implements, nothing good can happen.



THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: April 26, 2010. All three ladies from Walden Puddle Hadassah came by today. They asked me if I would like to plant a tree in Israel. "Hell, yes," I told them. "I could use a warm-weather vacation. When do we leave?"

They explained to me it did not work that way. I still wrote them a check for $3. Arbor Day is coming, and we've got too many damn trees in Walden Puddle anyway. I thought, what the hell, I'll plant a tree in Israel. Some of my best friends are trees.

When I was out at Central Montana Normal, I dated a Jewish guy. He was majoring in English. I found that intriguing. We only went on trout-fishing dates, because we were too broke for movies or bowling, and if we caught anything, we ate it immediately ... sashimi-style, but with the bones and all.

One day, he says to me, "Ursula, let's not go trout fishing today. Let's catch some gefilte fish." I had no idea what a gefilte fish was, but I trusted him. Well, it was just a ruse to lure me deeper into the woods. "Where's that gefilte fish stream?" I kept asking him. "Another half-mile or so," he kept saying. "Just follow me." Finally, I socked him with my creel and ran like hell back to campus.

The next day, I told my marine biology professor about it. He was a Scotsman on loan to us from the University of Dundee. "Ursula," he said, "that laddie tried to take advantage of yerrrrr girrrrrrlish innocence."

He explained that gefilte fish are ocean fish, and that they never come upstream to Montana to spawn. "By the bye, Ursula," he said, "if yer free this weekend, would ya care to join me on a huntin' trip? Pursuin' the elusive Wild Haggis?" I sensed that he was up to no good, like all the men I meet, so I declined.

Anyhow, looking out the window now, I see that Priscilla is out there doing her Arbor Day thing. Priscilla is my mom, as some of you may know. I would love to call her mom, but she insists on Priscilla. She says mom is "too hierarchical and repressive. Nixon called his mother mom," she says.

Priscilla comes out to my cabin to hug trees, like she did in the 1960s when she was a tie-dyed hippie in a commune in Oregon. Now she hugs trees on my property, where no one can see her. In town, she has this reputation for being prim and proper.

She is not afraid of my bears. On the contrary, my bears are afraid of her. Even now I can see Alonzo, Clyde, Maybelle, Janie, and Big Jack cowering in the underbrush.

"Priscilla, did you ever Mace my bears?" I confonted her once.

"No, I did not," she said nervously, unable to look me in the eye. "They just see me as the alpha animal. I emit alpha vibes. I'm an Aries."

I must write a scholarly paper about the whole Aries thing someday. Anyhow, I went outside to greet her.

"Hi, Priscilla," I said. "How's the tree-hugging going?"

"Just fine, Ursula," she said. "If I'm guessing right about which guy in the commune was your father ... your daddy had thighs like tree trunks, and this tree is turning me on."

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. She shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.

To get to know Ms. Priscilla Whipple better, go to Page 1 by clicking http://OnWaldenPuddle.blogspot.com/. and scroll to the November 26, 2009, issue. It contains an interview with her in "The Talk of Walden Puddle." Ms. Whipple also appears in "Lost in Translation," the feature piece in the December 9, 2009, issue, on the same page.


I NEED A HUG
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
926 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

The Old Dumbarton Maple was feeling very depressed. By coincidence, Arbor Day was its birthday, and on Arbor Day 2010, it turned 347 years old. The great tree had spent every minute of those 347 years straddling the hostile border between Walden Puddle and Copious Falls. "Why wasn't I born in the Amazon rainforest?" it sighed. "I could have been cut down by now."

It is not widely known that trees talk, but they do. We humans mistake the sound of their speech for the rustling of leaves.

On its 347th birthday, the Old Dumbarton Maple was talking a blue streak ... feeling sorry for itself. "If I could just get an agent," it said, "I could write a book about these idiots in Walden Puddle. But I'm rooted to this spot. Literally."

A squirrel scampered up the majestic trunk of the Old Dumbarton Maple.

"How ya doin', Thumper?" the Old Dumbarton Maple greeted him. "Can I buy you a drink?"

The squirrel busied himself munching on the acorn he'd brought with him. He then found a patch of sunshine on an upper limb and sprawled out for a nap.

"I'm boring you, too, huh?" said the ancient maple. "That's okay. I'm used to it. But if someone would just take the time to listen to me ... oh, the stories I could tell ..."

"Tell me one," said the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker, pastor of Walden Puddle's First Unitarian Meeting House. She had been standing at the foot of the Old Dumbarton Maple, unnoticed by the tree, for the past 10 minutes.

"Dr. Walker. You speak the language of trees?" said the great maple in amazement.

"I do," said the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker.

"How is that possible?"

"I'm a witch," said Dr. Walker.

"But ... but ... but ... you're a pastor," stammered the Old Dumbarton Maple.

"True, but I'm a Unitarian pastor," said Dr. Walker. "We Unitarians can believe any damn thing we want."

"Are you a good witch?" asked the tree.

"Oh, that is so five minutes ago," said Dr. Walker. "Good witch. Bad witch. That's all trick-or-treat Halloween talk. I'm a witch. Period. Get used to it."

"Wow," said the Old Dumbarton Maple.

"You want to unburden yourself? You have tales to tell? Tell me. I may be a witch, but I'm a pastor, too."

For the next eight hours, the Old Dumbarton Maple told Dr. Walker countless stories about Walden Puddle ... stories that went back to Early Colonial times ... stories of human folly, stupidity, more stupidity, and even greater stupidity than that ... pausing only long enough for Dr. Walker to drop a fresh cassette into her tape recorder.

Darkness was falling. "I'll be back tomorrow," said Dr. Walker, who then ... to the tree's amazement ... vanished in a puff of smoke.


At dawn the next day, Dr. Walker came back with a flourish, arriving in another puff of smoke. The Old Dumbarton Maple picked up where it had left off, telling her stories from the Revolutionary War Era, including how the Founding Fathers, negotiating a boundary with the British in 1783, had tried to get the border moved farther south, so that Walden Puddle would become part of Quebec ... and how the British threatened to resume hostilities if that ever happened.

