So many thoughts
like dust particles
floating about my head.
Some find their way to ink
while a few just circle around
showing themselves now and again,
making them seem like old memories
or places I have been to –
Were you there with me?
Do you remember… we were…
Never mind. I don’t think you…
It just seemed so real.
We stumble into 2024
the absence of snow
brings with it a welcomed absence of
footprints.
Z. Corwin
He is sitting on a lawn chair in his driveway with his eyes
closed. He is enjoying the warmth of
the sun. I can see him from my office
window. He looks content, peaceful. It is a rare occasion to see his wife
outside. Maybe once a year she comes out to check for her shadow, then goes back in.
They are good neighbors, quiet and friendly. They maintain their house and yard. He is described as a car guy. I expect, in his youth, he could be seen with
the hood up, climbing under and around his prize possession, tinkering with
wires and hoses and things requiring adjustment. Today, however, technology has taken his
hobby away, leaving behind computer chips that not even a metric wrench can fix.
Alone with his memories and a few old photographs hung on the
garage walls, he relives those old times and great cars and when you talk to
him about it his whole dashboard lights up.
The tall grass, reeds and palm fronds are whipping about, and the sky is darker than ever. Seems another adventure is headed onshore.
Inside, here on my desk, the winds are calm and nothing is causing my gin to slosh from its glass. I much prefer the inside.
45 mile per hour acorns are pelting the siding and roof. I dare not step out now.
I will be content to type upon this page until inspiration strikes, perhaps sounding much like the acorn. Hopefully I will be able to distinguish the difference in sound.
We’re just waiting…
It could happen at any time.
It is early morning, and nothing is in here but me and a mosquito. I have noticed it buzzing around the desk lamp. I expect it will be only a matter of time until it notices me sitting here. Once it leaves the safety of the lamp it will, of course, become much more difficult to see.
I could, I suppose, go out to the garage, and get a can of Raid. My concern there is that I will end up inhaling more of the deadly poison than the mosquito. I guess I could just smack him with the can, and not spray the thing at all. For that matter, I could use my shoe.
If it were not early morning, then I wouldn’t need to concern myself with being quiet, but as I am the only one awake, (except the mosquito) I don’t wish to wake everyone by smacking at the drapes or lamp with a shoe.
“What was that!”
"Go back to sleep, it was only me knocking over the desk lamp."
If life goes on as it usually does, sometime later today I will find myself itching. A small bump will arise, and I will know who won the battle. I’m not really sure if I am just destined to be someone else’s snack or if the mosquito simply has better luck than me.
A painting stands on its own. People either enjoy looking at it or they don’t. If enough people find it pleasant, it becomes popular and is generally considered good. If it gathers enough praise, it becomes famous and hangs in a gallery behind a velvet rope, with security guards who only speak in whispers.
Writing, as I have discovered, can really stink and yet gather the praise of the public. I’ll never know why this is. Several years ago I read Ernest Hemmingway, and I found it to be terrible. Both his writing and his chosen subject matter were annoying to me. Yesterday I reread A Clean Well-lighted Place, by Ernest. Yuck! I just don’t see the attraction.
Giving him the benefit of the doubt, his notoriety probably came when he was a war correspondent. He was how people were getting their news. They became familiar with him and with seeing his name in print. Transitioning into literature was simply a stroke of good luck on his part and writing of foreign places gave the folks back home an imaginary vacation without wandering too many steps from their fridge.
To me, however, the emperor has no clothes. Hemmingway was a hack, a bully with a Bic. Not that I am making any comparisons to my writing. I already know I stink. My subject matter is usually silly, my descriptions too abbreviated and given the choice of reading something of mine or having a cold beer, well – bottoms up.
That’s it. That’s my two cents.
We all like the posts that have pictures with them. This one had a doosey, but yesterday I used the last of my monitor glue and, as you can see, without it - these pictures slide right off.
I have just now spilled words all over this page. Oh sure, to you – the untrained observer, you see them in straight lines, maybe even in complete sentences. Trust me when I tell you, this is not the case. This page is a mess. Ink everywhere. Nouns scattered here and there, adjectives – Hey! Don’t get me going about the adjectives.
And I was trying to be so careful. I had all these words in a small cardboard box. I think it was originally the top of a trivial pursuit game. One corner of the box had been damaged, but I had Scotch tape on it. I thought it was good enough to hold together. Apparently too many of these words were heavy. Some very heavy.
