Bread in Captivity

 

Vintage on 5th

 

Notice

Be advised, if you and your wife want to

split a meal, don't eat here.

They charge $12.00 for an empty plate.

(and you don't get to keep the plate)

Attention to Detail

 Working backwards...

The detective noticed a crushed-out cigarette in the ashtray.

From the lipstick residue he assumed the smoker had been female.

The amount of cigarette left unburned suggested the smoker had been in a hurry to leave.

The dark shade of lipstick, as well as the brand of cigarette told him she was a tall, brunette, had expensive taste and liked to dress well.

He noticed that the uniformed officer making the chalk outline around the body had somehow put on mismatched socks this morning.  The sock on the man’s left foot was obviously not regulation.

The detective would have to include this in his report, even though he knew the uniformed officer would be written up for the infraction.

The body on the floor was that of a tall, well-dressed brunette.
She seemed to match the detective's previous assumptions. 

On the last page of the detective's report he noted that even though there were No Smoking signs in every room of the museum, there were also pedestal ashtrays for the convenience of the patrons.   He found this to be odd, and was concerned that it sent a mixed message.

It was the detective's partner who was presently questioning the young woman who was standing over the body with the smoking gun.  He knew they would compare notes later.  He didn't want to just assume that she was somehow involved.

 

LSU Graduate

 In 1986, Peter Davies was on vacation in Kenya after graduating from Louisiana State University.

On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Peter approached it very carefully. He got down on one knee, inspected the elephant’s foot, and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it. As carefully and as gently as he could, Peter worked the wood out with his knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot.

The elephant turned to face the man and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments. Peter stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away. Peter never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.

Twenty years later, Peter was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenaged son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Peter and his son Cameron were standing. The large bull elephant stared at Peter, lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down. The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man.

Remembering the encounter in 1986, Peter could not help wondering if this was the same elephant. Peter summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Peter legs and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

Probably wasn't the same elephant.

Slip Fees

 

are not as important as

Insurance payments.

Free Cleaning Service

 

I've seen you here reading this Blog

and I have noticed the inside of your

screen is filthy.

I'm just going to wipe it down for you.

By the way, you don't get this kind of service

on other blogs.

I'm just saying...

Remember to tip your Blogger.

Monkey Wrench

 

Someone’s thrown a monkey wrench

the gears no longer turn –

The smell of smoke is rising

as the belts begin to burn,

Someone’s tossed a monkey wrench

the sound is quite horrendous –

Safety glass and earmuffs

I don’t think will defend us,

Stand behind the yellow line

exit to your right –

Blame it on the second shift

they’ll all be here tonight.

 

I have never seen a #3 pencil.

 

Actual Blog starts here.

Hello.  I am Zobostic Corwin and I have been left here to write.  As I do not know anything about you, some parts of this exposé may appear much more shallow than other areas.  In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if you could see clear to the bottom.  It is there you will discover rocks, smaller creatures, sand and the occasional unknown.  Those will be the things that are not even clear to me.  None the less – they are there and at least are deserving of a mention.

Your day-to-day existence, your habits, personality and breakfast preferences – for me, are all at the deep end.  I see none of that and won’t even hazard a guess.  The fact that you are reading this suggests to me that we are at least in the same body of water.

I will suggest that beyond this blog we share an appreciation for art, nature and random occurrences of punctuation.  Scattered about within this blog are examples – both good and bad, aromas – some more pleasant than others, and of course colors so vibrant that the naked eye becomes embarrassed to look directly at them.

If you have viewed my profile, then you know that I am curious about the number of carry-ons you are allowed for time travel.  I believe that to be a legitimate question.  We all have stuff, and if we are to zap our future selves from the diving board clear over to the playground, shouldn’t we be able to have with us those things appropriate for swings and monkey bars?

