If at first...

 

    The city in the background is the result of the second attempt.  The pilings in the foreground began as the initial foundation of the city but the further out into the bay they went, the more the workers kept drowning, trying to hammer the logs into the bottom muck.  They were also running out of hammers.  Soon volunteers became scarce, and sharks were plentiful. 

    This history is printed on the back of this postcard.  The postcard sells for 1.40 euros, with proceeds going to a monument dedicated to the memory of those brave volunteers.  

Side note:

    It was this activity, at this location that established the name, Hammer-head Shark.

 

C-130

 

About as aerodynamic as a pelican and heavier than a 1942 Buick.  This not only defies gravity but pulls itself forward at the same time.  It does, however, make more noise than a pelican, and emits more toxic fumes than a Buick.  

It doesn’t come with airbags or cup holders.  It doesn’t have a favorable trade-in value and there are no dealerships offering any kind of color choice.  In fact, I don’t even think they would let us buy one, assuming we’d want to.   It isn’t going to fit in the average garage.

It doesn’t have a catchy name or great mileage.  You would, however, be the first in your neighborhood to have one, should you manage to get your hands on one.  In fact, let me know if you do.  Maybe we could go in on one together.  I’ll pay the registration fee, and you buy the gas.

 

Dry Roasted

 I never really thought about this before, but what other kind of roasted is there?

 

 

 

and what did they want?

 

The shadow people were the first to arrive at the beach.  None of them had come prepared.  No one had brought a towel or blanket, there were no beach toys that I saw, and the way they were walking, it was like they were trying to leave their shadows behind.

So, who were they, really?

 

 

Final Exam

 

The last question on the test had us identify this item.  This question constituted 30% of our grade.  It was multiple choice. 

The above picture shows which of the following?

A.    Left Ventricle

B.    Skeletal Membrane  

C.    Nerve Canal (Dinosaurs Ear)

D.    Belgian White Chocolate 

E.    Spiracle (Gray Whale) 

Submit your answer in the comments section.

This is not a hint. 

Trade-offs

 

 

As you travel through this blog you may notice an absence of uniformity.  This is because we do not have a blog owners association. (BOA)

There are well constructed stories with great foundations, wonderful syntax and almost perfect grammar.  Right next door you may see some ramshackle paragraph with mo  tor  cy  cel  parts strewn about, and runonsentences abandoned in front of some half-baked idea.

I knew this when I moved here, but what you won’t see is annoying advertising.  No pop-up messages or grabby headlines leading to even more advertising.

Oh sure, there are nicer blogs, with great-looking entrances.  Some even have little guard shacks and automatic gates, with spell-check before you enter, but I feel comfortable here.  It has been home for over 12 years now and…      Oh, here’s one, I saw this blog once that had some obnoxious twerp, walking around saying,

“What we have here – is a failure to communicate.”

Not for me, Pal.  I'll stay right here.

 

 

A Place for Me

 

I don't believe the part of my brain that works like a microscope is a good thing.

 

The problem comes when I'm walking through the woods.  I don't see the trees or thick underbrush.  What I tend to mentally see are the insects moving about beneath the bark, the webs stretching across the trail and the chomping beetles just under the leaves.

        Sometimes I'd just like to be normal.  I would enjoy seeing the trees, just as trees.  I would appreciate simply hiking along the trail, not concerned with spider webs or things that slither, or buzz past my ear.

        Then again, maybe I’m supposed to be city dweller.  I just might be in the wrong location.  Walking along a city street I’d most likely notice the streaks left by the window washer, or the poor cement job between the bricks of a building.  Although it can’t always be imperfections I notice.  Surely, I’d be able to see the warm glow of apartment lights coming from the windows along the side streets.  I know I would enjoy the aromas wafting out of the bakeries, and Italian restaurants, and the echo of my steps as I walk between the tall buildings.

        No.  That can’t be it.  I’d never make a good city person.  I would miss hearing the birds and seeing the wind dance through the trees.  Driving along a country road has its own feel.  Passing a field of cows, grazing, swatting at flies with their tails and looking up as I drive past, saying, “People.”

 

 

 

 

View from the Top

 

Imagine you’re the kite.  The wind is under your arms, lifting you high above the ground.  A thin string trails off and disappears from view, while further below a small child’s hand holds tight.  Excited by your height, she runs along the grass, trying not to stumble and trying harder to not let go.  You, however, hope she does.  You tug for your freedom.  You want to keep going, higher and farther away, for you know you are more than sticks and paper.  You are alive and flying.  You dip and weave back and forth, in an attempt to snap the string.  If only…

 

 

Sunset

 

The old man sat on his wooden stool staring out at the ocean, his canvas still blank, his brushes still clean.  He watched as the long line of pelicans quietly grazed the tips of the waves.  How wonderful flight must be, he thought, as the sun brought a little warmth to his old body.

