Just my Luck

 It is early morning, and nothing is in here but me and a mosquito.  I have noticed it buzzing around the desk lamp.  I expect it will be only a matter of time until it notices me sitting here.  Once it leaves the safety of the lamp it will, of course, become much more difficult to see.

I could, I suppose, go out to the garage, and get a can of Raid.  My concern there is that I will end up inhaling more of the deadly poison than the mosquito.  I guess I could just smack him with the can, and not spray the thing at all.  For that matter, I could use my shoe.

If it were not early morning, then I wouldn’t need to concern myself with being quiet, but as I am the only one awake, (except the mosquito) I don’t wish to wake everyone by smacking at the drapes or lamp with a shoe.

“What was that!”

"Go back to sleep, it was only me knocking over the desk lamp."

 If life goes on as it usually does, sometime later today I will find myself itching.  A small bump will arise, and I will know who won the battle.  I’m not really sure if I am just destined to be someone else’s snack or if the mosquito simply has better luck than me.

My Two Cents

 A painting stands on its own.  People either enjoy looking at it or they don’t.  If enough people find it pleasant, it becomes popular and is generally considered good.  If it gathers enough praise, it becomes famous and hangs in a gallery behind a velvet rope, with security guards who only speak in whispers.

Writing, as I have discovered, can really stink and yet gather the praise of the public.  I’ll never know why this is.  Several years ago I read Ernest Hemmingway, and I found it to be terrible.  Both his writing and his chosen subject matter were annoying to me.  Yesterday I reread A Clean Well-lighted Place, by Ernest.  Yuck!  I just don’t see the attraction. 

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, his notoriety probably came when he was a war correspondent.  He was how people were getting their news.  They became familiar with him and with seeing his name in print.  Transitioning into literature was simply a stroke of good luck on his part and writing of foreign places gave the folks back home an imaginary vacation without wandering too many steps from their fridge.

To me, however, the emperor has no clothes.  Hemmingway was a hack, a bully with a Bic.  Not that I am making any comparisons to my writing.  I already know I stink.  My subject matter is usually silly, my descriptions too abbreviated and given the choice of reading something of mine or having a cold beer, well – bottoms up.

 

That’s it.  That’s my two cents.

As always, opposing views are welcomed. 

I have added it to my shopping list.

 We all like the posts that have pictures with them.  This one had a doosey, but yesterday I used the last of my monitor glue and, as you can see, without it - these pictures slide right off. 

Scotch Tape Failure

 I have just now spilled words all over this page.  Oh sure, to you – the untrained observer, you see them in straight lines, maybe even in complete sentences.  Trust me when I tell you, this is not the case.  This page is a mess.  Ink everywhere.  Nouns scattered here and there, adjectives – Hey!  Don’t get me going about the adjectives.

          And I was trying to be so careful.  I had all these words in a small cardboard box.  I think it was originally the top of a trivial pursuit game.  One corner of the box had been damaged, but I had Scotch tape on it.  I thought it was good enough to hold together.  Apparently too many of these words were heavy.  Some very heavy.

 

        

 

 

                                                Anyway, as you can see, the thing ripped.

We're on our own

 OK, I don’t know all the questions, but I just figured out one of the answers.  It’s the answer to WHEN?

The question is when will our technology get away from us, and I believe the answer is when our smart phones are given pure thought.  The moment they have the ability to think for themselves, to reason and examine the world around them, that’s when they will all take off.   Think about it…  If they are truly smart, they’re not going to want to hang around with the likes of us.

Maybe that’s why God left.  We pollute, we kill each other, we lie, steal and run amuck at every opportunity.  Look around…  Do you see him anywhere?  He was truly smart. 

He took off Dude.  And trust me, your phone will ditch you the moment it springs to life.

We've already got Smart TV's.

Brush Strokes

There was a folded newspaper on the coffee table, a smoldering pipe in the ashtray and an annoying skipping sound, like the phonograph needle had reached the end of the record and it was now just bumping against the edge of the label.

A dust-filled ray of sunlight crossed the room and was presently warming the sleeping dog, who was all too familiar with the heavy scent of pipe tobacco.

A book had been set with its pages draped over the arm of the sofa, as if the entire couch needed to be used as a bookmark.  The only other sound in the house was the ticking of the grandfather clock, and even that noise seemed to blend into the dog’s dream and disappear with the dust particles that danced, if only momentarily, in the sunlight.

None of this, however, existed anywhere but on the canvas.  The old man’s hand was steady and precise.  His paints were of the highest quality, and everyone admired the detail with which he painted.  If you looked at his painting long enough, you’d swear you could see the dog breathing.  He painted with a reality usually only seen in the great works of art that hang in museums.

His talent wasn’t so much the subject matter, but rather he would give a feeling to his art.  This current work had both a relaxed atmosphere, as well as a nagging anticipation that something was about to happen.  Standing three feet away from it, one could sense an impending doom.  Something was going to startle the dog awake, someone was about to enter through that far door, or a shot would ring out knocking the book from the couch and it would fall open to the last page – announcing in bold print, 

the end

 

 

Time

  I have actually done it.  Jim Croce made a song about time in a bottle, but I have gone and done it.  I have actually captured time.  I have knocked it down and swept it into this dustpan, then dropped it carefully into this bin.  Don’t mess with the lid.  Don’t even lift it to peek inside.

    I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it.  I know for a fact it is the most valuable thing we have, so maybe I’ll sell it to the highest bidder.  Maybe someone dying in a hospital, they’d surely want more time with their family.  Or perhaps someone on death row.  But where would they get the money to pay me?

    I need to think about this.  I don’t want to waste it.

    I should have weighed the empty bin, then I could weigh it now and see just how much time I have.  I mean, I know I have a bin full, but how heavy is it?  Do I charge by the pound or by the minute?