By nightfall, they had reached the Gilded Age, and the story of how George W. Vanderbilt, enamored of the "most bracing and salutary air" around Walden Puddle, wanted to build his great Biltmore Estate there, something that would have created jobs and tourist revenue for endless generations.

When Mr. Vanderbilt's chief landscape architect -- the celebrated Frederick Law Olmsted, designer of New York's Central Park -- arrived in town to look at possible locations for Biltmore, Walden Puddlers tarred and feathered him and rode him out of town on a rail. Biltmore was quickly relocated to the Great Smoky Mountains near Asheville, North Carolina, which has prospered nicely because of it.

By nightfall of the next day, they had gotten to the Roaring Twenties, and the story of how rum runners from Canada used to pay Walden Puddlers $5 a year ... in bright, shiny beads ... to turn their basements into warehouses for contraband booze. The liquor was then sold for $50 a bottle in black-tie speakeasies in Copious Falls, while many a Walden Puddler went to federal prison for it.

By nightfall of the next day, they had reached the Eisenhower Era, when a young Warren Buffett, working out of his car, passed through Walden Puddle and Copious Falls offering stock in his fledgling investment company for 15 cents a share. Hugely impressed by the young man, families in Copious Falls purchased tens of thousands of shares. In Walden Puddle, Mr. Buffett was tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail.

By nightfall of the next day, they had reached our own time in history, the year 2010, the 347th year that the Old Dumbarton Maple had been a captive audience to, in the tree's words, "the stupidest people who ever lived ... doing the stupidest things that ever happened ... anywhere ... anytime."

"Quite a story," said the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker.

"Thank you for listening," said the Old Dumbarton Maple. "You really are a good pastor."

"I'm an even better witch," said Dr. Walker. "Tomorrow I do lunch, drinks, and dinner with three different agents in New York. Thanks for the book, sucker." And she disappeared in a puff of smoke.

The Old Dumbarton Maple simply rustled its leaves. "Story of my life," it said.




THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
We had green tea at the Agreeable Doughnut with Mr. Hiroshi Takahara, the great Japanese bonsai master, whose lecture tour of North America ended on a sour note in Walden Puddle last Sunday.

"Sure, I walk out," Takahara-san told us. "Those crazy hillbilly bring axe and chainsaw. Bonsai tree very small. Bonsai tree very delicate. Very subtle. Prune with cuticle scissor. Prune with nose-hair thingie. Who tell them bring axe? Who tell them bring chainsaw? Who?"





NEXT POST: May 19, 2010


SPECIAL NEW ENGLAND
MUD SEASON ISSUE


FEATURING: "Cleanup in Aisle Seven," a tale of of young love at Walden Puddle's only supermarket -- Edible Foods -- complicated by a severely hallucinating cat, and including a blistering critique, long overdue, of Neil Armstrong's total srew-up as the first wordsmith on the moon. Also included: a chilling glimpse of the Last Days of the Roman Empire; stirring lyrics from High Noon; and a special guest appearance by Raymond Burr, in character as Perry Mason.

THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Whipple forgot to buy insurance for her Bear Wrestling Camp. To take her mind off it, she shares her favorite light summer recipe.

BONUS ITEM: How to keep your children clean during Mud Season.


Editor's Note: You're on Page 3 of Walden Puddle, the most current. To view Page 1, which contains Posts 1 through 5, click http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/. For Page 2, and Posts 6 through 10, click http://onwaldenpuddle2.blogspot.com/. If you're new to Walden Puddle, we hope you'll pay a visit to both.

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.

THE CENSUS MEETS THE SENSELESS

April 15, 2010, Vol. 1, No. 13


CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)

THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Fighting through a bout of seasonal depression brought on by the coming of spring, Dr. Whipple lays the groundwork for her Bear Wrestling Camp for Rich Kids.

THE CENSUS MEETS THE SENSELESS
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
For generations, by not participating in the Census, the people of Walden Puddle have stayed off the government's radar screen. Now they're on the government's radar screen ... in the worst possible way.

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
What has Art Garfunkel got against the Walden Puddle Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts anyway?



THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: April 8, 2010. April has arrived, and a new baseball season has begun. If you are a Chicago Cubs fan like me, you understand what T.S. Eliot meant by, "April is the cruelest month." I believe he was a Cubs fan, too.

I also believe the Cubs are why Ernest Hemingway left home ... he grew up outside Chicago ... and then just kept moving for the rest of his life. He wasn't seeking anything, as some have said. He was just trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Wrigley Field.

I think that's why he became fascinated with bullfighting, too. For him, it was a much less one-sided sport than baseball.

One summer, driving back to Walden Puddle from school at Central Montana Normal, I stopped in Chicago for a Cubs game. As I walked into Wrigley Field, I immediately thought of Dante's Inferno, and the banner that Dante hung above the gates of hell: "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here." That's how I felt walking into Wrigley Field.

You didn't think I was a literary type, did you? You thought I was just another scholarly, egghead scientist, without any poetry in my soul, didn't you? You jerks.

You profilers.

You ... don't ... know ... me ... at ... all.

I admit, I am in a bad mood. I got my Census questionnaire in the mail. I tossed it in the compost heap immediately, of course, but it got me thinking: I really have no idea how many bears live on my property. How many TV sets they own per family. And so on.

Then I realized that counting them all would be very difficult and time-consuming. So I guess I will never know how many bears I've got out there. That's life.

Plans for my summer Bear Wrestling Camp for Rich Kids are proceeding on schedule. I have signed up two more counselors, Lennie and George, who used to wrestle ... Mixed Martial Arts style ... out in California. Fresno. Salinas. King City. Around there. Spur of the moment. Mostly in roadhouses and parking lots.