You’re right, I can see I lost a few of you back there.  The whole reason for this blog is to give my brain a place to play.  My actual self, like you, has to remain here, do chores, be productive and for the most part, conform to society’s norms.  My brain, however, is free to move about the cabin.  I can mix metaphors that otherwise would never be seen together.  I can hop onto a train of thought, not having a care in the world where it is headed.

I need not become so philosophical that I bog myself down in circular rhetoric.  I can simply splash about in the galactic ocean of abstract thoughts, using nouns and verbs as my flotation devices, and should I ever get in too deep, I take comfort in always knowing where my towel is.

Ref;  The Guide

Note:

Right after I posted this, I received several comments concerning #3 pencils.  Apparently, and unbeknownst to me, there is a drastic difference between a 2 and a 3.  The majority of the population has neither the skill level nor the dexterity to operate a #3.  I had no idea.  I guess that's why I have never seen one. 

Now I'm wondering if they too are yellow.

 

Geico

 

The Hotdog Lunch

 

OK, so I’m laying on my back as I scrape the bottom of my boat with a putty knife.  Then, as I sand it, tiny flecks and grit flake down and land on my safety glasses and mustache.  Yuck!  I should have one of those breathing masks on, but I don’t.

Now I’m concerned I’m going to get Boater’s Lung.  It isn’t at all comfortable laying here under this hull, and the smell is something else.  I wonder if I could fry up some of these barnacles with butter and a little garlic?  It must be getting close to lunch time, I’m thinking about food again.

Just then, a massive cruise ship pulls into Hudson Bay.  There are colorful flags strung the entire length of the ship, and the wind makes them sound quite loud, like people clapping.

There’s an official looking guy in a white uniform setting up a little A-frame sign next to the walkway.  It says, Free introductory lunch – Today Only, Public Welcome.

I can already smell the hotdogs they are cooking up on the main deck.

I’ll finish this later.  I’m headed for lunch.

Sad but True

 

This was amazing.  It was bursting with flavor and had nothing but goodness and joy blended with it.

Now, McCormick tells me they have

DISCONTINUED

this product.

No explanation, no advanced notification,

and no planned replacement.

What's a person to do?  

No, really - I ask you.  What do I do now?

I am left here with my unflavored sadness.

Alone, drifting...

Snippets from a Daydream

 

 

There’s a frog up in the tree

and a bird upon the ground,

It all amuses me –

I find pleasure all around.

There’s a catfish in the bay

with whiskers long and sleek,

There’s a frog up in the tree

who doesn’t have a beak,

There’s a stallion in the barn

who doesn’t care to race

And a child in the classroom

who cannot keep up the pace,

There are things still yet unknown

by the scientist elite –

And a snake that is full grown

with shoes but has no feet.

The frog up in my tree

was there just yesterday –

Not unlike the bird I saw,

he up and flew away.

 

 

 

 

 

I Felt a Presence

 

There was a whisp of shadow

that peeked around the tree,

I could smell a lovely blossom

Though a flower didn’t see,

The forest floor was crunchy

Announcing every stride –

causing shadows all about me

to scamper, run and hide –

I felt a presence watching

Was I doing something wrong?

I heard a distant chirping

wasn't anybody's song,

I never thought I’d die today

Location, somewhat queer –

A pleasant walk into the woods

Mistaken for a deer.

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.

You may want to be a little nicer to it.

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 study 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

 

 

   

Blending in...

 

Intelligent Life

 

It was inside the shuttle

had come off someone’s shoe

went unseen by the Captain

until the thing grew.

"Houston – a problem."

a strained voiced announced

came the sad final message

from the dead spaceman’s house

It stayed days in orbit

on its own - flew away 

never tried to retrieve it

from the doomed Milky Way.

 

The Thinking Man's Drink

 

The thing about thinking

is it never shuts off -

the thing about drinking

some people will scoff -

The perspective of artists

with their shadows and light –

find respectable drinking

happens only at night.

Poets are different

they are careful to choose –

When they see a thesaurus

They head for the booze.

