Pastrami on Rye

 

This is the story of the opera singer who never learned Italian, and the young village baker who loved her.

Once upon a time, in the small out-of-the-way village of Pastrami on Rye, lived an ambitious young oven owner and his dog Juan.  Skip and Juan were known by everyone in the village and except for the part that hadn’t happened yet, had lived there all their lives.

Betty, the pre-med student who dropped out to pursue her dreams of becoming an overweight opera singer had visited the small village one Saturday morning, having read in the local paper about a large, multi-family garage sale.  Betty couldn’t resist a bargain.

Right about now you’re probably asking yourself, why is this village named Pastrami on Rye?  That, my friend, is a long story and someday, time permitting, I’ll tell it to you, but for right now, let’s talk about this large, multi-family garage sale.  It truly was a sight to see.  It was spread across several lawns along Wilson Avenue.  Garage Sale signs had been posted in all directions.  Balloons were tied on the mailboxes in front of each participating household. By 8 AM the avenue was already lined with parked cars.

The thing is, it was never originally called Pastrami on Rye.  Long ago it had been known as Boozugeo-Ogaleni, which as everyone knows is Italian for –

You look hungry, eat something.  But I digress…

That Saturday morning, while the multi-family garage sale was a buzz with activity, Betty, our X pre-med student spotted a set of cassette tapes that claimed anyone could learn Italian in four short years.  She was excited.  All she would need now is determination and a cassette player.

Betty remembered seeing the television show, Long Island Medium.  The star of that show always used a cassette player. All Betty would need to do would be to contact the star of that show and find out where she bought her cassette player.  Then contact that store and see if they had another one.

For this part of our story we find ourselves in Long Island, visiting the home of Teresa Caputo, a large Medium, who herself knows a little Italian.  His name is Guido.  

 

Perfect Spies

 

They were always there, in the background,

occasionally mentioned, sometimes appearing

at functions.

Always inconspicuous.

Blending in, never drawing attention.

 

Eventually they were found out

and captured, thanks to the couple pictured above.

Everything on this Blog

 

should be taken with one of these.

Tag

 

You're it.

Don't leave home without it

 

A Mother's Warning

 

I saw Cher on a talk show yesterday.  It was Cher’s voice, her sense of humor and speech pattern, but that was certainly not the face I saw standing next to Sonny all those years ago.

 

A lift here, a tuck there, a little Botox around this area...  There is a price we pay for trying to hang on.

 

No matter what the topic of conversation, Cher’s expression never changed during the entire interview.  It was like her Mother had been right all those years ago when she told her, 

“You keep making that face and it will freeze that way.”

Nuggets

 

With both hands and a flashlight

 I have never had a sense of direction.

I was born without a North Arrow.

Even back in the 60's

when everyone was going off

to find themselves...

I never could. 

Up Wind

 

I came across a buffalo.  He seemed lost and just a little confused.

 

I asked if I could help.

 

His heavy head lifted a little and his deep brown eyes looked into me.

 

“What are all these buildings?  Am I to be in one of them?” he asked.

 

 There are no buildings here for you.  I tried to explain.

 

“Where do I fit in?  Where am I supposed to be?”

 

Surely not here.  You are a buffalo.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

You could come home with me.  I have a small yard, and there is grass to eat.  How would you feel about a shower first?

 

 

 Here's the thing,

this may appear as an odd, go-nowhere story,

but it is true.

Eventually I plan on putting his picture

here, but Nelson...  That's what I named him,

Nelson is still a little depressed.

He is very concerned about fitting in.

I'm not sure what that is all about.

I showed him a nickel.

He didn't seem impressed.

I sold my Trucks

 

Unlikely Friends

 

Free Returns

 

Return to sender has become a way of life.  The problem, as I see it, is the blending of hyper technological advancements along with the multi-cultural distribution of goods.