Anyway, as you can see, the thing ripped.
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.
We've already got Smart TV's.
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 steady 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
I have actually done it. Jim Croce made a song about time in a bottle, but I have gone and done it. I have actually captured time. I have knocked it down and swept it into this dustpan, then dropped it carefully into this bin. Don’t mess with the lid. Don’t even lift it to peek inside.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it. I know for a fact it is the most valuable thing we have, so maybe I’ll sell it to the highest bidder. Maybe someone dying in a hospital, they’d surely want more time with their family. Or perhaps someone on death row. But where would they get the money to pay me?
I need to think about this. I don’t want to waste it.
I should have weighed the empty bin, then I could weigh it now and see just how much time I have. I mean, I know I have a bin full, but how heavy is it? Do I charge by the pound or by the minute?
I wonder how long it will last in there without air holes in the bin. But the moment I start putting air holes in the bin, the time will get out through the holes. Boy, that would have been a rookie mistake. Time doesn’t need to breathe. What was I thinking?
I don’t even think I can dole it out to someone in segments, without spilling it all over the place. I’ll have to sell the entire bin just as it is. They will just have to trust me that the time is in there. Once they get a little time on their hands they can figure out what to do with it.
I could see several things as I waited in the parking lot. She had gone in for a few things, leaving me to
rotate between having the air on or the windows rolled down.
There was an old man leaning against his car, wearing
Florida shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and tennis shoes. He was twisting something around in the
fingers of his right hand. It was either
an unlit cigarette or a tire gauge. I couldn’t be sure.
A rather large lady pulled into the spot next to me. She was driving a very loud three-wheeled
motorcycle. It had all kinds of fancy
things on it, and it seemed to breathe a sigh of relief the minute she climbed
off. As she walked into the market, I
couldn’t help but think how fun it would be to ride a bike like that, zipping
along an old country road. Except for
the occasional overwhelming smell of cows, what a hoot that would be.
Off to my right was an old man who should have turned in his
driver’s license years ago. He had spent
the last several minutes attempting to back out of his parking spot, but
various walkers and people cruising for an empty parking spot kept going right
behind him, so he’d once again step on the brake, shift back into drive and
pull a few inches forward, back to where he had been. Then, he would again struggle to shift back
into reverse, check his mirrors, turn his head to see if anyone was coming and
he’d start the process all over again.
Nope – not yet.
Something caught my attention off to my left. Flashing lights on the top of a rather large
truck. Okay, I see it is a tow truck, so
that must have been a tire gauge and not a cigarette. Yep, he’s headed over to the guy wearing
shorts, who is now also waving his arms in the air to get the tow truck
driver’s attention.
Apparently frustrated at taking so long to back out of his parking spot, the old man just went ahead and hit the gas. His scruffy blue car lurched back just in time to crunch into the side of the passing tow truck. I felt bad for the old man, who now slumped upon the steering wheel, I assume regretting his last decision to just go for it.
I watched as a very unhappy driver of the tow vehicle walked
around the to this side of his truck to better see what had happened. Meanwhile, tire gauge guy had come trotting
over to find out why the tow truck he had requested stopped two aisles away. Both men were now standing at the driver’s
window, presumably checking on the slumped-over driver.
A Supermarket kid, pushing a long line of carts towards the
store, didn’t even glance at the activity as he passed. His thoughts, I’m sure, were of his next days
off. The long line of carts brushing too
close, knocked the tire gauge from the hand of shorts guy, who – I guess
because of the noise of the passing carts and the distress he felt for
slumped-over man, didn’t even notice when the gauge fell to the ground.
Also watching the activity was a seagull, perched atop the
tall light pole. His squawks went
unnoticed by the now small crowd gathered at the crunch sight. One lady, setting her groceries on the
pavement, was now calling for an ambulance for slumped over man. The tow driver had gotten the car door open
and was kneeling, talking with the old man, who did not seem to respond.
Just for a moment, seeing the turmoil unfold before me, and
hearing the background music of the squawking seagull, I imagined myself
viewing all of this from the seats of the Old Globe Theatre. A once plush and elegant building, whose days
had long passed. Today, the seats felt
small and crammed together, reminding theatre goers that neither a well written
play nor the skill of the actors would be good enough to distract from the
greed of the theatre owner who had squeezed even more seats into each row.
