If I Were a Pirate I'd Know

        You go through life thinking that it will never happen to you, but then ZAP!  There you are, sitting across from someone asking you to find the value of R.   I gave them the ole’ blank stare, but they did not budge; they just kept waiting for me to answer.

          Like I’m going to know algebraic equations.   Just tell me what folks would generally pay for an R and I will be able to determine its general value.   Just a guess, but I would say an R has greater value in Italy than say… Canada, but add in someone with a brogue and the value goes through the RRRRRoof.  

          Math and I have never made friends.  Like I’ve always said, there are three kinds of people, those good at math and those who aren’t.  Even in school the instructor would give me a story problem, and I would instinctively tack on another chapter.   The only thing I learned was that math teachers have a negative sense of humor.

          In addition, if I had to make my living calculating electrical depletion through a 7” 12 gauge wire, a 1-amp resister, and a 1” X 2 “X 3” copper bar, well you would have to count me among the ohm-less.

“So you see, Timmy, if you reverse the equation, then R becomes 25, and N stays in Chicago - missing the train completely.” 

Bucket List

Had I the time and talent, I would learn to strum an old front porch guitar.  I would make up songs as I went along, entertaining anyone who happened to linger.  If I had the resources, I'd travel down south.  I would sit in a local café just to listen to the slow, southern accents, feeling my own blood pressure and stress level calm down  (and I would have some pie).

Somewhere in the back of my mind I have this running list of things that fall under the category of, one of these days.   Over the years, of course, some of the items on this list have changed.  Even the ones that have held on the longest haven't always kept their original position.  As my personal likes and dislikes change, my list makes priority adjustments.  The time of year also affects these items, for as July and August draw near my desire to head to southern states diminishes.

I have no inclinations towards space exploration, sailing, mountain climbing, or exploring religious philosophies.  The items on my list have always been the simple pleasures, like finding the perfect cookie, learning Italian, to photograph someone's face for a chance of capturing unsullied human expression, or simply sitting with friends - hearing about the things on their list.

As most of you know, the one thing that has never fallen from my list is to take a little time every day to play with words.  The written word to me holds all of the treasures found within human thought.  Its bounty extends beyond all margins, in soft, colorful strokes, or can be as sharp as a wedge of cheese, expressed in a harsh, regrettable tone.  Words, when arranged just right, can evolve into brilliant stage plays that pull us through rivers of emotions, even though we never once leave our chair.  Words, when sinisterly manipulated by advertisers, can gnaw away at us, forcing us to remember their product.  

I believe there to be an agonizing plight in the hearts of true poets.  It is a weight never lifted, a passion fueled by both love and rage.  It is perhaps their very soul slowly leaking through the tip of the pen, leaving behind what some would see as excess droplets of ink, but are in fact small fragments of items that once resided on an old and tired list. 

Not all that philosophical

Reflections

My concern is about that old man.  He follows me -

always there, with his worn clothing and

ragged manners.

He seems to know me.

His hands are course - having gripped

the wooden wheelbarrow handles over

years of dirt and rock.  His shoes

like those of a barbers -

worn with miles -  yet

having gone nowhere.

He concerns me when I look at him.

What is it he wants?  Where is he

going?  What thoughts are hidden

behind those eyes?

I just may confront him

the next time we

shave.

They’re Contagious

            Standing at the kitchen counter threading olives onto a sterling silver pick  gave me a momentary flash of my Dad trying to show me how to put a worm on a hook.   

        I hate fishing and I never did do that whole worm thing.  It gave me the Willies. 

        So much so that even the remembrance of it caused me to hesitate putting those olives into my Martini.  But I did it.

            I think that once you’ve had the Willies you never get rid of them.  They may lie dormant for several years, but trust me, they’re still there.   

           I’ve looked through many a medical book to better understand the Willies and much to my disappointment I got even more Willies seeing some of the photographs.  A doctor I’ll never be.  

            Different things give different people the Willies.  What might give me the Willies may not affect you at all.  Other things might send you right through the roof, while I just calmly place my hand over my beverage, keeping the plaster dust from contaminating it.

         I’m not sure if our Willie susceptibility levels differ do to our DNA or if it is simply a random, Darwinian phenomenon. 
  

         Now you see?  The last two words of that last sentence, seen together like that  just gave me the Willies all over again.

            Its sort of like seeing someone chew on a piece of tin foil.  There, see what I just did?  Now you’ve got the Willies.

Left Alone

There is a self-serve ice-cream bar

at the Mall.

I watched a person fill the small container

with two healthy scoops

of Vanilla.