Can’t have them around

with their rhyming percussion –

They'd rather be found

with a little Black Russian.

Let it say on their grave

when they hit the wall –

They were nice, they were brave

right up to last call.

 

zc

 

Advertisement

 

If you like this Blog, you should check out

the books available on Amazon.com 

written by the same guy that writes this.

Search for: Harvey Sarkisian

These amazing books are even better than

the gibberish you find here.

Some titles are;

Under the Frosting

The Pantry

Wise & Otherwise

Beyond Words

The Adventures of Wendy Crow

One more thing:

Nothing here is associated with Peter Falk

or the Columbo television series.

I just liked that picture. 

Artistic Vases

 

It was one of those little shops that attract 

tourists.  The hand-written sign on the

front door said,  No Photography.

I took that to mean they didn't have

any photography for sale.

Little did I know, what they meant was...

"Don't take any pictures in my store."

Had I known what they meant I never would

have snapped the picture of these vases.

Sorry.

Now, what do I do?

No - You try it first.

 

Nature Eventually Takes Over

 

Yum - size 12

 

An unshaven Friday

Found a random shoe

Tucked inside the crisper

Cold and slightly blue,

I don’t remember Thursday

Or events that led up to it

I baked it, sliced it, added salt

But found I couldn’t chew it.

This loaf of loafer, rare indeed

Needed gravy and dill weed

A pinch of pepper from my hand

Sprinkled cross this Tom McCann

Picked out threads with sterile tweezers

Then found my sock

Inside the freezer.

What had I done, I’d like to know

A redskin poking through the toe

Everything inside the crock

smelled wonderful...

(except the sock).

 

Blogworthy

 

 

That which I consider blog-worthy tends to fluctuate depending upon a variety of influences.  A current example of that would be this particular article here.  I didn’t set out to write it.  It was just a very early hour, I couldn’t sleep and so far I haven’t really said anything.  Consequently, this will never make it into the blog.

Even if I end up writing into this some awesome drivel that has substance and deep meaning, it’s too late.  I’ve already lost interest. This will never be anything more than scrap paper, and that’s if by chance I accidently push the print button.  Not too likely.

I am more prone to push delete.  Unbeknownst to most, there exists in cyber space, a large, flexible, web-like basket that catches all deleted items.  It makes no difference what it happens to be, a doctoral thesis, a Shakespearean sonnet or Wanda’s shopping list.  Everything ends up in the same place.

I have never seen this delete cyber basket but I have heard stories.  I am told it is constructed of a stretchy, gauze-like thread, whose surface, under a subatomic microscope would look like billions of tiny fish hooks, almost Velcro like in appearance, but more stickie than the surface of a Gummy Bear left abandoned in the driveway, in August.

That’s why, whenever Google is asked to retrieve anything from a deleted file, specially trained technicians, wearing eleven finger gloves, must reach in – a flashlight between their teeth, and carefully locate and extract said document using coated kitchen tongs.  As you would imagine, this is a very time consuming and expensive process.  Safety glasses and hearing protection are mandatory, along with a pre-signed waiver, releasing Google from any real or imagined retrieval mishaps.

In fact, the more I think about it, it’s best to just print the thing off and use the backside for scrap paper.

 

Feel free – push PRINT now.

Thinking inside the Box

 

I don’t see myself as a wordsmith.  To me, a wordsmith is someone standing in front of a fiery furnace, sweating, as they hammer out the upright stems of a W.  They forge each letter, ensuring their shape matches perfectly the intended pronunciation.

I see myself more as a child, playing inside a large box filled with verbs and adjectives.  I arrange them as would a child, pretending I know what I’m doing, perhaps stacking nouns along my pretend village street, a person here, a place there.  My choices seem endless.

At the intersection I place a run-on sentence, then of course, an ambulance and a tow truck. 

I can think of no other hobby that has as many parts to play with as there are words found in my dictionary.  I am the luckiest kid I know, even though you don’t write, sending me some of your words.

