Bohemian Rhapsody

"Thunderbolt and lightening
Very, very frightening thing.
Galileo. Galileo. Galileo. Galileo.
Galileo, Figaro--Magnifico!"

Saturday night before Easter, about 5:30 a.m., Zeus returned home from a late night out with the demi-gods, and encountered a very angry Hera.

In an attempt to punish her wayward spouse, the angry goddess hurtled a lightening bolt at Zeus, which he managed to deflect onto an 80 foot oak tree behind our house.

KABAM! The poor hardwood exploded; sent bark-shrapnel crashing through our French door windows, and caused our house and heads to quake with fear.

Accompanied by the sounds of thunderous squabbling, amputated tree limbs bounced off the upstairs balcony railings, bent wrought iron, and landed in the yard.

Yours truly sat up in bed, screamed like a bloody lunatic, and groped around for some clothing.

We wandered, dazed, through darkened rooms and discovered thousands of glass shards and big bark projectiles..."There's a tree in the house!" I exclaimed, like a modern-day Socrates. "Great Scot! Looks like downtown Mesopotamia in here!"

Well, not much like Baghdad, really, but the terrifying event made me ponder the hell Iraqi citizens face on a regular basis (not that Rumie is a god, or anything).

We're still waiting for repairs to be finished, which is a delicious slice of Hades, in its own right.

You know what Winston Churchill said: "When you're going through hell, keep going."

Or, if you're a secret service agent assigned to provide safe passage past John Hinckley Jr.'s house, "Speed up! Oh my gawd! Put petal to the metal! Ieeeeee!"

Our local news beacon, the Williamsburg Gazette, recently blared the following, front page headline: "Hinckley in Kingsmill as caucus met Explains why buses sped up."

Apparently oblivious to the famous would-be assassin's presence, 125 brave Democratic House members convened a private congressional B-S session at the community/resort, and invited Al Gore to speak about the current administration's "domestic spying policy."

What a grueling security assignment. Can't you imagine the secret service radio chatter?

Agent One: Red Riding Hood to Grandma. What's the Three Little Pigs' status? Over.
Agent Two: Huffed & Puffed, but still standing. And Humpty Dumpty? Over.
Agent One: Roger that, Grandma. Lockbox Tipperdy-Do. Do you read me? Send all the
King's men and horses. Over.
Agent Two: Gottcha Red Riding Hood. Snow White, what's the Big Bad Wolf's twenty?
Agent Three: The forest is clear. I say again, the forest is clear. Load the Seven Dwarves
and Hansel and Gretel on the bus.

Given Rep. Patrick Kennedy's latest driving incident (which he's blamed on that nectar of the gods, Ambien), I really shouldn't stoop to a cheap political joke; but sorry, cause I just can't resist.

What is golf's worst foursome?

Monica Lewinski, OJ Simpson, Bill Clinton, and Ted Kennedy.

Why?

Monica's a hooker.
OJ's a slicer.
Bill can't remember which hole he just played and
Ted can't drive over water.

Awful!

Meanwhile, Wm & Mary News reported that during her chancellorship ceremony speech, Reagan-appointed Supreme Sandra Day O'Conner read the following poem when describing the U.S.:

"Old man, said a fellow pilgrim near,
you are wasting strength in building here.
Your journey will end with the ending day.
You never again must pass this way.
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?"

"The builder lifted his old, gray head.
Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followeth after me today
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
to that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for him."

Excuse me, boys and girls, but can you spell "Socialism?" We are so gonna miss Saunders on the bench.

All this to-do forced us to seek relaxation and education in the beautiful Williamsburg Winery vineyards.

We tasted several wines, and deemed the $32 bottle of 2002 Gabriel Archer Reserve, "a premium red wine skillfully styled to reflect the art of blending in the Bordeaux tradition" our favorite. Runner up in my notes was the 2004 John Adlum chardonnay, with its "graceful hint of oak", while my beloved preferred the Acte 12.

Speaking of "acting", one wonders how sincere the Prince of Wales (who put the "funk" in dysfunctional) felt during his speech to honor HRM the Queen's 80th birthday, when he described his mum as a rock of stability.

I suspect that following the festivities, HRH went home to a darkened room where he flopped on the settee, cracked open a tin of Poppycock, and screened repeated showings of "The Thing that Would not Die" and "Let's Throw Mama From the Train."

Surely the Duke of Edinburgh was at a loss regarding what to give the "octogenarian who has everything." One hopes he perused the NYT online, and read one of their most e-mailed literary articles, which extolled the merits of expensive wrinkle cream, Freeze 24/7.

"Huzzah! I'm saved! 'Old Thing', you are absolutely going to love this divine slime. Do slather it everywhere, me duck."

Well, I use Freeze 24/7, and it does work, even on us roughened plebs, but does it deserve mention by the Times? The Grey Lady also recently featured an article by "author" Tom Hanks. Me doth think someone invested a few quid in the upcoming da Vinci film.

We eschewed movies the past few weeks--too much to do; but we did manage to attend Wm & Mary Symphony's Spring Concert, which featured Mozart's Horn Concerto No. 4 (fun); Chadwick's Symphonic Sketches II. Noel (called "calming", it managed to lull at least one audience member sound asleep); Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, I. Moderato (a nerve-wracking favorite, though some claim it to be a ready for the glue factory warhorse), and finally, Beethoven's Symphony No. 3 "Eroica", which may or may not have been written for Napoleon, or as an allegory for Prometheus.

Talley Ho! Tomorrow is our neighbor's annual Kentucky Derby party, and I plan to soak my non-god-like liver in either a serious mint julep or some good Kentucky mash; haven't yet decided. My horse won last year, so I suppose I'll not strike in the same place, twice. Still, I'll wager a bet or two.

Why not? After all...

"Nothing really matters.
Anyone can see.
Nothing really matters;
Nothing really matters to me.
Anyway, the wind blows."

Queen, 1975