Just a thought

I look out and it seems to be on the verge of rain.  There is no prediction of rain, but it sure looks like it could at any minute.  Maybe it’s me just wishing it would.

Yesterday I took this picture.  It is on my garage up by the floodlights.  I don’t expect this spider, or his shadow wants it to rain.  That’s the thing about living outside, you are subjected to the elements.   But you knew that already.

Currently there is a virus outside.  It is a nasty critter, infecting people, and killing way too many.  We are staying indoors, away from crowds, shopping and restaurants.

The thing is, you can’t see the virus.  You don’t know who is infected, where it is, or even if it’s on something that has just been delivered to your house.   

The spider tends to his web and never eats anything prepackaged or processed.  Not that I’d want his diet. 

There are people, smart people, working on a possible cure.  Maybe an option to that should be a color.  If they could turn the virus fluorescent orange, or glow-in-the-dark yellow, then maybe we could see it on things.  We could walk  -  way around it, avoiding the area altogether.

And, maybe if a person had it, their hair would light up, and then we’d all know.  Hey – stay away from that guy, his hair is all lit up.  He has the virus.

It would be just one more way of tending to our web.  Keeping an eye out for a storm.

I never said it was a good thought.  

Just a thought.

What's the problem Larry?

I believe I have officially become old.  I don't seem to be mastering this new phone.  I am missing calls and text messages, even when I am standing right next to it.
  

I seem to be on an Amazon buying spree.  I don't know why, maybe it's the lure of free shipping.  

I find old TV shows more entertaining than new ones, but still can't stand commercials.

I tend to ramble when writing things on my blog. 

And I seem to be on an Amazon buying spree.

Did I already mention that?

I think it's the free shipping that I like.

Little known fact...

Pirates who couldn't afford their own ship

sometimes traveled as cargo.

Someone needs to fix it

There are some aspects of my life that only take place at the edge of the page.  The problem with that is that I can’t see what is happening in the center.  It feels, at times, that someone is out there changing the rules, and by the time the information gets out to the edge - all I get  to hear is the recording, “I’m sorry, our office is currently closed.  Please call back during normal business hours.”

It seems the rules should state that you put that kind of information at the beginning of the recording, and not after you’ve just had someone spend 12 minutes going through the push one for English, press 2 if you want Accounting, press 3 if you’re making changes to your swimming stroke, and 4 if you received a fine for cleaning your fish on the picnic table.

There’s a reason you are experiencing higher than normal call volumes.  You stink at Customer Service.  But that isn’t what I want to talk about.  But wait, before we leave the topic of Customer Service, would someone please explain to me why everyone in India is named Bruce, or Jill?  You’re really not fooling anyone.

Okay, getting back to my perspective from the edge of the page.  For one thing – it is quiet out here.  I don’t mind the quiet, in fact, it’s kind of nice.  And not being the main character takes all the pressure off.  There is never a need to worry if the paragraph has been properly indented, or if some plot twist suddenly throws in a fish on a picnic table.  Not my problem.

The scary part is that being out at the edge like this, it isn’t going to take much to push me over.  I mean, if I haven’t the old values to hang onto, if someone keeps changing the rules, then what am I to cling too?  The “Norm” has disappeared.  Youth and technology have taken the lead, but without anyone steering the ship. 

I’m just saying, the sign clearly states; Don’t clean your fish on the picnic table.  Reason and common sense tell you there will be consequences.  And even ignoring the consequence of a fine, think about the poor Indian family.. Bob and his wife Mary pile the kids in the car for a nice day at the lake, only to discover flies and fish guts under the nice tablecloth they’ve spread out. 

See what I did there?  I didn’t have them discover the flies and fish guts as they walked up to the table, but I had them spread out their nice tablecloth over the files and fish guts.  That’s what I mean by – changing the rules.  It’s unsettling.  It is wrong.  But that is what I am seeing out here at the edge.

zc

 

I'm thinking it's 5

When I woke up this morning

it was several years ago.

The Murphy's Law People - They are Always Listening

Here’s the thing about extended warranties; If you sign up for one, nothing will ever happen and you’ll never need it, but the moment you turn it down…  

Larry pops over for a visit.  Forgetting he has a running chainsaw in his back pocket he sits down on your new couch.  Suddenly you remember the salesperson talking about all the possible things that could go wrong with you new couch. 