 

I guess you just never learned to share.

 

 

 

The Assignment

 

It began with a blank sheet of paper.  Then, the first thing that came to me was the sentence, it began with a blank sheet of paper. So that’s what I wrote.  Twice now.  Nothing that followed that first sentence made any sense, it didn’t add to the plot.  In fact, there wasn’t a plot.  There was nothing but that sheet of paper, no longer blank by the way, but nothing else.

So this was my beginning.  Would the teacher like it?  I doubt it.  It stunk and I knew it stunk. Most everyone in this class would be turning in something that stunk, I can’t allow myself to be one of them. Don’t get me wrong… I’ve written stinky stuff before, lots of it, but this assignment needed to stand out.  It needed to be different.

How’s this, “It was a dark and stormy night”.

 

Yes, you're right.

Maybe I’ll take an art class.  How hard can it be to paint a sandwich?

 

I call it, Hold the Onion.

  It began with a blank canvas.  I had gathered my paints and brushes.  I had my easel set up in the corner so I got just the right amount of natural light from the windows.  I had a few beers and my crab sandwich.  Okay, I had a few potato chips as well, but what I needed was inspiration. 

and there - it still is.

 

I noticed, there – between the books

high, beyond curious cats -

A wooden box I’d never seen

The damn things locked – Rats!

Who has the key, I’d like to know

What’s tucked away inside?

What’s so important it needs a lock?

What is there left to hide?

Maybe it’s a Gummy Bear

Perhaps it’s just a nickel  -

Could be it’s the reason why

Feathers always tickle.

What’s locked inside this wooden box

A little heavy, could be rocks,

Smells not good – it might be socks

I think I’ll leave it there.

 

 

 

 

It's for

 Peonies

Under the Planter

 

In the event he locked himself out,

he kept a key hidden under the planter...

(in his living room).

They're at the Gate

 

A small portion of my childhood remembrances are of being at the racetrack with my grandfather.  He enjoyed betting on the horses and from what I could see, he was good at it.  He would study the small racing form, which showed everything you needed to know about the horse, the jockey and their history.

It was an exciting event, with hundreds of people, each eager to get to the window to place their bets before the announcer, over the PA system said, “They're at the Gate.”  Once that happened you couldn’t place any more bets.  From the stands you could see the various jockeys trying to position their horse and get them settled down.  Then, once everyone was ready, a loud bell would ring, and the metal gates would swing open.  That is when the announcer would say, “And they’re off.”

This large crowd would get to their feet, if they weren’t standing already, and everyone would be squinting to see their horse, some had binoculars and it seemed everyone was yelling, cheering on their favorite.  After the race had been run and a clear winner announced, only those people holding winning tickets made their way back to the betting windows to collect their money.  Everyone else usually tore their tickets up and tossed them to the ground.

There was a great more to it all than what I have just described, but keep in mind, I was just a kid at the time and didn’t have a clue about the extreme pressure in some of those people to win.  It was gambling and sometimes a person’s entire paycheck would be lost in a matter of minutes.  Those were the facial expressions that would catch my attention.  It was more than just an absence of hope in their eyes, it was pure desperation, anger and shame.  It wasn’t simply a losing ticket that lay crumpled at their feet, it was rent money, groceries for the upcoming week or their children’s allowance.

Looking back at it, now that I’m grown, I’d have to say I learned more on those summer vacations than I had throughout the entire school year.  I was given a glimpse into the frailties of humanity and an up-close view of the ledge, upon which some people step.

When vacation was over and I found myself, once again, sitting back in the classroom, listening to the teacher drone on about some historical event, I remembered the sights and sounds of my summer adventure and tried to consider the desperation and fear in the faces of those men taking a stand against England, signing their name to the declaration of independence, betting everything they had, and then some.

Their pictures in the history books tell a completely different story.  They are clean-cut, dressed nicely for the time, and completely relaxed.

I don't think so, Bunkie.