There was a good-sized sailboat making its way across the horizon, but the old man simply closed his eyes.  He wouldn’t be painting today.  He set his brush along the edge of the easel and tried hard to think of something other than Brandy.  For so many years his trusty pal would stay curled up next to his wooden stool as the old man painted.

Strangers would walk up to glance at his canvas, but almost always bend over to pat Brandy, who never growled but would wag a friendly greeting.  Both the old man and Brandy could tell the locals from the smell of sunscreen.  The tourists seemed always in a hurry to get to their next stop, and they smelled of cheap cologne or aftershave, carrying packs of things they didn’t need.

The breeze off the ocean caused the old man to open his eyes, his blank canvas looking back at him, the hardness of the stool reminding him he had once again forgotten his cushion.  “Let’s go home Brandy.” He said to no one in particular.

No! You haven't fixed anything

 

The roof still leaks.

Still my Favorite

 

Town & Country

 

I have always found more treasures within the city than I ever have along a country road.  A beetle working his way over a stone that happens to be in his path is hardly as poetic as an old man lost in his overcoat, making his way to the watch repair – still reliving old appointments, his watch remains his lifeline to his self-worth.

From an upstairs apartment window her familiar yell interrupts the friendly baseball game taking place on the street below.  Just as it was yesterday, the Green Buick is home plate and anything beyond Mitscher’s delivery truck is a home run.  She has made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.  Although she has gone through the motions of preparing lunch, she is lost, deep in the soap opera being played out before her.  Her concern that Erica’s pregnancy remains a secret for now is genuine.  Her hands unconsciously wring her apron, she feels herself once again breathing, as the camera moves in on Todd’s puzzled expression and they fade to commercial.

The beetle has lost his footing in his attempt to traverse a formable downed branch and flips upon his back.  Kicking franticly at the air, he attempts to right himself.  Soon exhausted, he slows but doesn’t stop, as he knows his vulnerability.

        Leaving the repair shop the old man closely examines his timepiece.  He reads again the farewell inscription on the back, unaware of the pop-fly plummeting rapidly towards Main and Fedora.

“Lunch.” Screeches the voice from the apartment window, catching the old man’s attention, he removes his hat to look up.

Crack! Goes the beetle’s hard shell, as the Blue Jay digs into his meal.

 

 

 

The Power Outage

 

With every power outage comes both quiet and chaos.   Everything in the home stops running.  There are no hums from appliances, no ticks from clocks and no air movement from the furnace.  The only thing that magnifies the quiet is the darkness.

What does start, however, is the warming of the fridge.  As the cold within the box reduces, the decay of the food increases.  Expiration dates become accelerated and aromas, although not pleasant, increase.  It becomes a test to see how long you can go before opening the door, even if only briefly.

Turns out, the large cement slab is not really the foundation of your house.  The power is.  It is the thing upon which everything else is balanced.  We live inside a complex set of Jenga blocks.  Remove the wrong one and life spoils.

A Real Stretch

  

Last Thursday we had a man come in and stretch out the bumps in our carpet.  Although I don’t really know how the bumps got there, the bumps just somehow developed.  At first it was a simple annoyance to step over them but as they grew, they became hurdles.  We, as well as the cat, would have to get a running start down the hall to get up and over them.

The carpet guy was right on time and was instantly likeable.  Although he was a talker, he wasn’t just jabbering.  He was very knowledgeable in a variety of subjects.

In the short time he was here, I got an education about carpet, carpet stretching, diets and recipes, how to dry foods for storge and vitamins verses minerals.   He talked about the problem with carpeted stairs, his work history, his neighbors and his mother.

At one point I thought I was listening to a detective.  Just by looking at the wear patterns on our carpet he described our living habits down to a tee.

I never even knew there were carpet bump guys.  I don’t recall it ever being mentioned during career day in high school.  I am still amazed by the volume of knowledge he had.  I would have thought his repartee to be more gossip-like, after his many years of coming face-to-face with all the things people sweep under the rug.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Off the Rails

 

Leaves and interest rates are falling.  This storm has put me in a tropical depression.  While on this blog I make adventures, I make stories and I make believe, and I can't really say I trust in the healing power of chicken soup.

 

I enjoy the occasional U-turn, I always stand back a bit from the edge and never mind being picked last for anything, but here's the thing, I believe the bad juju emitted from passport photos affects wind direction, which in turn tumbles garden gnomes across your yard.  The worse the picture, the more gnomes.  It’s a proven equation.

 

Should you ever encounter an entire gaggle of gnomes in someone’s yard, just keep walking.  Don’t even slow down.  Rest assured, these are the people that are on the no-fly list and yet have tons of flies around them.