I looked down at my gas guage and decided to shut the car
off and instead roll down the windows. This
not only increased the volume of the seagull to me but let in a rush of hot
air. I had not realized it had gotten so
warm out. I could now hear the distant
siren of the paramedics rushing to the aid of slumped over man. How many lives, I wondered, had this old
man’s decision affected? The number
seemed to be growing.
I watched as the seagull pushed off and flew across the
parking lot. I wondered – would the paramedics be in
time? Had the old man already passed
away? Maybe, just maybe that was the old
man’s soul pushing off from the light pole, heading off to a better place.
Suddenly my wife was knocking on the car. I could see her holding the brown shopping
bags in my mirror, so I quickly popped the trunk. I felt them as they almost imperceptibly changed
the level of the car, and I remembered seeing the adjustment of the motorcycle when
the rider got off.
As my wife clicked her seatbelt, I started the car.
“What’s going on over there?” she asked.
I double checked my mirrors and back-up camera. “A seagull was just announcing a new arrival. Put your window down, you might still be able
to hear him.”
I could see her glance over to me.
“You’re strange.”
Here is a little-known fact from Kanbarelystanya.
After suffering years of border skirmishes with their neighbors to the East, a mix-up in a supply shipment accidently delivered hundreds of cases of Seagram’s VO Whiskey instead of their usual supply of ammunition.
Since that time there have been no reports of fighting. On-line shopping has increased, and three mixed marriages have taken place.
AP/UPI
There are some mornings my coffee feels so warm and smells so flavorful that I’d like to quietly slip over the edge of the mug and float around as if it were a secluded swimming hole.
It has occurred to me just now that my house has no peripheral vision. I have, of course, windows facing our direction of travel, but should a pirate ship appear along side we’d be quite vulnerable.
To the untrained eye, my office appears clean and orderly, yet sitting here I can’t help but notice the network of wires and cables busily carrying a blur of pixels north and south, this way and that. I am happy they are no louder than a pencil.
The slight breeze might as well have been a hurricane. Delicate flowers hanging from weak stems danced in the wind while a butterfly, having no weight at all, attempts to precisely land.
Having watched approximately 260 episodes of Leave it to Beaver, during the Covid shutdown, I’m discovering mental side effects. First off, let me just say that I find it hard to believe that anyone with such a diminished capacity as Beaver, could actually function within society without entering politics.
Episode after episode, season after season the Beaver fell for the same moronic gibberish, doled out by Larry, Gilbert, Richard, Whitey, Lumpy, and Eddie Haskell.
And I can’t really cut June and Ward any slack either. Get a clue people. Your kid was born without a brain. You should have called the Guinness Book.
Okay, getting back to my side effects. The Beaver has ruined television for me. I’ve gotten so I can't believe anything I see.
On one channel I see Raymond Burr in a wheelchair, while two channels over he’s walking around a courtroom. And Lassie, with no normal speech or opposable thumbs, convinces June Lockhart that Timmy has fallen into a well.
Am I the schmuck? Is it me?
Let the record show that I am the first one to suggest that space is not the final frontier.
Be advised, the simple fact that this is not addressed to anyone in particular, in no way suggests it was meant for you.
It isn’t that four-leaf clovers are rare, its that the others are very plentiful.
Knowing what questions to ask is far better than sitting next to someone that has all the answers.
We need Walter Cronkite back.
I often marvel at the type of brain that can figure out how to design a machine that can fold a stack of Kleenex in such a way that the very moment you pull one from the box, another pops up to take its place. That kind of timing is incredible. There are skilled, synchronized swimmers that don’t have that kind of timing.
It makes me wonder if there isn’t some mystical force at work in the universe that messes with us like that?
While wandering through technology I discovered several things about humans. First off, the reason my coffee pot only spit out half a cup this morning isn’t due to some errant computer chip or poorly made circuit board, it is that hidden deep behind the wires and small dots of solder sits some pixelated suit who decided this coffee pot should only last two years. Today’s failure is the residue of greed.