“It’s all covered if you sign here.”

She holds out a pen for you to use, but you’re saying to yourself, I’ve owned furniture all my life and nothing like that has ever happened.  

“No, I don’t think I want the extended warranty for an extra $8.00.”

Dear Inmate

A note to the Warden.

I am leaving it up to you to select someone as my pen pal.  I do not know anyone in your prison and am not familiar with any cases.  My only request is that you pick someone nice.  They should have a good sense of humor, be non-violent, and preferably innocent.

I am not worried about spelling or grammar, as my own spelling is often wobbly and sometimes my punctuation is only implied. 

Warden notes continued.

Okay, I thought of some more stuff.  Whoever you pick should bathe on a regular basis.  I know that as a pen pal body odor shouldn’t be an issue.  Its just that my cousin Ned has a tendency to stink, and that has always influenced my opinion of him, so just to avoid that whole thing, I’m thinking we just get that out of the way up front.  Hair too, that should be neat and clean. 

Unless, of course, they are bald.  That doesn’t bother me.  If they don’t have any hair, that’s Okay.  It isn’t like I’ll ever see a picture of them…

Will I?  

Could you send me a picture of the person you pick?  No, never mind.  Just by reading their letters, over time I should get a mental image of what they look like.  An actual picture might have been taken right when they were getting wrongly accused.  You know, they wouldn’t be smiling and may even make me think they are always grumpy.  

Did I say, no grumpy?  If I didn’t, I should have.  My pen pal should be happy and smiling, but not manically.  I don’t want sinister. I doubt if someone sinister could write happy, peppy letters.

 

That reminds me…  Maybe you could send a history of their life, you know, up to the time they got wrongly accused and stopped smiling.  No, on second thought, it might be better if I don’t know anything about them.  Well, their name of course, and maybe if they have brothers and sisters.  That might be Okay to know.  

And that’s another thing, how much should I be telling them about me?  I mean, if it turns out they are sinister or maniacal, I don’t want them plotting to get me. 

You know, maybe this whole thing isn’t that much of a good idea.  No, I can’t think like that.  I trust you to pick out someone nice and non-plotting.  

I’m assuming you got that job because you were good at knowing stuff.  Maybe even you, yourself are bald.  That doesn’t matter.  You could still pick a pen pal out of a crowd.

While I’m thinking of it, I don’t want anyone who is studying law.  

I know enough not to trust lawyers, so I certainly don’t want to be a pen pal with someone who aspires to become one.  No offence.  I mean, even you could turn out to be a lawyer.  How would I know?  I have read enough books, written by lawyers, to know that even they don’t like being around themselves.  

Yes, I know – there could be some nice ones out there somewhere, but why take a chance? That’s what I say.  Why risk it?

More Warden notes:

Here’s what I’m thinking…  Just send me your roster of prisoners and I’ll pick one myself.  That way you won’t get blamed if I get a dud. 

No, that’s probably not a good plan.  Let’s leave it that you pick one for me.  By now you must have an idea of what I’m looking for.  They should be someone who likes to write, has time on their hands, and would like getting letters from me.

Yikes, I never thought of that before. 

What if they don’t like me?  Maybe their idea of a pen pal is way different than mine.  How’s any of this going to work?

Warden, you may need to have an interview process.  You could explain what you know about me, and when you’re done, just pick someone from those who didn’t leave the room while you were speaking.

Would that work? 

Warden?

Hello?

Bus # 18

Fresh out of the oven let me say this has nothing whatsoever to do with baking, food or recipes, nor is it some tricky math problem.  What it is, however, is the story of Lem Plopkin.  Lem is a Scandinavian born Hawaiian.  His Mother and two sisters are full blooded Hawaiians.  Lem's Father and younger brother-in-law are both Democrats.

Lem studied to become a chef at the Sorbonne, but as I have already stated, this is not to be a story about food or baking so we'll leave that part of his life out.  We will pick it up just after he flunked out and landed a job as a roofer.

Lem never really had the physical agility or dexterity for heights, but once up on a rooftop Lem loved the view.  He couldn't get enough.  Even during lunch breaks Lem would stay up on the peaks to just sit and stare.  He wouldn't even climb down when the rain set in.  He somehow felt this was as close to heaven as he would ever get. 