My bears are working hard to get ready for camp. Louie and Big Jack are out on the lawn right now, practicing Flying Drop Kicks. Clyde is delivering a painful noogie to the scalp of Lucky Pierre. In the Ladies' Division, Janie and Maybelle are swatting each other with handbags. All my bears are really into it. I think they cannot wait for the well-to-do children to start arriving for Bear Wrestling Camp, from places like Manhattan and Pacific Palisades.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin outside town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.


THE CENSUS MEETS THE SENSELESS
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
846 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, no one lives in Walden Puddle. Ever since the first national census was taken in 1790, the village has been listed as a "ghost town." This is because every ten years, while the census is being taken, Walden Puddlers flee into the surrounding hills and hide, emerging only when the first snow falls around Labor Day.

Over the years, this has cost Walden Puddle millions of dollars in sorely needed federal aid. Walden Puddlers don't care. All they know is that they're afraid of the government, so whenever the government comes around, they run away.

On the night of March 31, 2010, however, the government paid a surprise visit to Walden Puddle ... in the form of three squadrons of B-1 bombers overflying the town at almost twice the speed of sound, causing sonic booms that rattled windows, dishes, and nerves.

"What the hell was that?" said Mayor Blinkie Duval to her husband, Festus.

"Artillery fire from Copious Falls?" he ventured.

"Must have been," said Blinkie. "We need artillery of our own now. I'll talk to Little Jeffrey Mayfield. He knows arms dealers."

At 7:45 the next morning, 8-year-old Jeffrey Mayfield, the evil Town Genius of Walden Puddle, was sitting in Mayor Duval's office.

"I can get you all the artillery pieces you want, Mayor," he told her, "but my information is that ... for once ... Copious Falls had nothing to do with it."

"No?" said Mayor Blinkie Duval. "Then who did?"

"I can't name my sources," said Jeffrey, "but what we heard last night were sonic booms from B-1 bombers. They were conducting a dry run. I have it on good authority that within a few months, the Air Force plans to start using Walden Puddle as a bombing range."

"Whubba?"

"You ask, when exactly? The actual bombing will start on the Fourth of July."

"Whubba?"

"You ask, what should you do? Call the President. He's the Commander in Chief. Here." Jeffrey scribbled a phone number on scrap of paper. "It's his cellphone. Just don't ever call him during American Idol."


To her amazement, that evening, Mayor Blinkie Duval of Walden Puddle was speaking on the phone to the President of the United States.

"And how is Jeffrey?" asked the President.

"Oh, he's fine, Mr. President," said Mayor Blinkie Duval.

"He's an evil little boy, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is. But he knows how to get things done."

"That's for sure. You didn't hear this from me, Mayor, but Jeffrey runs the Federal Reserve. Ben Bernanke is only an adult figurehead."

"I can believe it."

"We all owe a lot to Jeffrey. Money, that is. Anyhow, how can I help a friend of my little friend?"

"Mr. President. The Air Force is going to use Walden Puddle as a bombing range. Can you stop them?"

"I'll have somebody look into it," said the President. "Give me all your phone numbers."


The next morning, Mayor Blinkie Duval received a phone call from Air Force General Jack D. Ripper IV, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

After a few pleasantries, Mayor Duval came to the point. "General, why in the world did the Air Force decide to use our town as a bombing range?"

"Because the Census Bureau lists Walden Puddle as a ghost town."

"A ghost town? Why?"

"Because according to the Census people, nobody lives there."

"Well, naturally," said Mayor Duval. "When there's a census, we hide in the hills."

"In most cases," said General Ripper, "places listed as ghost towns are protected as historic sites ..."

Mayor Duval breathed a sigh of relief.

"... but not Walden Puddle. Any history that happened there is embarrassing."

"Not all of it," said Mayor Duval defensively.

"For a long time, you were spared, because the Navy had you earmarked as a possible movie location ... for training films about nasty diseases you can get on shore leave ..."

"Ah. Gonorrhea."

"Exactly. But now they do all their safe-sex education on YouTube, so the Navy has no interest in you, and the Air Force has finally been cleared to ..."

"Bomb us?"

"Not with live ordnance," said General Ripper. "Just dummy bombs, with paint balls to mark impact and angle. Then we computer-model the damage."

Mayor Duval breathed a sigh of relief.

"However, each of those dummy bombs weighs 800 pounds."

"Whubba ... whubba ... whubba ... whubba ... whubba ..."

"I understand what you're saying, Mayor," said General Ripper, "but the solution is simple."

"Whubba?"

"The bombing won't start until the Fourth of July. When the Census happens this spring, tell everyone to stay home and cooperate. Then the government will know that people actually live in Walden Puddle."

"Ahhh! ... Whubba!"

"We would call off the bombing, and as a bonus ..."

"Bonuswhubba?"

"Walden Puddle would get federal aid. You folks could have streetlights, and paved roads, and no amoeba in the town pool."

"Ahhh. No amoeba."

"A little chlorine does the trick every time," said General Ripper. "Is there any other way I can help you, Mayor?"

"No. Thank you, General."

"My pleasure, ma'am. Any friend of Little Jeffrey Mayfield's ..."


The next morning, Little Jeffrey Mayfield was sitting in Mayor Blinkie Duval's office again.

"It all sounds good on paper," she fretted, "but how do we get people in Walden Puddle to cooperate with the Census in real life?"

"Easy," said Jeffrey. "Just tell them that if they cooperate with the government, God will destroy Copious Falls."

"He will?" said Mayor Blinkie Duval excitedly.

"No. He won't. But if you tell people around here something awful will happen to Copious Falls, they'll do anything you ask."

"I see," said Mayor Duval. She frowned. "Jeffrey. Are you sure God won't destroy Copious Falls?"

"Yes, I'm sure," said Jeffrey. "Now. To recap. What happens when people in Walden Puddle start getting their census questionnaires in the mail this year? Will they fill them out? Will they send them back?"

A look of consternation etched itself upon the face of Mayor Blinkie Duval. "Get their census questionnaires in the mail?" she said. "What are you talking about?"

"Mayor," said Jeffrey, "the government stopped ringing doorbells 50 years ago. You fill out a questionnaire and send it back. I have no idea why ... every 10 years ... everyone in Walden Puddle still runs away and hides in the hills."

