Which One is Art ?

 

 

 

 

 

Leap

 

 

                                       

 

 

 

... and Annette will appear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cora Spondance

 

 

 

    

Dear Wally,

 

By now you've guessed that I am not at my sisters. Yes, I took the car. Just get yourself another one. You've always liked those little hunch-back numbers, get yourself one of those. In case you haven't found it yet your laundry is in the dryer and don't forget to feed Peter. Don't put his food on the counter; he can't get up there like he once could.

 

Don't come looking for me. By the time this letter reaches you I'll be half way to Vegas. Truth is Wally - I've met someone else. No, you don't know him. He's nothing like you. He has seen the world. I mean it Wally, he has really traveled and he is so smart; No, not just in knowing stuff but in a lot of ways. I think you'd like him. I mean... if, well... you know.

 

  I’ll write to you again once we get settled. 

 

 

 

Cora

  

Not sure why but it's still in my car.

I was 4 foot something when I got my first baseball mitt.   It was a tad large for my hand but I didn’t care, the leather felt good and I could instantly imagine myself making the saving catch out in left field.  In my life as a little guy that was a very important deal, it made me feel like I could be a part of something much bigger than myself.   It was one of those things that my parents could not afford but bought for me anyway. That only added to the rich feel of the glove which I always treasured.

 

            I never did belong to a baseball team; in fact, I was one of the kids always picked last out on the playground.  I didn’t care, I had my mitt and I was ready if ever the more popular kids came to their senses and let me play.  (It was usually when some flu epidemic or plague had wiped out most everyone else).  There I’d be oiling up my mitt anxiously awaiting the nod.

 

            To this day I still have that glove; in fact, I keep it in the trunk of my car, you know, should somebody somewhere suddenly need a left fielder or a first baseman.

 

Flash Forward

 

            Reality sets in over time and although my hand now fits nicely into the mitt, I no longer imagine myself making the game saving play.  Don’t get me wrong – I still feel like I’m out in left field, but for altogether different reasons.

 

            It is the selection process that I want to talk about today, that small band of kids on the playground hoping to be selected for the team; some leaning forward, maybe inching themselves closer to the ones doing the picking.  Others, more excitedly waving their arms in the air, “Pick me – pick me.”   It is much like the Republican primaries, all jostling themselves about, trying to be noticed, and hoping to appear as the right choice. 

 

            It seems a long, drawn out process that is taking its toll on those of us in the cheap seats.  Being somewhat north of 60 and having spent all too many years in windowless cubicles, my entire take on the thing may be limited, but it appears the system needs an overhaul.  The selection process smacks too much of P.T. Barnum.   Speech writers and sound bites, photo ops of senators handing out little packets of campaign trail mix; no better definition of shenanigans will you find.

 

            This, I am sad to report, is not one of those essays identifying a problem and then posing a solution.  I haven’t a clue as to a better plan; in fact, let me put your mind at ease right now.  This is not a political topic under the guise of A Well- Oiled Mitt, but a round-a-bout examination of the selection process, automobile dealerships and once again the P.T. Barnum approach.

 

 

            For years now I have been swimming around close to the murky bottom of my talent.  Only occasional patches of light reach the talent floor and absent of any navigational gadgets I tend to feed upon the same thoughts over and over again, those growing in the light, such as well- lit car dealerships.  I’m sure there have been past essays touching upon the insanity of how we sell cars in this country, but perhaps none as poorly written as this. 

 

 Mr. and Mrs. Minnow head out on a Saturday morning to check out the new 2012 Barracuda with all its options, but as they swim up to the dealership the first thing they see is a swarm of hungry shark salesmen pacing back and forth.

 

As this isn’t their first venture into the deep end, they already realize they will be lied to, taken advantage of and obviously end up paying far more than they should; yet unavoidable - there are the sharks, each one inching up towards the front door; “Pick me… pick me…”   But for right now all the Minnows want to do is sit in the car, examine the gauges, knobs and buttons, and maybe see if they can even reach the pedals.

 

            Let’s face it, this country loves a circus; we want our politicians to put the needs of the many ahead of the wants of the few, and our car salesmen to put that thought process in reverse…   and still fill the place with balloons and banners.

 

 

Flash Back

 

 

            Suffice it to say, anyone north of 60 and still carrying around their baseball mitt should not be allowed in the game.  Sunday Morning readers might add that this particular essay lacks direction, contains a modicum of sarcasm and fosters a slight desire for Ball Park Franks.   I strongly suggest we leave Zobostic on the bench - at least until the next plague.

 

 

Signaling My Intentions

 

Yes, I am about to make a turn.  Although I am surrounded by friends all waving the Buy-American Flag, I find I can no longer afford to spend $150.00 to change a light bulb.

 

The manufacturer has designed my car in such a way that in order to change a burnt out turn signal bulb the entire front bumper must come off.  I'm not kidding when I say they charge $150.00 for labor to change out the bulb.

 

In the short time I have owned my car the bulb has burned out three times.

 

 

 

 

“We have met the enemy and they are us.”

Taking the Driver Out of the Equation

The engineers who designed my car obviously thought highly of themselves. They have designed into the workings, a system that completely removes the driver from the quation.

 

How amazing is that? Sitting at their desks, they have contemplated each and every possible scenario likely to occur on America’s highways, and in so doing, have equipped the vehicle to respond, using judgment, reason and reactions faster than those possible by a human brain.

 

The traction control system automatically takes over multiple aspects of the car when it senses a problem with traction.

 

Unfortunately, when it is wrong, and you the driver are trying to maneuver out of a dangerous situation you discover a noticeable lack of response to your efforts. This, of course, places you smack-dab in harms way. The very problem it was designed to prevent.

 

The advertising company used by the car’s manufacturer touts this feature as an ingenious attribute and low and behold, car sales increase and the design team, sitting back at their desks, gets a bonus.

 

Technological advancements are all fine and dandy but wouldn’t it be great if the auto industry adopted the Hippocratic oath - primum non nocere, First, do no harm.

 

I’m serious kids, when I need to turn a corner or quickly get out of some moron’s way I need my car to quickly respond and not suddenly bog down because some sensor thinks there is snow on the road in the middle of August.

 

This is ZC
and that’s my 2¢

 

 

Fire Sweeps Through Blog

It began with an almost imperceptible spark and then a sudden rampaging flash.  When I finally realized what had transpired it was too late.  The entire top floor of my blog was gone.  It had been burned to a crisp.

 

            I haven’t any inventory records or even 3 X 5 cards suggesting what has been lost; there is just a noticeable absence, a feeling that a small wooden table and chair is now missing, where someone once sat writing out his thoughts, pretending some distant friend would read them and perhaps understand.

 

            The blaze, of course, was no blaze at all but an inadvertently depressed delete button, sending several posts of transcribed thoughts and feelings deep into the forgotten past.   Not that they were fragile pages from some Hemmingway adventure but simply small fragments of me. 

 

            This reporting is not so much an excuse as it is an explanation.  You deserve to know the truth about what happened and now you do.  I hope we can both move forward from here, taking with us – not simply the feeling of loss but the knowledge that we were once privy to… Well, like I say, I’m not sure what it was – so okay, we’ll just carry with us the emptiness and maybe a tiny glimmer of hope that someone out there might be able to piece together the past from whatever memories they gathered along the way.  

    

 

 

 

 

         Zobostic Corwin