The closed-door meeting between the advertisers and the makers of the new 56 inch flat screen have found a way around the mute button. So now we have a scrolling banner along the bottom of the screen, attempting to sell us mountain climbing trucks that no one needs, and should you purchase one of these new/improved vehicles that offer a freedom far beyond your cubicle, know that your every move will be tracked, logged and registered. You’ll no longer be playing hooky my friend.
Black Box Construction Company
Hurricanes, tornados, earthquakes, no problem. Flood, wildfires, alien invasion, not an issue. I would like my house built out of the same material as the black boxes on airplanes. Drop them from 30,000 feet, set them in the middle of a violent explosion, who cares? They survive. Plunge them into the depths of the ocean – no issues.
Just don’t forget to punch some air holes, so I can breathe.
There’s a foul stench with chickens
a smell that’s all their own,
Perhaps from being all cooped up -
except the ones who’ve flown.
A foulness that permeates
and gets within the shell –
Boil some and peel them,
what is that awful smell?
The Devil knows that evil pew
your house will surely reek,
Open up the windows
if it’s breathing that you seek.
Prop the doors wide open
jam them so they’ll stay,
Then get into your car and drive
so very far away.
The word scrape gives me the willies.
I can envision a bloody and painful knee
that has suffered an encounter with the road,
or deeply scratched paint on a freshly financed car.
When children get into a scrape, teachers get involved,
threats are made, parents are called, stress levels rise.
I’m thinking we could do away with the word scrape
and simply go about our lives without issue.
Some sort of literary word-chisel would be needed
to remove the word from our language, or perhaps
a very sharp putty knife, the kind used for dictionaries.
We could just scrape it off.
Should something streak across the night sky
odds are it will be in a straight line.
A straight line from our vantage point, that is.
When cleaning your windows
streaks can be long or short, straight or curved.
A lucky streak, on the other hand
can be very short and the odds are
it will take an ugly turn at the worst moment.
Turn the doorknob left or right,
I wonder should I tug or lean –
The window tells me day or night
The music for me sets the scene,
Other actors know their lines
It is quite rare they miss their mark –
Someone didn’t move the chair
I stumble blindly in the dark,
A muffled chuckle from the crowd
Then lively laughter fills the air
Houselights on, so all can see
This clumsy actor laying there.
Walking on a winter’s trail
A cold and starry night it was -
Snug inside my fur-lined gloves
Fingers wrapped in cozy fuzz –
Winter boots around my feet
Woolen socks seemed just the thing –
With scarf tucked in, I felt complete,
Then I heard my cell phone ring.
Who dare intrude on such a walk
and break the stillness of the night –
Who feels compelled to have me talk
I’m sorry, but this isn’t right.
Between my teeth I bite my glove
and slip my hand from where its warm
A senior's somehow wandered off
a searching party has been formed
describing me as old and gray
said to search both far and near,
I calmly tuck my phone away -
enjoying quiet while its here.
They simply have a gift for finding it.
I’m talking about the sand.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.
There is a small wire basket on my desk, it holds my pens. There are currently 17 pens and one Sharpie in the basket. The unknown factor at this time is how many words are in each pen. I believe a reasonable guess would be that a person could expect to get 14 pages of writing from each pen, not counting the Sharpie.
With standard spacing and normal size font, a person should be able to get four good-sized paragraphs per page. That equates to 10 sentences per paragraph, or 400 words per page. 14 pages times 400 is 5,600 words. That’s 56 paragraphs.
Assume for the moment that you could find an average student. Not some over achiever but just some normal looking student walking around campus, a vacant expression on their face, perhaps, searching for the cafeteria. You stop them and offer them 10 cents a word to be a stringer on the school newspaper. All they have to do is bring in stories of life on campus.
Okay, so Joe Schmo accepts the task and starts bringing in stories for the school paper, the Sometimes Why.
This is a large campus of a major university, so obviously you have a need for more than just the one stringer. Let’s say you have 9 stringers total. That’s a potential of 50,400 dimes you will need to pay your staff of reporters.
Now the advertising department, the ones tasked with selling ads to generate revenue are hitting up the pizza places, the pubs, the local car dealerships and the bookstores. Each one needs to run ads in the Sometimes Why in order to keep the paper afloat. In order to entice these business to place ads in the school paper, the circulation department needs to show adequate circulation. They must be able to show how these advertisements will be seen by thousands of potential customers.