"Young man," said Mayor Blinkie Duval archly, "perhaps as you get older, you'll learn to appreciate the value of tradition."

THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
For the 40th consecutive year, Art Garfunkel has refused to play the Walden Puddle Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts.

"I don't think Mr. Garfunkel understands what the Festival is all about," said Arthur Mouton, the Festival's director, over coffee at the Agreeable Doughnut.

Since it began in 1947 ... in compliance with the will of Mr. Arthur D'Artagnan, whose generous $250 bequest remains the core of the Festival's endowment ... the Festival has only invited performers and notables whose first or last name is Arthur, or some variation thereof.

"That's why we call it the Walden Puddle Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts," said Mr. Mouton.

Over the years, besides the many letters sent to Mr. Garfunkel, invitations have been extended to ... among others ... Arthur Godfrey, Art Linkletter, General Douglas MacArthur, Art Carney, Arthur Murray, Artie Shaw, Bea Arthur, Arthur Kennedy, Arturo Toscanini, Arthur Miller, Arthur Rubinstein, Arthur C. Clarke, Arte Johnson, Art Ditmars, the Beaux Arts Trio, Artie Donovan, Art Metrano, Artie Lange; Ms. Artemis DePuy, an exotic dancer from Milwaukee; the Port Arthur, Texas, high school marching band; the Artichoke Growers Council of America; Mrs. Nora McEwen of Huddersfield, England, a great grandniece of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; and Tony Randall, whose birth name was Arthur Leonard Rosenberg.

All have declined.

Entertainment at this year's Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts will once again be provided by local people whose first or last name has Arthur or Art in it.

"We didn't have much choice, did we?" said Mr. Mouton.

The Lerner and Loewe musical Camelot, based on the legend of King Arthur, will once again be the Festival's featured attraction. It will be performed by members of the Drama Circle at First Unitarian Meeting House, all of whom have filed sworn affidavits that at least one person in their family is named Arthur.

As always, the stage sets for the musical will be done in Art Nouveau.

"I can't understand why outsiders don't get it," said Mr. Mouton. "We explain it very carefully in the invitation letter. It's the Walden ... Puddle ... Festival ... of the ... Reasonably ... Lively ... Arts!"



NEXT POST: April 30, 2010

Special Arbor Day Issue

FEATURING: "I Need a Hug." For 347 years, the Old Dumbarton Maple has straddled the hostile border between Walden Puddle and Copious Falls. Ah, the stories that great tree could tell ... if only someone would listen.

THE BEAR FACTS: Ms. Priscilla Whipple ... flashing back to Haight-Ashbury and her days on the bus with Ken Kesey ... trips out to her daughter Ursula's for some nostalgic tree-hugging.

BONUS ITEM: The great Japanese Bonsai master, Mr. Hiroshi Takahara, was on a very successful lecture tour of North America ... until he came to Walden Puddle.

Editor's Note: You're on Page 3 of Walden Puddle, the most current. For Page 1, which contains Posts 1 through 5, click http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/. For Page 2, and posts 6 through 10, click http://onwaldenpuddle2.blogspot.com/. If you're new to Walden Puddle, we hope you'll pay a visit to both.

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.

BREAK A PAW

March 30, 2010, Vol. 1, No. 12


CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)

THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
"When you wrestle bears," says Dr. Whipple, "it can change you for life." Emergency room physicians would agree.

BREAK A PAW
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
The Rev. Alvin Bisonnette is auditioning singing dogs for his musical, and getting nowhere fast. He's ready to throw in the towel, when in through the door ... walks ... Max.

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
To make it in theater, sometimes you have to "get yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again." The Rev. Alvin Bisonnette has extensive experience at all of the above.


THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: March 24, 2010. Alonzo's first skating lesson did not go as planned, seeing as how he fell through the ice. Alonzo is out on the porch now, shaking his fist at me through the window. His body language suggests that he is pissed off.

I admit I was careless. I tested the ice myself first, and it held up real well for me. But I forgot to factor in that Alonzo weighs 790 pounds. That's more than 10 Nancy Kerrigans. God, how I hate that girl. What a crybaby she was. I was on Tonya Harding's side.

Which brings me to the topic of bear wrestling.

I have noticed that all over New England every summer, they run specialty camps for children who were raised by British nannies. Computer camps. Poetry camps. Ecology camps. Drama camps. You name it. If you've got the money, honey, somebody's got the time for your little Yuppie.

To capitalize on this trendy phenomenon, I have decided to start a Bear Wrestling Camp.

In my opinion, many children from well-to-do families would benefit from learning how to wrestle bears. It builds character, for one, and it looks good on your college application. Especially at places like Harvard or Princeton, where a kid has to grab the attention of some extremely jaded people.

Dr. Jake Larson, one of my professors at Central Montana Normal, used to wrestle bears on the side. He is a real pro, and he knows all the tricks. He is also flat broke like me. He was happy to sign on for the summer as my Head Counselor.

I am putting Alonzo's ice-skating lessons on hold. My next project is to train Alonzo to get along with children from the Upper West Side. I will used straw-filled dummies dressed in J. Crew knock-offs to get him used to the look, and to some degree the personality.

Before I go, I would be remiss if I did not share a few bear wrestling tips with you.

(1) Before stepping into the ring to wrestle a bear, always shoot him in the ass with a tranquilizer dart.

(2) Make sure he is securely muzzled.

(3) When the bear is unable to move, jump on him and apply headlocks, hammerlocks, and other wrestling holds.

(4) Pretend like you are punching him, but do not actually hit him, because you do not want to wake him up.

(5) Yell very loudly, "You give? You give, bear? You had enough? Huh? Say Uncle! Say Uncle!"

(6) Have an accomplice in the audience yell, "Yes, I give, O fearless human dominator! I give! I give! Have mercy! Ouch! That hurts! Uncle! Uncle!"