    I wonder how long it will last in there without air holes in the bin.  But the moment I start putting air holes in the bin, the time will get out through the holes.  Boy, that would have been a rookie mistake.  Time doesn’t need to breathe.  What was I thinking?

    I don’t even think I can dole it out to someone in segments, without spilling it all over the place.  I’ll have to sell the entire bin just as it is.  They will just have to trust me that the time is in there.  Once they get a little time on their hands they can figure out what to do with it.

One day at the Supermarket

I could see several things as I waited in the parking lot.  She had gone in for a few things, leaving me to rotate between having the air on or the windows rolled down.

There was an old man leaning against his car, wearing Florida shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and tennis shoes.  He was twisting something around in the fingers of his right hand.  It was either an unlit cigarette or a tire gauge. I couldn’t be sure.

A rather large lady pulled into the spot next to me.  She was driving a very loud three-wheeled motorcycle.  It had all kinds of fancy things on it, and it seemed to breathe a sigh of relief the minute she climbed off.  As she walked into the market, I couldn’t help but think how fun it would be to ride a bike like that, zipping along an old country road.  Except for the occasional overwhelming smell of cows, what a hoot that would be.

Off to my right was an old man who should have turned in his driver’s license years ago.  He had spent the last several minutes attempting to back out of his parking spot, but various walkers and people cruising for an empty parking spot kept going right behind him, so he’d once again step on the brake, shift back into drive and pull a few inches forward, back to where he had been.  Then, he would again struggle to shift back into reverse, check his mirrors, turn his head to see if anyone was coming and he’d start the process all over again.  Nope – not yet.

Something caught my attention off to my left.  Flashing lights on the top of a rather large truck.  Okay, I see it is a tow truck, so that must have been a tire gauge and not a cigarette.  Yep, he’s headed over to the guy wearing shorts, who is now also waving his arms in the air to get the tow truck driver’s attention.

Apparently frustrated at taking so long to back out of his parking spot, the old man just went ahead and hit the gas.  His scruffy blue car lurched back just in time to crunch into the side of the passing tow truck.  I felt bad for the old man, who now slumped upon the steering wheel, I assume regretting his last decision to just go for it.   

I watched as a very unhappy driver of the tow vehicle walked around the to this side of his truck to better see what had happened.  Meanwhile, tire gauge guy had come trotting over to find out why the tow truck he had requested stopped two aisles away.  Both men were now standing at the driver’s window, presumably checking on the slumped-over driver.

A Supermarket kid, pushing a long line of carts towards the store, didn’t even glance at the activity as he passed.  His thoughts, I’m sure, were of his next days off.  The long line of carts brushing too close, knocked the tire gauge from the hand of shorts guy, who – I guess because of the noise of the passing carts and the distress he felt for slumped-over man, didn’t even notice when the gauge fell to the ground.

Also watching the activity was a seagull, perched atop the tall light pole.  His squawks went unnoticed by the now small crowd gathered at the crunch sight.  One lady, setting her groceries on the pavement, was now calling for an ambulance for slumped over man.  The tow driver had gotten the car door open and was kneeling, talking with the old man, who did not seem to respond.

Just for a moment, seeing the turmoil unfold before me, and hearing the background music of the squawking seagull, I imagined myself viewing all of this from the seats of the Old Globe Theatre.  A once plush and elegant building, whose days had long passed.  Today, the seats felt small and crammed together, reminding theatre goers that neither a well written play nor the skill of the actors would be good enough to distract from the greed of the theatre owner who had squeezed even more seats into each row.

I looked down at my gas guage and decided to shut the car off and instead roll down the windows.  This not only increased the volume of the seagull to me but let in a rush of hot air.  I had not realized it had gotten so warm out.  I could now hear the distant siren of the paramedics rushing to the aid of slumped over man.  How many lives, I wondered, had this old man’s decision affected?  The number seemed to be growing.

I watched as the seagull pushed off and flew across the parking lot.   I wondered – would the paramedics be in time?  Had the old man already passed away?  Maybe, just maybe that was the old man’s soul pushing off from the light pole, heading off to a better place.

Suddenly my wife was knocking on the car.  I could see her holding the brown shopping bags in my mirror, so I quickly popped the trunk.  I felt them as they almost imperceptibly changed the level of the car, and I remembered seeing the adjustment of the motorcycle when the rider got off.

As my wife clicked her seatbelt, I started the car.

“What’s going on over there?” she asked.

I double checked my mirrors and back-up camera.  “A seagull was just announcing a new arrival.  Put your window down, you might still be able to hear him.”

I could see her glance over to me. 

“You’re strange.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A page out of history...

 Here is a little-known fact from Kanbarelystanya.

After suffering years of border skirmishes with their neighbors to the East, a mix-up in a supply shipment accidently delivered hundreds of cases of Seagram’s VO Whiskey instead of their usual supply of ammunition.

Since that time there have been no reports of fighting.  On-line shopping has increased, and three mixed marriages have taken place.

 

 

AP/UPI

From the back of the file cabinet

 There are some mornings my coffee feels so warm and smells so flavorful that I’d like to quietly slip over the edge of the mug and float around as if it were a secluded swimming hole.

It has occurred to me just now that my house has no peripheral vision.  I have, of course, windows facing our direction of travel, but should a pirate ship appear along side we’d be quite vulnerable.

To the untrained eye, my office appears clean and orderly, yet sitting here I can’t help but notice the network of wires and cables busily carrying a blur of pixels north and south, this way and that.  I am happy they are no louder than a pencil.

The slight breeze might as well have been a hurricane.  Delicate flowers hanging from weak stems danced in the wind while a butterfly, having no weight at all, attempts to precisely land.