But our story doesn't begin on a rooftop, no - far from it.  This story takes place on city bus 18.    It was a Sunday morning and, as he had done every Sunday, Lem rode the bus down to the farmer's market where he would shop for fresh fruits and vegetables for the week.  Today, however, when Lem climbed aboard and dropped his change into the box, a small red light on the top of the box came on.  Lem had never noticed the light before or if he had he’d never seen it lit up.

Lem looked at the bus driver, who he expected to be Gary.  This was not Gary.  Suddenly Lem wondered if he had climbed onto the wrong bus.

"You're not Gary."  Lem announced.

The driver looked up at Lem.

"Nate is my name, and you'll need another ten cents"

Confused and just a little concerned Lem reached into his pocket for another dime.  "Is this bus 18?"

The little red light began flashing.

"I can't move the bus until you drop your dime or two nickels into the box."

Lem quickly put another ten cents into the box.  The red light stopped flashing and then went out.

"Take your seat please." said the driver as he pulled the bus forward.

Lem stumbled a little but quickly grabbed the seat three rows back from the driver.  He still wasn't sure he'd gotten onto the right bus, but for now he'd just pay attention to the stops and listen for the announcement for the farmer's market.

As the bus made its way through the city, Lem began to notice the other passengers.  None of them looked familiar and no one seemed to be smiling.  In fact, they all appeared quite grumpy.  No one was talking and none of them were looking outside.  They didn't seem to care where they were headed but were just quietly bouncing along within their own misery.

Lem was glad not to ride with this bunch every week.  He was used to people being happy, friendly.  Someone almost always had something nice to say, even if it was just good morning.  And they knew his name.  Lem hadn't recognized anyone on the bus, especially the driver.  Surely, he had gotten onto the wrong bus.

I am still working on this story.

I put it here so you would know that

I am working on new stuff, even though - 

for some of you it is frustrating to start

a story and suddenly have it just stop.

I'll try to not leave Lem out there too long.
Also know, if I do make any changes to
the story, they won't be hap-hazard. 
As this is a city bus - 
an exact change is required.

zc

Yes - Very Old

An artichoke farmer in Barambah discovered, while plowing his field, what appeared to be a ticket stub from a shoe repair shop in Manhattan.  Researchers determined it to be from 1904.

It was preserved in acid-free plastic and mailed to a curator at the New York Museum of Art.  He was able to locate the repair shop and presented the stub to the current owners, thinking they might frame and display it, however, upon briefly glancing at the stub the owner replied, “They’ll be ready Tuesday.” 

Absolutely the worst music you'll ever hear.

They are nice people at K.D.P., and they try

to help you solve your problem,

but whatever you do, never ever let

them put you on hold.

That's all I have to say about that.

I am not happy

and I know it isn't your job to make me happy.  All I know is that before I bought Window's 10 - I was happy.  I was content, at peace, and I enjoyed each and every day to it's fullest.

Then I switched to Window's 10.  I did this, not because I was unhappy with Window's 7, but because you, Mr. Microsoft, told me you were no longer going to support Window's 7;  no more updates, no more virus protection, nothing.  You were just walking away.

Fine.  You left me no choice but to move onto Window's 10.  Well guess what?  I'm not happy.  Window's 10 is a total mess.  It's two short steps away from unusable.  What were simple functions on Window's 7 are now an exercise in madness.  Things are hidden, steps are added, roads that once had road signs are now just unlit, back alleyways leading to confusing roundabouts. 

We know why you did this.  Greed, pure and simple.  No longer can we buy a program and get on with our lives, nope - now we must buy it every year.  Greed, that's all it is.

Okay, I'm done ranting now.

Just know - I'm not happy.


Z. Corwin

If it were me

I would have patched the wall before taking the picture.

Attention Literary Agents & Publishers

      Sorry, but I am not submitting anything at this time.  I wish you all the best and hope to keep you in mind for future submissions.    



       Thank you

Buck Naked

Someone, I’m not sure who, keeps setting the crows to go off early in the morning.  There are, I’d bet, worse ways to wake up, which is one reason we didn’t buy a house on the 7^th fairway.  Old men in plaid pants chattering about gas mileage, or Betsy – in accounting is not something I care to hear outside my window as they stroll by, scratching down their lies with stubby pencils.