As the high-tech world rushes to be the first to market with their latest gizmos, the ripples of this product flow cause the less skilled to speed up their contributions.  Add to that the indecipherable translated pamphlet intended to be used as instructions and failure is a guaranteed outcome.

Of course, it would be my preference to include with this assessment of our times, a possible solution.  Simply stated, however, I have no suggestions. I as well, am entangled in this web of high-speed, low-quality lifestyle shopping. 

In the absence of brick and mortar we become captive to the on-line narrative, counting the number of stars a random sampling of the population has assigned, identifying its level of acceptance.  That is quite a low bar in comparison to standing in the store, handling the item and seeing for yourself its quality or lack thereof.

Free returns have taken the place of sound judgement.

 

As always, opposing, wrong views are always welcome.

Z. Corwin

 

Benny Goodman

 

When Benny Goodman finally retired

He was given a gold watch

But having spent so many years surrounded by big band music...

he found he was having trouble

with his ears.

To supplement his retirement income

he set up an eye wash service.

I can tell that some of you don't think

this Blog post is on the level...

well, see for yourself.

And while we're at it,

does this seem right to you?

Where else would you put it?

OK, now that you mention it...

this entire post is the result of living

too close to

zc

1997

 

back when they were worth watching.

A Letter

 

Dearest Friends,

 

It is beyond great fortune that I, at this wonderful season, come upon blank sheets of paper.  Inspired by such luck I have chosen to compile a communiqué to you both, expressing first, a joyful greeting and second a note of concern at seeing our communities fall victim to these dreadful snowfalls.  Surely last year’s wrath remains fresh in our minds, and yet here we are again attired in heavy wools and certainly unflattering footwear.  It is at times like these we must remain strong.

 

I can impart to you an event occurring just yesterday;  Having witnessed an immediate need to clear our driveway, that at least one motor-car might make its way, I – with shovel in hand, commenced to clear, if only slightly, a path whereby myself and any pedestrian might have unencumbered access.  Once having established the path I would then address the width of an automobile. Dressed appropriately for the conditions, I began to push such an accumulation that the majority of the snow felt compelled to escape around the far edges of the shovel, only to leave hazardous and unsightly ridges of snow in my wake.  I could see where this would surely cause me to return to my starting point and attempt to now remove the shoveling residue.

 

Over and over again this overflow condition occurred, causing me to traverse the same real estate multiple times.  This, of course, left me exposed to harsh winds and biting cold far longer than I had originally intended.

 

Being a person of planning, I had – prior to beginning this undertaking, set kettle to stove, that hot tea would be awaiting my return.  Also, and luckily for me, anticipated potential delays and set my wrist watch atop the kettle,  knowing full well that should I become detained beyond reason, the kettle would not boil dry, for – as history has shown, a watched pot never boils.

 

It remains reasonable to find this letter as testimony that my path-making efforts, at least to the postal box were successful.

 

 

 

 

As Always

 

Zobostic Corwin

 

 

It only happens when I ignore myself

 

I knew that with white carpet and a new leather recliner, I shouldn’t be setting a glass of red wine down next to me when I opened a library book to read. 

 

My inner voice needs to become more assertive.

The Survey

 We'd like to know how we did,

you're old and you're feeble,

your fingers don't work -

yet we still put a child-proof lid.

We'd love to know how we fared,

none of us smiled or called you by name -

you might think that nobody cared.

Please rate us from zero to ten,

mail in these forms, add your own stamp,

be sure to visit again.

We know our receipts are too long,

we can see what you bought and history shows,

exactly where you went wrong.

******

Survey Response 

Listen, you empty head twit -

I came in for gum,

that is it.

To know how you're doing,

do you see me here chewing?

Now leave me alone,

That's  it!