    They rarely smile and seldom blink.  They don’t age well and yet keep doing it.  Not wishing to put too fine a point on it, but these gnome people are societal misfits.   They use doilies to dress up their couch.   They have ponytails protruding from the side of their head and are usually vegetarians with a beef.

 

        This is one of those times when not having any idea on what to write about, I should have just shut my computer off and read a book.  You know, what someone else has written.

 

Yes.   Up a tree. 

    A mental wind with unthinking gusts has uprooted my thoughts and now they tumble about in unsettling directions.

 

            I have lost my focus amidst the dust and misfired synapses, perhaps more noticeable to others than I appreciate.   

 

            Surely I am off on some adventure of great import, doing what thinking I have left; sipping an aromatic tea designed to calm such mental winds as I have suffered.

 

            Should you find the pages I’ve lost, stack them at the side door with the milk bottles.  Set upon them a heavy idea to hold them down.

 

            When my return is discovered it may be that I am huddled in a blanket, sitting in the bleachers - cheering for the other side.  Then again, it’s altogether possible you’ll find yourself sitting next to me at an establishment of tables.

 

            Know what I lack in social graces I make up for in random thoughts - 

 

            Though hardly worth the penny.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Report

 

 

As submitted by Z, Corwin on this,

the 3rd. day of February 2008.

 

 

I have threatened on many occasions to submit these findings as a means of expedient retribution for some managerial annoyance, but discovered greater mileage in the threat than such a report could ever muster in behavioral change.

 

 Even now, I believe the impact will be minimal in comparison to that which the anticipation has caused.  Suffice it say, those involved at the time of this writing were most likely displaying a nervousness heretofore seen only in small birds held captive beneath paws.

 

With respect to chronology I must admit a failing, as situations and events were logged based upon convenience to my schedule and not so much prompted by fastidiousness or compulsion.

 

It is intended that this report be viewed as a stand-alone document.  Although supporting data remains available, I have taken pains to remove distortions and bias, admitting however, to views and opinions other than mine - however misguided.

 

Operating under the Rules and Guidelines as set forth for compiling such a report, and being obligated to pre-existing constraints, such as word count, I regret at this point in time that the body of this report must be archived until such constraints can be expanded to accommodate multiple page documents.

 

 

Respectfully

Zobostic Corwin

 

 

 

The Motor City

 

Woodward Avenue doesn't really run downhill.

When I see this sign, I remember my old cars, the neighborhood kids I hung around with and the fun we had racing up and down this road.

I can recall the restaurants and diners along the way, some with car-hops, some with the best pizza ever.

I also remember that for years and years the politicians would say, "Detroit's on its way back."

The sad truth being, Detroit still remans as the decayed city it has always been.  Broken windows, burnt out structures, abandoned buildings and the remaining fumes 
from once thriving factories.

I guess, now that I think of it, when you drive Woodward Avenue, heading towards Detroit, you are, in fact, going downhill.

 

Let the Poets fight the Wars

 

Cannons to the left of me,

Cannons to the right of me...

so they're not all gems.

It's Miller Time

 

I remember asking my teacher why I needed to study math.  It was difficult for my brain to comprehend and for some unknown reason, wrong answers would always show up on my test papers.  That seemed to annoy him.

He told me to stay after school some day and he would explain why math was so important.  It was two weeks later when I had the opportunity to hang around after school, so I looked him up and asked him to explain it to me.

Much to my surprise, he was at his desk grading papers but also drinking a beer.  When he saw my shocked expression he said, “Because it is after hours, I can enjoy a refreshing beverage.”  I just ignored it.  But then he went on with his explanation of why math is important.

“Assume you own a brewery.”  He held up his beer can.  “You have everything it takes to make your product, including a very sophisticated machine to form the beer can, add the label and another machine to box them up for shipment.”

I just nodded, not really knowing where he was going with all this. 

“Now, look at this…”

 

 

“The machine that forms this can must come up with a very exacting pressure in order to crease this pull tab just the right amount, so the average finger, on the average person, can pull – with very little effort, and have this pop open.  It takes math to calculate that pressure.”

This isn’t your first beer, is it?

 

 

 

 

Given a Voice

 

People are given a voice so they can get the correct change at the dry cleaners.

Dogs are given a voice so when we ask them if they want a treat they can say, “Yes, thank you very much.”

Advertisers use sign language.

Fish never requested a voice, but whales did.

Kids in the back of the classroom were given a voice but prefer not to use it.

Owls were given a voice simply because they have questions.

AI’s have a voice, although they never have questions.

Plants, rocks and mushrooms do not have a voice.

Math teachers have a voice because…
well, you figure it out.  (and show your work)

The Laundry Basket

 

Piled high

Each layer is like the floor of a tall building

And each article of clothing tells a story

Of course there is the collar with lipstick on it

The sleeve with powder burns

The blood-stained jacket

And the shards of broken glass in the pants cuff

Did I mention this is a city basket?