Wednesday, March 18, 2009


Uh-oh: now I'm trouble. A blogging colleague and fellow poetry-enthusiast from Africa (he writes the wonderful Poefrika blog), Rethabile, has invited me to take the honesty-challenge. He writes,

"Honesty is the best policy. Yeah, right. Tell that to... too many names pop up at this. Never mind it, though. Let's play at being honest. 100% honest, this very Saturday. What with it being the first day of Spring and all.

I will be celebrating Norouz that day with family, eating Adas Pollo and drinking a nice red. Why not Australian Shiraz? But never mind that.

For Saturday, 21 March, place the Honesty badge in a post on your honest blog. By so doing, you will be inviting your honest readers to ask you an honest question each. And you swear by the skies of thunder that you will reply honestly.

Your fans are honest and good and knowledgeable enough not to ask unanswerable questions, of course. I will certainly place the badge in a post on Poéfrika, so come by and ask away. The askee has two "passes" ("no comments" in bloglese). If you can badge up a post before Saturday, by all means do so. That way we can all dream questions up, ha ha ha!"

Wow, only two passes. These are some stringent rules. Nonetheless, I'm going for it. Ask questions if you like, and I'll try to answer them honestly. Notice "try." Also notice "unanswerable questions," above.

And may Rethabile enjoy the Australian shiraz and the Adas Pollo. I just saw BOTTLE SHOCK, finally, and the Brit. who ran the famous contest in '76 (Paris) predicted that, once an American wine "beat" a French wine, all bets were off, and wine would be produced successfully around the globe--including (he predicted) Australia and South America. He also predicated Africa. I don't think I've every tasted an African wine, but I'm ready.

"Honestly!" used to be a favorite expression of my mother's--except it didn't have anything to do with honest; a rough translation might be "Good grief!" That is, she (and others of her generation) used it as an expression of frustration. I wonder how that got started. She's passed on, so I can't ask her--directly, anyway. Even if she were still here and I asked her, she might give me the cold blue stare, as if to say, "What do you mean, 'How did it get started?' It just did."
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