One for the Team

 

Only a small part of the massive boulder was on my lot, but all of the shade was from my tree, so I sat on the ground and used the boulder like the back of a chair.  It was just comfortable enough.  I could hear the kids from one block over playing softball.  I have, on occasion, walked around and watch them play.  Both sides have team jerseys, although I have no clue who paid for those.  It isn’t like it is officially sanctioned from the little league. From what I can tell it is just the neighborhood kids who set it all up and keep it going.  It’s sort of impressive when you think about it.

I think the next time I sit here I’ll bring my camera.  I’m just noticing all the odd little things here in the grass.  One caterpillar in particular is brightly colored and has sharp spikes sticking up all over its body.  It is currently making its way from the boulder to the sleeve of my shirt.  I doubt I want to touch it.  I seem to remember reading that brightly colored things in nature are usually poisonous.

OK, I’m hearing the baseball players yelling.  It doesn’t sound like someone hit a home run.  It’s more like they are screaming, like something has happened.  Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good, and it doesn’t seem to be stopping.   I know it is about 91° today.  Playing baseball in this heat can’t be much fun.  It’s fine for me, I’m here in the shade and this rock feels cool on my back.  I doubt the insects down here in the grass are affected by the heat.  In fact, I bet whatever lives under this boulder has no clue what happens up here on the surface.

The more I thought about the tiny creatures living beneath this massive rock, the more I began to wonder about the amount of downward pressure a rock this size must exert.  Those worms and beetles must really have to work hard to make their way through the compacted earth.  Now I’m no scientist, but thinking at the molecular level, there must be air between the dirt molecules allowing the slightest movement, as forced by a passing insect.  The time of day is now becoming an issue, for I see my area of shade is growing smaller.  In trying to scoot a little to my left I discover I cannot move.  I need to remain out of the Sun, but why can’t I get my arms and legs to move.  It almost feels like I am paralyzed, but how can that be?

The last thing I remember was thinking about the tiny life forms living beneath this boulder… No, wait…  I remember screams coming from the next block over, and I remember the brightly colored caterpillar crawling onto my shirt.  It looked amazing and very beautiful, but possibly poisonous.  

Maybe that’s why my arm hurts.  Maybe that thing bit me, and now I have poison running through my bloodstream affecting my muscles.  How long have I been sitting here?  Again, I try to move, but there is nothing, only the Sun moving slowly up my legs, and they are feeling all of the 91°.

 

 

 

To be continued

 

 

 

It's a Million to one shot this works.

 Anyone who knows 

Nia Vardalos,

Please ask her to send me an email.

I have a movie proposal 

she would be perfect for.

She would be the lead character

in the story, 

Under the Frosting

from the book of the same name.

Thank you

I'll wait here.

zc

 

Reasons and Stuff

 

Babies get carried,

in a kangaroo’s pouch –

Roses have thorns,

so we’d have the word ouch.

Windchimes have tinkles

in a most gentle breeze –

Eyeballs take cover

whenever we sneeze.

At altitudes high,

Lazy Hawks take a nap –

while closer to earth,

busy Crows have to flap.

Poems needn’t rhyme

or have to make sense,

but if it rains while you camp –

don’t ever changes tents.

zc

 

 

Fly Fishing

 

Out running the Grammar Police

 

I have an old Zippo

from back when I smoked –

and a Hula from the dash of my car,

With a buck’s worth of gas

It would sputter and choke –

I never did get very far.

I still have my dog-tags

from back in the day,

My uniform seems to have shrunk –

I never became

all the things I did say,

in coffee - my doughnuts I dunk.

My English is broken

most words are misspelled -

My poetry stinks as you see,

I expect they'll be sirens

with bright flashing lights

when the grammar police come after me.

zc

You know - just in case.

 

The thing is, I ponder all the things I’d like to learn, understanding I could never possibly learn it all.  And I wonder what lies out beyond the margins. I consider myself as possibly an explorer fumbling around the periodic table attempting to understand reality itself.  All the while, of course, seeing the days ticking by.  Each season getting shorter,  leaves and flowers flicker past as if they were in some time-lapse film.  