(7) Now you have won. Jump to your feet and point to the sky, like the football players do, to indicate, "Thank you, Lord, for helping me score that touchdown, or in this case, kick the ass of this bear." Pointing upward and thanking God for a sports achievement plays well with the Bible-thumpers, who make up 95 percent of the crowd at bear-wrestling events. The rest is mostly drunken frat boys.

(8) If the bear begins to stir, leave the ring immediately.

Once when I was doing my thesis out in Montana, I asked Jake, who was my thesis adviser, whether bear wrestling matches are fixed, as some people claim.

"No," he said. "They are not."

Since Jake is a professional bear wrestler who has risked his life many times in the ring, one has to believe him.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin near town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.


BREAK A PAW
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
1,179 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

Chris the lawyer and Manu the Three-Star Chef were the only respectable couple in Walden Puddle. Their sons, Manuel and Gabe, were the only students at Walden Puddle High School who had any hope of a college scholarship. At one point, the town council of Copious Falls had even tried to get the family to relocate.

"What are nice folks like you doing in Walden Puddle?" the delegation from Copious Falls asked.

"Minding our own business," said Chris the Lawyer.

"Go back to Copious Falls, you elitists," said Manu the Chef.

"We'd rather live among regular people ..." said Chris the Lawyer.

"... than among insufferable snobs like you," said Manu the Chef.

Chris and Manu's was not a blind devotion to Walden Puddle. Having committed to living there, they understood the consequences ... like the flyers they kept receiving from the Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved. The flyers read:


SINGING DOGS WANTED
TENORS ONLY


The flyers went on to explain that the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette had "cleaned up" Oedipus Rex, which he regarded as "filthy and unwholesome," and turned it into a "family-oriented musical romp," which he had renamed Oedipus Rex for Christians.

"My version," wrote Rev. Bisonnette, "is about a cat named Eddie and a dog named Rex. They travel around the country in a sanctified RV driven by an angel, and if they see a sinner they attack him, but if you're one of the saved, they lick your hand and do tricks for you."

Rev. Bisonnette concluded, "The musical contains two show-stoppers for the dog, who has to be able to hit a High C with good bladder control. If your dog can sing 'God on High' from Les Miserables ... or 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' ... come on by. We'd love to hear him."

Naturally, Chris and Manu found the whole thing preposterous. At the same time, they were madly in love with Max, their beautiful Bernese Mountain Dog, and here was a chance to show Max off to the whole town.

One night at dinner, Chris said to Manu, "Look, we both know that dogs can't sing. But I've got an idea."


Meanwhile, at the Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved, the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette was having serious casting problems. He had received only one response to his flyer. Every day at noon, Martha Gingrich, the owner of Walden Puddle Slide Rule Repair, came by with her Weimaraner, Axel.

It was noon. On cue, Martha and Axel walked into Rev. Bisonnette's office.

"And what will you be singing for us today, Axel?" asked Rev. Bisonnette.

"He'll be singing 'The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,'" said Martha. "Hit it, Axel!"

Axel sang, "Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woooooh.... Woo-woo-woo-woo ... Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-wooooooooohhhhhhh...."

"Idiot!" Martha hissed. "It goes, Nahhhh-nahhh-nahhh-nahhh-nahhh-nahhhhhh..... Nah-nah-nah-nah .... Nah-nah-nah-nah-naahhhhhhh....."

"Thank you, Axel. We'll be in touch," said Rev. Bisonnette.

Axel urinated on Rev. Bisonnette's stamp collection.

"See you tomorrow, Reverend," said Martha.


The next day, Martha and Axel walked into Rev. Bisonnette's office at noon.

"And what will you be singing for us today, Axel?" asked Rev. Bisonnette.

"Today he'll be singing 'The Boxer,'" said Martha.

"That's cute," said Rev. Bisonnette. "One dog singing about another dog."

"It's the Paul Simon song," Martha huffed. "About a pugilist."

"I knew that," lied Rev. Bisonnette.

"Hit it, Axel!" Martha commanded.

Axel sang, "Woo-woo-woo... Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo.... Woo-woo-woo.... Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woowoowoowoo-wooooohhhh."

"Idiot!" Martha hissed. "It goes, Lie-luh-lie... Lie-luh-lie-lie-lie-luh-lie... Lie-luh-lie... Lie-luh-lie-lie-lie-luh-lie-la-la-la-la-liehhhhhhhh...."

"Thank you, Axel. We'll be in touch," said Rev. Bisonnette.

Axel urinated on what was left of Rev. Bisonnette's stamp collection.

"I said thank you, Axel. We'll be in touch," Rev. Bisonnette repeated firmly.

Axel urinated on Rev. Bisonnette's ankles.

"The Lord just don't like me," said Rev. Bisonnette as Martha and Axel made their exit. "Like that time in Atlantic City when I needed to roll a hard four and He refused to help." Rev. Bisonnette sighed. "I'm packing it in. What ain't meant to be ... ain't meant to be." He started to write a press release announcing the cancellation of his show.

At that moment, Chris and Manu walked in with Max.

"Another singing dog, I presume?" said Rev. Bisonnette.

"Nope," said Chris.

"Then why are you here?"

"We've taught him," said Manu, "to lip-synch."

Chris switched on a tape recorder. Rev. Bisonnette's jaw dropped as Max, with perfectly timed lip movements, appeared ... very convincingly ... to be singing

Sheh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-ree-uhh bay-ay-ay-beee ...
Sheh-eh-eh-eh-eh-reee ...
Can you come out tonight?

Why don't you come out ... with your red dress on?
Come out ... when the bright moon shines.
Come out ... we're gonna dance the night away.
I'm gonna make-uh you-uh my-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ine.

Sheh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-ree-uhhh bay-ay-ay-ay-beee ....

"Say Hallelujah and pass the collection plate! I've heard enough!" shouted Rev. Bisonnette. "For a minute there, I thought he was Frankie Valli!"

"Does that mean we get the part?" asked Chris.

"Do you get the part?" said Rev. Bisonnette. "Do the Mormons make money? Lady, we ... are ... in ... show bidness! First rehearsal ... nine a.m.! Tomorrow!"


