Comments, Blogs, Ramblings and various BS, of and about Bois:
 
 

 
Some collected wisdom of Bois (from e-mails I saved years ago and don't know why but  I'm glad I did) .....
 
 
"He lives! Welcome back Grampus. Now we don't have to talk about him behind his back anymore. An end to perverse speculation... The curtain comes up and our long lost boy is revealed; albeit electronically. Now we will have to figure out when, how and where to get this prodigal bro' sufficiently primed so as to allow us to discover the truth of his long and mysterious absence. I mean, this is almost biblical... 30 years in Texas without a peep.
Bill Duncan lives down the street from me and although unwired, will get the news by pidgeon if necc. and be glad of it.
In hoc, Bois"
 
 
 
"So McEvoy responds to my Grampus Greeting with an admonition regarding my spelling; "pigeon", so there; and I fire back that I'm glad to learn that he actually knows about e-mail, spell check and the rest because when I met his boss, aspersions were cast Pat's way on the subject of computer literacy. Mind you, I was being sarcastic so as to elicit enough of a response to prove to myself that Pat is actually with us here in cyber-space. Pat's retort; nada. It appears that what actually happens at that desk is that when he gets mail, someone opens it for him and prints it out. Pat then dictates a response which in due course makes its way onto the electric super-highway. It's a '72 Pinto with one brown door, but its there. "
 
 
 
"Grampus is this retired guy in Texas who takes his prune juice with san gria in a tall glass over ice with a little paper umbrella. He's poolside in a speedo and a Panama hat. I imagine him peering out from behind wrap-around shades at succulent bikini sunbathers who gather at the pool. They call him Gary. The rest of us comb memo's, trade rags, the WSJ or whatever for warnings and clues; but not Grampus. On the table next to to him is a copy of "Your Money" or something. Inside the magazine is a comic book. Life is good and he's not straining. Now and again, he does Vail where he takes his prune juice with san gria in a tall glass over ice with a little paper umbrella. He's at the top of the lift on the patio. I imagine him peering out from behind wrap-around shades at succulent ski bunnies who gather there. They call him Gary. The rest of us get up and pretend were doing something meaningful; but not Grampus. He does yard sales and face plants..."