I can mentally see the world spinning ever so fast, pulling calendar pages off and hurling them into oblivion as it spins.

I ponder humanity, I see people as fragile dreamers, attempting desperately to hold on to their youth, clutching tightly to hope and stretching that hope to the point of slipping pillows into their coffins. 

 

BLT

 

I planted tomatoes,

they are all the rage –

they get plenty of Sun,

right here in their cage.

I grow my own lettuce,

Each green leafy piece –

with thin bacon cooked,

right in it's own grease -

But here in this store,

where each aisle is host –

I see fresh jars of Mayo,

but where is the toast?

zc

 

I call him Bernie Sanders

 

I Planted a Tulip

 

I planted a Tulip –

a most colorful bloke,

Of its beauty and splendor -

most everyone spoke,

Then I planted a Mum –

to compare was absurd,

so nobody spoke,

for Mum was the word.

 

zc

The Best of Intentions

 

I planted a Zinnia -

it grew 20 feet tall,

to keep away bugs –

I built up a wall,

the wall blocked the Sun –

My Zinnia died,

now I have a garden –

with nothing inside.

 

 

zc

Bird Oil

 

There is a tiny bird that squeaks just outside my window.  I don’t think he does it intentionally.  It seems more an unconscious thing than a deliberate annoyance.  It is loud, of course, for it awakens me in the early hours.   I am sure he or she is unaware that they are doing it – this squeaking.

I expect that if they knew I was required to be fully rested and refreshed at my meeting later this morning they would let me sleep.  That, of course, would be the polite thing to do, fly off to some distant tree, far from my early morning window.

But they don't.  

And it isn’t a low chirp, like some birds have, no – this is a high-pitched squeak, squeak, squeak, like some small drop of oil would do the trick.   

Officer Wilson

 

The intersection was covered in broken glass and twisted fenders.  One gas tank had ruptured and the heavy smell of fuel was everywhere.  Ambulances were still in route and two fire trucks were busy spraying the area to dilute any spilled gas.

When officer Wilson arrived on the scene, none of us could figure out why he wandered way over to the woods and put caution tape around that tree, but we think alcohol may have been involved.

 

Do I need to be here for this meeting?

 OK, so I'm sitting here

minding my own business,

the television is on

and all of a sudden

my so-called Smart Phone

starts answering the person talking

on the TV.

Really?

Do I need this kind of technology?

by its cover

 

A book has to grab me by the first or second sentence or I bail.   If it sounds too far-fetched, goofy or stupid I’m outta there.   Lists are another thing that will chase me off.  I don’t mind if the main character walks into an antique shop, but the minute they start describing everything they see, I’m gone.  They are just trying to fill pages.  To me, that’s not writing.

 

Even though I’m not supposed to judge a book by its cover, it is the cover that causes me to pick it up to begin with.  I expect the reason that adage has survived so long is that 99% of the time, after inspecting the first page, I set the book down and move on.

 

I don’t recommend this process, as I am sure I have missed out on some good stories by bailing too soon.  On a more positive note, I have enjoyed some sentences to the point of writing them down, just so I could read them again at some later date to enjoy them all over again.

 

Examples:

 

“In the chilly hours and minutes, of uncertainty…”     

(Bob Dylan)

 

“His shoes wore the fragrance of well-traveled leather…” (Allison Hoover Bartlett)

 

Dark whispers skulk through rooms like silent shadows moving along baseboards, avoiding the light of day.   Dangerous allegations that - properly illuminated would never raise an eyebrow, in darkness tend to find the fertile soil of shallow minds.                

(Z. Corwin)

 

 *******

Listed under the, Not Impressed, category:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

Make up your mind people.

The tale of two cities.

Pick one moron,  then write a second book.  What's the matter with you?

"The Old Man and the Sea."

Spoiler alert!

 

 

It's time to cut back

 

to 40 watt bulbs