I much prefer a gentle arrival to the day, waking slowly, assembling my thoughts as to what day it is, anticipating my morning coffee, mentally speculating about the outrageous news stories I might hear.  But NO.  Crows, crows are announcing to the world that they didn’t like last night’s thunderstorm, or they are fighting over the squishy remains of a varmint jaywalker.

Going back to sleep is not an option, not after what I just heard.  Keep in mind, my crow might be a little rusty, but apparently Betsy is the squishy jaywalker.  Some unfortunate timing with her husband coming home unexpectedly and seeing his actual Dear in the headlights.  

So what's your point

If our feet were like swim-fins

we couldn’t climb ladders –

If we only look inward

we won't see what matters –

If we only had spoons

we still could eat cake -

That’s it.

Green Jell-O

So I’m at the podiatrist and I’m not really complaining as much as I am explaining what a difficult time I always have finding a pair of comfortable shoes.  No matter what brand, no matter the type or style, I just can’t find a pair that fits right.  Then, as if some switch got flicked  the Doctor gets all serious, looks at me and says he needs to trim a little off my feet and my problem will go away.  I thought he was kidding, so I chuckle and say, “Ya – right”, but he’s still looking as serious as can be.  He digs through what looks to be a junk drawer and pulls out this laminated chart.  There are images of feet, left ones and right ones with dimension lines and arrows, and there are hand written calculations along the margins in what appears to be grease pencil.  He pulls a sheet of paper towel from the wall dispenser and quickly wipes off the hand written notes, mumbling, “That didn’t work.”

“What didn’t work?” I ask nervously.   He looks up and says, “Toe calculations were off.” and he quickly steps out of the office.

Now I really don’t want to be there.  I’ve been coming to this guy for years but all of a sudden it’s like I don’t know him at all.  I swing around in the chair and start putting my socks and shoes back on, but as I’m doing that his assistant steps in and says, “The Doctor needs some x-rays.  Please follow me.”

“I’m sorry but I forgot I have this thing I have to be at.  I’ll reschedule at the front desk.”  But his nurse takes a firm grip of my arm and says, “Relax, this will only take a few minutes.”  She leads me into the small X-ray room and has me pull my shoes and socks off again.  “Lie on your back on this table and put your feet against this wall with your toes up to this mark.”

As I lay back she reaches over and scoots my right foot a little higher.  “There, hold them there.”  Then from a cabinet she pulls out a small paper plate with a square of green Jell-o on it and she gently sets it on my chest.  “I need you to lie perfectly still.  If this Jell-o starts to wiggle that means you’re not laying still enough and we’ll have to start over.”

“You people are bonkers.”  I snatched the plate from my chest and swung my legs over the side of the table.  “I’m getting out of here.”  This time I didn’t wait to put my socks and shoes back on I just headed for the door.  I expected the nurse to try and stop me but all she did was reach out and take back the plate of Jell-o.

As I ran down the hall toward the exit sign I could feel the cold tile on the bottom of my feet and the slapping sound they made against the floor echoed as if the hallway was a mile long.  As I ran various doors would open and people would peek out to see what this slapping sound was.  As they watched me run by they seemed frightened and quickly closed their door.  I noticed one of them was holding a plate with a square of green Jell-o on it.  The look on his face was of pure panic.  Our eyes locked as I past and at the same time I noticed only my left foot was making the slapping sound.  My right foot was still keeping up but no longer could I feel the coldness of the floor or hear the echoed slap.

I suddenly got a queasy feeling in my gut.  I was scared to look down.  What had happened to my right foot and why did the exit sign seemed like it was even farther away.  I didn’t appear to be getting any closer.  Scared to look down at my foot and afraid I’d never get out of there - what was happening?

Toe calculations?  Was I dreaming all of this?  It was like some nightmare.  Yea, that was it.  I must have fallen asleep in the chair; so how do I wake myself up?  No – maybe I fell asleep lying on the X-ray table.  Maybe if I look down at my chest I’ll see the plate of Jell-o wiggling because of my running.  But I couldn’t force myself to look and I couldn’t explain why my right foot was no longer smacking the cold tile floor as I ran.  Had the doctor taken too much off?  Had he failed math in school?

I scrunched my eyes closed and listened to the absence of sound my right foot was making.  Swish – swish - swi...