Now How Appropriate is that?

 

    

    I have seen Tooth Art in a dentist’s office.  I’ve witnessed foot art at a podiatrist’s office, but this was one for the books.  In Washington D.C., in a bar frequented by politicians hangs this image of a pain in the neck.

 

 

zc

 

The Frustration of Nelson Bird

The problem began back at the beginning, which is to say, it all started at the issue table.  Nelson Bird was scheduled to receive the standard brain, as assigned to every bird in the system.  What actually happened is still debated to this day, but the end activity resulted in Nelson being issued a human brain.  Not only that, but an above average one.

The odd part was the brain itself was no bigger than the brain he should have been issued, but Nelson’s cognitive abilities far surpassed that of most humans.  Almost instantly, he was good at deductive reasoning, analyzing situations and almost knowing what was going to happen before it did. 

Of course, the part that was throwing Nelson a curve was, he understood he was a bird and shouldn’t have such abilities.  He had no idea why he understood the things he did.  This caused him to not fit in with either group.  He was not a normal bird, and neither was he human.  His inability to communicate with either species caused him great frustration and loneliness. 

After considering his options, he figured he had greater chances of having a person understand him than a bird, so he flew off in the direction of downtown.  While there he could also check out his reflection in a window, as he’d not yet seen himself.  There was more to the flying thing than he had thought.  Being up so high didn’t bother him at all, but there were many more bugs than he ever thought there would be.  Some would even sting when he flew into them, not that he did that on purpose.  He was still getting used to this whole vision during flight thing.  Stuff came upon you quickly when zipping through the air. 

As Nelson glided down towards a State Farm Insurance building he suddenly questioned if it was a new – unused brain he had received.  He realized he knew way too much for it to be brand new.  He already knew things, which would explain his little bouts of ESP.  He wasn’t psychic, he had lived something like this before. 

But whose brain had he gotten?  He’d never heard of anyone filling out a brain-doner card before.  Maybe he was delicious, running a fever or something.  How would he know if he wasn’t right in the head.  So far, none of the morning had made any sense. A bird receiving a human brain?  Just a bit silly, wasn’t it.

As he landed on the roof of one of the cars in the parking lot he closed his eyes.  He would just sit there for a minute and try to think this thing through.  With his eyes closed, he could hear people talking.  Maybe someone was walking through the parking lot.  Maybe they were headed out to lunch.

 What time is it, anyway? He wondered. Then the voice he heard was getting closer.  “It’s time to wake up Nelson.”

Someone was patting the back of his hand.  “Nelson, time to wake up.”  Nelson opened his eyes and saw a nurse looking down at him.  “The surgery went fine.  We’re going to have you sit up for a little bit.  Can you sit up for me?” 

Nelson felt groggy and kept fluttering his eyes trying to focus.  “Do you work for State Farm?”  

“No, I’m Betty.  Remember?  I’m your nurse.”

Nelson looked down at his hand.  He was glad to see he was human.  There was an IV attached, with lines leading up to a bag of fluid.  “Did I have surgery, or something?” 

“You gave us all quite a scare, Mr. Bird.  And yes, your surgery went just fine.  The doctor will be in to talk with you in a few minutes.” 

“Why did I have surgery?  What happened to me?”

“Apparently, two days ago when you crossed the street in front of the State Farm building, you were hit by a car.” 

“And there was a brain doner?”

“A what?  Did you say brain doner?  No Nelson, there was no brain doner.”

 

 

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Deeper Truth

 

Country music is more about story telling than it is about fiddles or guitars.  The music is secondary; it is the loneliness that pushes the jukebox buttons and yours. 

 

 

 

zc

 

Hello

 

It's 1960 calling.

Roger? Really?

 

Since when did a chat become electronic?  I have an issue with a company’s product, and they project an image on my screen and prompt me to chat with it, as if this is the best they can do when it comes to Customer Service.

 

“All of our agents are currently busy, blah – blah – blah…”

 

“Call volumes are higher than normal, so please stay on the line and your call, blah – blah – blah…”

 

“Many of our menu options have changed and most simply hang-up on you, blah – blah – blah…”

 

“Hello, this is Roger from Bangladesh, Gibberish – Gibberish – Gibberish…”

 

Here's a thought...
        If call volumes are higher than normal -
        change normal.

zc

 

 

Reflections

 

Not all that long ago I was content to play in puddles of rain, build things out of mud and pretend it was a real adventure.  Then I grew up and learned to be serious and do serious things.  Puddles became an annoyance and mud was to be avoided.  But sometimes I miss that adventurous me.  The freedom to be silly and get dirty, without the concerns of washing darks with lights, or chasing wrinkles from shirts. 

Once in a great while, someone will ask what I’m thinking about.  I dare not tell them I’m sitting on the ground at the edge of a mud puddle, playing with the reflection looking back up at me.  I doubt they’d get the same image.

 

 

 

zc

 

 

 

Two Flowers

 

This is the story of two flowers.  Born in the same yard, both sharing identical weather conditions, and yet one always worried and one never did.  The more beautiful of the two was forever concerned the weeds were going to steal all her food, the bugs were going to bite her beautiful leaves and that the morning frost would be too heavy for her pedals and they might snap off. 

Her friend stood bravely in the same soil, surrounded by the same weeds and subjected to the same frost, and yet always smiled and laughed at the day.  He would tell her how beautiful she was and didn’t the warm sun feel good? 

She would ask him how to always see the sunny side of things, but he didn’t know what to say, except to just enjoy what we have and thank the butterflies for creating the momentary breeze with their wings.

But she couldn’t do it.  Her bigger concern was the butterflies landing on her with their big convict shoes.  “They never wipe their feet.”  she grumbled.

He felt bad for not being able to show her the world he enjoyed.  If only she could focus on the good things, the fun things, her world would be so much brighter, but she seemed to almost be happy, almost content, if only…

 

“If I could just get them to wipe their feet before landing.”

 

zc