Tomorrow came, as it often does.

The first rehearsal of Oedipus Rex for Christians was going well. Lip-synching to a tape, Max was belting out his show-stoppers flawlessly. And then it happened ...

A shop steward for stagehands from the Walden Puddle Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts walked into the rehearsal hall.

"Are y'all using non-union labor?" he asked Rev. Bisonnette with a hint of menace.

"I certainly am," said Rev. Bisonnette. "You union stagehands are all sinners!"

An argument ensued, with the shop steward quoting liberally from his anthology of four-letter words, and Rev. Bisonnette quoting inaccurately from the Old Testament.

As they argued, Max walked over and licked the shop steward's hand.

"He licked his hand!" Rev. Bisonnette shouted in disgust. "This dog licked this sinner's hand!"

"He does that all the time," said Chris. "He loves everybody."

"He loves everybody? But that ain't Christian!" thundered Rev. Bisonnette. "This man's a sinner! And a Teamster on top of it!"

"We can't stop him. He just loves people," said Manu, as Max wandered around the rehearsal hall, licking, in order, the hands of a work-released convict who had just delivered coffee from the Agreeable Doughnut; a couple of "working girls" from Diamond Lil's who had stopped by to witness the rumored "miracle"; and a recovering addict who had mistaken the Church of the Definitely Saved for a normal house of worship offering 12-step programs.

"Stop licking them sinners, dog! You're supposed to attack them!" thundered Rev. Bisonnette.

Max licked the addict's hand again.

"You are way off script, dog! Stop it! Or I'll fire you on the spot!"

Max licked the hands of Diamond Lil's working girls.

"Stop doing that, dog! Or I'll ruin you! You'll never work in this town again!"

Max licked the shop steward's hand.

"Quit licking them sinners, dog! It ain't the Christian way!"

Max licked the convict's hand.

"Cease! I command thee! Thou Hound of Perdition!"

Chris whispered something to Manu.

"Thank you, Reverend," said Chris. "I think we'll just go now."

As they were leaving, Max licked the hand of the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette.


"Well?" demanded Gabe and Manuel when their parents got home. "How did Max do?"

"He was great. Perfect lip-synch. Even better than Sinatra after he lost his voice ..."

"Yay-y-y!"

"But he got fired. Or maybe he quit. Hard to tell."

"Awww," said the boys. "How come?"

"Artistic differences with the director," said Manu.

"And theological," said Chris.


For the beer-stained story of how the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette became a man of the cloth in the first place, go to Page 1 of Walden Puddle, located at http://OnWaldenPuddle.blogspot.com and scroll down to the November 26, 2009, issue.

For another helping of Rev. Bisonnette's sinners-be-damned pastoral style, see his powerful Christmas Sermon in "The Talk of Walden Puddle" in the December 26, 2009, issue. It's at the bottom of Page 2, when you click http://OnWaldenPuddle2.blogspot.com.

Meanwhile, in what's often called real life, Manu and Chris are still working unreasonably long hours, Manuel and Gabe are still getting clobbered by an unreasonable amount of homework, and Max is still enjoying life as a member of the leisure class.


THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
On April 5, in the basement of the Lending Library, Mr. Rudolf Frammstock, chairman of the English Department at Walden Puddle High School, will read excerpts from his new epic poem "A Norse Is a Norse, of Course, of Course." Mr. Frammstock models all his work on the Icelandic sagas.

"I find them catchy," he said.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At the Agreeable Doughnut, we spied the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette scribbling furiously on a legal pad. "I'm writing another musical," he told us. "Once the theater bug has bit you, you stay bit for life."

For his new project, Rev. Bisonnette plans to "depaganize yet another theatrical abomination and make it suitable for family viewing. I am turning the most evil play ever written into a lighthearted Christian romp."

Which play?

"I'm not divulging," said Rev. Bisonnette. "I will only say that my show is about a dog named Mack and a cat named Beth. They travel around the country in a sanctified RV driven by an angel, and if they see a sinner they attack him, but if you're saved ..."

He's rewriting Macbeth?

"How'd you know that!" Rev. Bisonnette demanded. "Yes, I am, big-mouth. It's a detestable piece of theater. And they study it in high school! And on Wall Street! You know the worst thing about that play? It's the woman who wears the pants in the family! The Lord hates that!"

Will there be a singing dog?

"You bet there will. A baritone this time. I've had it with tenors."



NEXT POST: April 15, 2010

Special Late Tax Filing Issue

FEATURING: Take your mind off your taxes with "The Census Meets the Senseless." Every 10 years, at Census time, Walden Puddlers panic. This year, the government really gives them something to panic about.

THE BEAR FACTS: It occurs to Dr. Whipple that she has no idea exactly how many bears live on her property. How much money they make. How many appliances they own. Et cetera.

BONUS ITEM: For the 40th consecutive year, Art Garfunkel refuses to play the Walden Puddle Festival of the Reasonably Lively Arts.


Editor's Note: You're on Page 3 of Walden Puddle, the most current. For Page 1, which contains Posts 1 through 5, click http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/. For Page 2, and Posts 6 through 10, click http://onwaldenpuddle2.blogspot.com/. If you're new to Walden Puddle, we hope you'll pay a visit to both.

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.

THE MIDNIGHT RAIDERS

March 15, 2010, Vol. 1, No. 11

The Special Ides of March Issue


CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)

THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Sergei of Kamchatka extends an olive branch. Dr. Whipple responds with conciliatory words of her own ... and that's when all hell breaks loose.

THE MIDNIGHT RAIDERS
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
For Walden Puddlers and residents of Copious Falls, the Ides of March is the biggest day of the year. Thanks to a 19th-century statute, on March 15 they can legally enter each other's towns and cause trouble.

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
The real story of why the Walden Puddle Gummy Bears, known locally as Comedy on Ice, allowed more than 31 goals per game this season.


THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: March 5, 2010. Sergei sent me an e-mail apologizing for calling me a superficial capitalist bitch. I apologized for calling him a lying closet-Commie bastard.