Then, walking so slowly -  with

such deliberation -

choose topping after topping.

Hot fudge, sprinkles - chopped

peanuts and tiny M&M type candies -

Half way around and the hand holding the cup

could no longer be seen.

Covered with Caramel - dripping with Hot

Fudge, and shredded coconut.

He was leaving a trail for all to follow.

His face held signs of various samples.

He had paid his money and now

determined, was going to get his

money’s worth…

I sat and watched

from a distant table -

A child

on tip-toes - reaching…

he wasn’t.  He was at least 60.

He was involved with his project.

Consumed.

The kid inside him had found his way to

the surface -

and his wife was still off shopping.

In Summation...

Message in a Bottle

A Petition to Abolish Cynicism

        If we are to live in a society where common sense and educated values succumb to profit margins and expediency, then we are doomed as a species.   Survival is an instinct and not a mandate.  Names upon a roster cannot filter our air or clean our water.  Our culture can no longer afford the shameless antics of its politicians, or the mindless babble of the media.  Without someone at the helm the ship will surely run aground.

        I cannot save you.   The value of my signature cannot save you.  

 

The Art of Graffiti

He was always a little different

He wasn’t your typical cowboy

He didn’t do the rodeo or spit tobacco -

He’d never joined a posse

or got drunk on a Saturday night –

He didn’t have a cool cowboy name

like Shorty, or Maverick –

He didn’t even have his own horse

but actually had to borrow one for this group picture

Even from this far away you know who it is.

 

Booty

Karmoligest

 Not only am I the author and creator of this impressive blog, (and as you can see – I myself am quite impressed with it) but I am also a full time Karmoligest.

Often people come to me and say, Zobostic – I’ve got bad juju, can you help me?

Well they certainly didn’t have to tell me they had bad juju.  I could see it from a mile away.

It isn’t always exactly a mile, sometimes I won’t really see it until about 600 feet or so, but the thing is, I have always had the gift. 

Even as a child I could spot bad juju.  Seeing an adult with it was easy, it affected their entire being.  They were not happy, their posture was terrible, they were not  eating their vegetables; often I’d see them puffing away on a cigarette or drowning their sorrows in ice cream.

I hated to break it to them but none of those things help.  Really bad juju over-rides all of the conventional things you can throw at it.

That’s where a good Karmoligest can work wonders.

I believe you’ll see my track record speaks for itself, but please don’t view this as an advertisement.  I already have more business than I can handle, but here's a little test for you:

 If you are having difficulty determining 

if this is half full or half empty -

you may have bad juju.

Life

The wind – it took my kite from me

As down the beach I ran –

The string slipped from my feeble grasp

My face fell in the sand,

The night, it took my flashlight beam

I use when it’s not day –

It drained my little batteries

Dark got in my way –

I had my army men deployed

In hopes to be heroic –

I led the charge to sofa fringe

But now they’re in the Oreck,

The ground, it took my breath away

When I fell from the tree –

Tiny stars danced in my head

As clouds passed over me,

My neighbor’s dog, he took a bite

When I snuck in her yard –

He was just a little tyke

Boy, could he bite hard –

The Sun, it stole my lovely skin

And wrinkled up my face –

The pizza gave me calories

Expanded out my waist,

Time has ticked my life away

I’ll not put up a fight –

I’ll simply rise up to the sky

And hope to find my kite.

zc

Do you mean the one that's propped open?

Problem Solved

Here’s what I think,

Whenever a truck is pulling a trailer or flatbed over the tracks, it is going to scrape and make a terrible scraping sound, as if something is scraping.

The surrounding neighborhood is going to hear the scraping sound and think something awful is happening.  They are going to become concerned and call the police. (They always do)

The police, having responded to these complaints several times before, will contact the county to have the pitch of the road changed.  The county will explain that the railroad owns that portion of the road and therefore it is the railroad that should solve the problem.

The officials at the railroad have, on at least three occasions, sent a management team out.  They determined the tracks to be level and therefore see nothing wrong.  They report back to the county that it is not a railroad problem and the county will have to deal with the issue.

This cycle of events continues until one day the county puts up a sign warning everyone that a scraping sound will be heard every time a truck crosses the tracks pulling a trailer or flatbed.

The sign is a great success with the locals because they know what message the images are trying to convey. 

Personally I would have put up a sign requiring all tires to be over inflated before crossing.  This would raise the trailer or flatbed just enough to eliminate any scraping. 

Problem solved.

Can You Believe it?

Someone was selling this at a garage sale

for only 25 cents.

They obviously had no idea what it was.