Here's where the Sharpie comes in. The graphic arts department will need to draw up charts and graphs, with population density, timelines, distribution points and yearly projections, adequate to convince the small business owner to invest.
Meanwhile, somewhere across campus, a sinister plot is afoot to ban the use of Sharpies, suggesting their fumes wreak havoc with the math gene.
From what you have been told, answer the following;
1. Where was Joe Schmo headed?
2. What is his current major?
3. How many pizzas will need to be sold to cover the
cost of an ad in the Sometimes Why?
4. Does a black Sharpie and a red Sharpie smell the same?
5. Could it be the smell of the Sharpie that caused the math error in
jumping from 4 paragraphs equaling 400 words? How many words
per sentence is that? I'm sorry, but that just doesn't smell right.
I can’t believe this is the first time this desk drawer has been pulled out all the way. Up against the back of the drawer, stuck between the back wood panel and the bottom panel was this business card. It’s kind of an odd card, no name or business, just a phone number. I was very tempted to call it just to see who it belonged to, but I first wanted to try and think if there was anyone in my past I didn’t, for whatever reason, want to contact. Nobody came to mind right away, so I set the card on the coffee table for now. I’d think about it some more first.
The following morning, I took a second look at the number. (844) 877-3456. I don’t know why but it looked very familiar. It must be someone from my past, maybe from school or an old job, I just wasn’t sure. I don’t even know what part of the country the area code 844 is from. If it were some insurance guy, then the name of the insurance company would be on the card, but there’s nothing.
Right after lunch I’m going to just call it and see who answers. I just hope it isn’t some turkey from my past.
The rain brings down with it a certain quietness. There is a noticeable absence of squawking from the crows. Even neighborhood dogs seem content to snooze instead of bark during a gentle rain. Perhaps, beyond the elements that make up a water molecule, there are silent additives, heretofore undetected by scientists and chemistry teachers.
These miniscule sound-deadening molecules, once striking an object, spin out a spiderweb-like blanket of non-noise. This affects the insect world, until of course, it stops raining. It is at that point we are again able to hear the insects, and the chirp of local birds.
It is these sound-deadening additives in water that allow ventriloquists to drink while successfully operating their puppet.
Think about it. It makes sense.
I’m certain my spirit guide is extremely overweight. They keep nudging me towards the cookies.
I’m not really sure that’s allowed.
For as long as there are whiskers
and tires bumping curbs,
they’ll be windsocks in the cornfield
directing all my words,
Tie shoes on the dance floor
is music to my ears –
quarters for the Jukebox
with songs I’ve heard for years,
When at last there’s no more whiskers
and Good-Years all are flat,
The winds across the cornfield
won’t remember all of that,
You and I will smile –
knowing that we tried,
It’s then you'll point at me and say,
"Hey, your shoes untied."
A connotation of sadness rests upon that phrase like a layer of dust settled upon things left unspoken.
Thanks for checking back. An adjustment has been made to my mainspring. My timing has been adjusted and fresh oil applied to key locations.
Now that I have returned you should once again start seeing the random thoughts and notes along the margins that you have come to enjoy over the years.
Thanks for the cards and letters, they were greatly appreciated.
Z. Corwin
✌
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.”
I had to get through the entire box of cereal, but I finally found it, the little toy packed deep inside the carton. It was sealed in a small, plastic pouch but looked nothing like the way it did on the TV commercial.
I was totally bummed, but then I remembered seeing the advertisement on the side of the school bus for The Kid’s Lawyer. Almost instantly I began to feel better.
Their television commercial says that for the cost of your milk money, you too can have the skilled, professional legal representation you deserve.
Just to be sure, I waited to see the TV ad again before calling their 1-800 number.
In the TV commercial there is an animated Tonka truck, painted up to look like an ambulance, and a little man with a briefcase running after it. Then scrolling down the screen is a list of all the reasons for hiring The Kid’s Lawyer.
Unfair detention
Wrongly accused
Sibling Favoritism
Excessive homework
Unfair Playground practices
Always Picked Last
Crossing Guard Scuffles
False Toy Advertising
That was it! That’s what this was. The toy inside this cereal box was a blatant misrepresentation, and I wanted satisfaction.
I called the number.
That every time a politician lies
an appendage falls off –
Gives a whole new meaning to stump speech.