I said we could still be friends. I made it very clear that romantically, he was way too ugly for me ... but I did it in a nice way.

"I feel very sorry for you," I wrote to him. "I am sure it has been hard for you, going through life with a face like yours. I realize it is hereditary." That way, I was making it clear that I don't blame him for it.

He wrote back, "Am I to understand that you are calling my parents hideous?"

I wrote back, "Not at all. The ugliness problem in your family goes back many generations, all the way to caveman days, so your parents were victims just like you."

I mean, here I am being sympathetic and supportive about his ugliness problem, and he goes ballistic. He writes, "And your parents are two big, smelly zits! Like you!"

I haven't had a zit for three years. I wrote back: "How dare you call yourself a scientist! I am working from observable data ... your ugly face ... while you are indulging in juvenile mud-slinging!"

He writes, "If you are a scientist, my zadnitza chews gum!"

Zadnitza means butt. I looked it up on Google.

Now that really ticked me off, because it took me 12 years to get my doctorate. So I countered with: "Up yours."

And he goes: "You ignorant slut."

So I reiterated: "Up yours again." And I immediately logged off.

After that, I owed myself a night out, so I drove into town to see a hockey game. At the Somewhat Civic Arena, the Walden Puddle Gummy Bears were finishing up their season against the Copious Falls Bare Knucklers.

Unfortunately, there was no hockey game. The Copious Falls Bare Knucklers showed up, but the Gummy Bears didn't. They've done that before, when they thought the game might be rough, and fights might break out. So Copious Falls won by forfeit.

I think the problem ... apart from the Gummy Bears' lack of size, speed, talent, and stick-handling skills ... is their sissy mascot. They need a real bear for a mascot. A real bear would inspire them. So naturally, I thought of Alonzo.

Tomorrow, I will shoot Alonzo in the zadnitza with a tranquilizer dart and lace some skates on him. The ponds around here stay frozen till Memorial Day. Alonzo is a natural athlete. If he works hard, I believe he can be better than Nancy Kerrigan.

Off the ice, Alonzo could kick Nancy Kerrigan's scrawny ass right now. And he wouldn't need a tire iron, either.

But I digress.

Look, I need the money.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin near town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.


THE MIDNIGHT RAIDERS
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
1,134 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

The Civil War ended on April 9, 1865 ... in most places. In Walden Puddle and Copious Falls it lasted another three years. Each town claimed it was defending the Union against die-hard Confederates. In fact, the people of the two towns just wanted an excuse to shoot each other.

Finally, on April 1, 1868, a peace treaty was signed under the Old Dumbarton Maple, an ancient tree that straddles the towns' common border. The treaty allowed Walden Puddle and Copious Falls to vent their mutual hatred one day each year: March 15, the Ides of March. "Without that," said Jedediah Mayfield, then mayor of Walden Puddle, "the only common-sense thing to do would be to keep fightin'."

The Ides of March Clause prohibited violence, theft or destruction of property, and the poisoning of the water supply. However, it did grant license for each side "to commit, upon the Ides of March, an act of vandalism whose economic repercussions shall be of limited consequence and easily reparable ... by intelligent people ... within a fortnight."

The inclusion of the phrase "by intelligent people" gave Copious Falls a huge advantage. Adhering to the letter ... if not the spirit ... of the clause, every year since 1868, Copious Falls has hired 100 locksmiths to sneak into Walden Puddle at midnight on the Ides of March and change the locks on every business establishment. It takes Walden Puddlers 10 or 11 months to figure out why the doors won't open anymore, and this cripples Walden Puddle's economy until the following Ides of March ... when the locks get changed again.

Walden Puddlers have never fully grasped the Ides of March Clause -- containing, as it does, words like fortnight and repercussions -- so they have always done the nastiest thing they could think of. Every year, at midnight on the Ides of March, they sneak into Copious Falls and egg the library.

Then they run away.

By summer, Walden Puddlers regret what they did. "I wish we had those eggs to eat right now," Walden Puddle homemakers lament. "Those varmints from Copious Falls have crippled our economy again."

And so it has gone ... for 142 years.

Each January, Copious Falls starts hiring locksmiths. "Ah! The Ides of March!" people say in Copious Falls, squinting hatefully in the direction of Walden Puddle. "I can't wait for the Ides of March!"

Each January in Walden Puddle ... as businesses begin to reopen ... the feeling is mutual. In Walden Puddle, however, people think Ides is a typo. Walden Puddlers say: "Ah! The Ice of March! I can't wait for the Ice of March! Those idiots in Copious Falls can't even spell ice."


"The humiliation has got to stop!" said Mayor Blinkie Duval at a special Walden Puddle town meeting devoted to the Ice of March Prank.

"But we egged them real good last year, Mayor!" someone shouted. "I hit their bookmobile!"

"We've been egging them for 142 years!" said Mayor Duval. "By morning, they've cleaned it all up with garden hoses! And then they mock us for not using free-range eggs!"

"Wait a minute! I have a great idea, Mayor!" someone else shouted. "Maybe we could egg them this year!"

"That does it!" said Mayor Duval, splintering her gavel. "This meeting is over!"

As she stormed out, she whispered to an aide, "Screw democracy. In some places, it just doesn't work. Get me the five smartest people in Walden Puddle."

At 7:45 the next morning, little 8-year-old Jeffrey Mayfield -- the evil Town Genius of Walden Puddle, with an IQ of 185 and a flair for using it in deplorable ways -- was sitting in Mayor Duval's office.

"Where are the other four smartest people in Walden Puddle?" she demanded of her aide.

"There weren't any," he said.

"Of course," said the mayor. "Hello, Jeffrey."

"Hi, Mayor," said little Jeffrey. "You look hot. And I love the fragrance. Very je ne sais quoi."

"Thank you, Jeffrey," said Mayor Duval, blushing. "So tell me ..."

"Here's the plan," said Jeffrey. "I can do it myself, from home."