I’ve heard it said that if a common house fly lands on a giant cruise ship out in the ocean, the weight of the fly actually affects the ship. It sits lower in the water and goes slower.
I put a letter in the mailbox just moments ago, and when walking back up to the house I noticed a small lizard hanging onto the stucco. I immediately began to wonder if when I got back into the house, I would see the beer in my glass tilted just a little, you know, due to the weight of the lizard hanging on one side of the house.
Some say, the weight of the fly is so insignificant, that it cannot be calculated into the equation. Others suggest, I have had too many beers and that I should use my powers of thought for good, instead of trying to develop a new Newtonian philosophy.
(See Newton – not Fig)
“Hats are wasted on a man with no head.”
“They couldn’t find the artist, so they hung the painting.”
“In Mexico we have a word for sushi – bait.”
The weather person makes their predictions based on current conditions, and the things they can see heading our way.
It won’t turn up on a Google search, and Rand McNally has never been there, but it is a very real and vibrant place. The name, a translation from the Blackfoot Indians, means ashtray. Ashtray, Wisconsin has gift shops, but no post cards. They have drug stores that still have soda fountains, where you can get a chocolate milkshake or a Cherry Coke for a quarter.
The Ashtray Hardware is run by Fred BB Miller. As a young child growing up in Ashtray, Fred was stung 43 times by a freak bumble bee attack. When it was clear that Fred was out of danger from dying from the stings, his school chums gave him the nickname of Bumble Bee. As Fred grew into adulthood, his nickname became shortened to BB. There is a wall plaque behind the cash register showing the newspaper clipping of Fred with 43 welts on his face.
There is one laundry on Main Street, next to Hops Chinese Restaurant, but don’t call expecting Linda to recite the daily specials, as some of their menu options have changed.
Just outside of town is a Cracker Barrell with a Ford dealership expected to take over the property kitty-corner. Ashtray Chevrolet, north of the Interstate had no comment when questioned about Ford moving so close to town.
Beside its somewhat hidden location, the other oddity about Ashtray is they do not have any local government. There is no Mayor, no Counsel members, and no Police Chief. They do have an all-volunteer fire department. All members had to buy their own walkie-talkies and equipment. There is one firehouse, two trucks, one of which is almost all paid for.
Only one volunteer firefighter has ever been fired. Ned Lariby, was asked to resign after hearing a rumor of a housing boom, panicked and jumped into Engine #1, and crashed it into the massive Oak tree in town.
Note:
A Native American historian from Cambridge University has determined the translation of the Blackfoot word for ashtray, really indicates an urn, or funeral vessel and not an ashtray, as previously thought.
I am sitting in a chair out in some field. On my lap is a clipboard with several sheets of paper. I am writing something.
Off in the distance I see you walking towards me. I keep writing but every now and then I look up to check on your progress. You are getting closer.
As you walk past me you are close enough to glance down to see what I am writing. At that exact moment I am writing down the time. It is 6:57 am.
As I watch you get further and further away, I can only imagine you are wondering why I am sitting out here writing down the time.
I am still writing, and it is just under an hour when I notice a second gentleman walking along your same trajectory. As it is not a well-worn path through this field, I can only assume he is following you, perhaps trying to catch up to you.
Again, as he passes, he looks down at my clipboard to see what it is I am writing. It is at this point that I find it reasonable to assume people are curious, for both men have looked to see what I am writing.
I didn’t immediately notice it, but this person did not continue on. He stopped directly in front of me and is still watching as I write this. This, of course, makes me self-conscious and so I stop writing.
Seeing I am bothered by his presence, he turns and walks on. Now I am wondering just how much of what I have written did he actually read. If he read enough, he now knows he is heading in the proper direction to catch up with the first person, and he is now aware that the first person pasted my location at exactly 6:57 am.
Am I now an accomplice? Simply by being out here in this field have I placed the first man in danger? Not having been instructed by some second party to sit out here I doubt I am some pawn, or that I have been duped. This location and time were of my own doing. I discussed it with no one.
If this is some elaborate scheme, I wonder how good I would be at describing each of the men that passed me. I doubt I’d do very well. The only thing that sticks out in my mind, and it is because he stopped right in front of me, were the second man’s shoes. They were very large, even oversized, red clown shoes, with yellow laces. And they squeaked with each step.
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