"Yes?" said the mayor breathlessly. "How can we deal Copious Falls a blow from which they'll never recover?"

"I've hacked into their investment portfolio," said little Jeffrey Mayfield, "and I've written some encrypted code that would take 500 geeks 500 years to crack. At midnight on the Ides of March ..."

"You mean the Ice of March ..." the mayor corrected him.

"... at midnight on the 'Ice' of March, the town of Copious Falls will liquidate their entire portfolio and plow every penny into real estate on Pulapupa."

"What's Pulapupa?" said the mayor.

"A tiny island nation in the South Pacific," said Jeffrey. "Twenty years ago, it was 500 acres of paradise, but they've got a problem now."

"What's that?"

"Rising sea levels. Pulapupa is flat. Most of the time, it's 2 or 3 feet underwater. No one lives there anymore. The nation only emerges at low tide."

"Goodness!"

"Without realizing it, on the morning of the ... Ice ... of March, Copious Falls will purchase all of Pulapupa for $1,000 per square foot."

"And then?"

"They will immediately sell it to mining speculators for one cent per acre. By noon on the ... uhm ... Ice ... of March, the Copious Falls investment portfolio will be worth five dollars."

"Jeffrey ... I could kiss you!" said Mayor Blinkie Duval.

Jeffrey smiled. "Not if you knew what comes next, Blinkie," he muttered.


After school, Jeffrey rode his bicycle to the Old Dumbarton Maple, on the hostile border between Walden Puddle and Copious Falls. A man wearing sunglasses met him under the tree. That man was Brutus Whipsnade, the mayor of Copious Falls.

"So?" said Mayor Whipsnade.

"Thank you for wiring the money to my Antiguan account so promptly," said Jeffrey.

"You didn't leave us much choice, you little ... uhm ... boy."

"Here's the deal, Brutus," said Jeffrey. "At 11 p.m. on March 14, tell your brokerage to shut down the Copious Falls investment account for two hours. No access to anyone. No transaction orders accepted. Anybody asks, just say it was for routine systems maintenance."

"And ..."

"And the rest will take care of itself," said Jeffrey.

"Can you help us raid Walden Puddle's investment account, the way they wanted to raid ours?" said Mayor Whipsnade.

"If $46 means a lot to you."

"I'll take their $46, just for spite! And I'll still hire 100 locksmiths!"

Jeffrey got back on his bike.

"Are you sure we can't renegotiate your consultant's fee?" said Mayor Whipsnade.

"Estimez-vous hereux, mon ami," said Jeffrey, and he pedaled away, $1.5 million richer.


Early on March 15, the Ides of March itself, Jeffrey urgently requested a meeting with Mayor Blinkie Duval of Walden Puddle.

"Our plan is foiled," he told her.

"Who? What? When? Where? Whubba? Whubba?" said Mayor Duval.

"Some Evil Genius in Copious Falls has thwarted us."

"How? You mean they have a greater Evil Genius than you?"

"Apparently so," said Jeffrey. "They sniffed out my code, and they blocked the whole deal."

"Whubba ... Whubba ..."

"Not only that, but they donated the $46 Walden Puddle had in the bank to the North Korean Defense Ministry, with a note that reads, 'Good luck from your friends in Walden Puddle.' They sent a copy to Homeland Security."

"Whubba ..."

"I can't do anything about it. Honest, I tried."

"Whubba ..."

As Jeffrey left her office, Mayor Blinkie Duval regained her composure. "Jack?" she said to her chief aide.

"Yes, Mayor?"

"Jack, be a dear and run down to the shopping center ..."

"Yes?"

"... and buy up every goddamn egg in the supermarket!"

For another slice of the bitter rivalry between Walden Puddle and Copious Falls, visit Page 1 at http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/ and scroll to "Divorce, Walden Puddle Style," published November 9, 2009.


THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
At the Agreeable Doughnut, we chatted with Seemu Tippolainen, the Finnish coach of the Walden Puddle Gummy Bears, who were again named the "worst minor-league hockey team in North America" by The Sporting News. The Gummy Bears lost all 56 of their games, 44 on the ice, and 12 by forfeit because they didn't show up, fearing violence.

"I have high hopes when I come to Walden Puddle in September," said Coach Tippolainen. "Now I go back to Finland and practice the tango. I have lost my love for the hockey. I shall dedicate my life to the Forbidden Dance."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Seated as far away from Coach Tippolainen as possible was the Gummy Bears' goalie, Timmu Hakkolainen, who allowed 31.6 goals per game this season. The Gummies imported Timmu from Finland in October, over the strenuous protests of Coach Tippolainen, who had seen him play back home.

"I blame the 3-D glasses," said Timmu. "I found them in an erotic magazine, and I wore them under my goalie mask to improve my depth perception, which has never been good."

What happened?

"The 3-D glasses made the puck seem closer than it really was. Also, the puck appeared to be traveling very, very fast. I was terrified that it might hit me. Instinctively, I did everything I could to get out of the way."

It sounded awful.

"Yes. It was. Sometimes I was so fearful that I did not leave the locker room. Now I go home to Helsinki and swim in the Baltic."


NEXT POST: March 30, 2010

FEATURING: "Break a Paw." The Rev. Alvin Bisonnette is auditioning singing dogs for his musical Oedipus Rex for Christians. Will he "bomb in New Haven," as theater folk say? Not at all. He'll bomb in Walden Puddle.

THE BEAR FACTS: In his first skating lesson, Alonzo takes to the ice ... and falls through it. Also: bear wrestling tips from a pro. Plus the inside scoop: Are the matches fixed?

BONUS ITEM: His theater career may have stalled before it started, but the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette doesn't know the meaning of the word capitulate. Literally. In a dictionary sense.


Editor's Note: You're on Page 3 of Walden Puddle, which begins with this post. You can view Page 1, which contains Posts 1 through 5, by clicking http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/. You can view Page 2, and Posts 6 through 10, by clicking http://onwaldenpuddle2.blogspot.com/. If you're new to Walden Puddle, we hope you'll pay a visit to both.

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.