Lend Me Your Ears Because Mine Don't Work

So it happened again.

Yesterday I was standing in the middle of the kitchen putting lunches together when the phone rang. I have noticed recently when I’m standing near the middle of the room when the phone rings I have 0% possibility of actually locating it before the phone rings.

Heaven forbid that one time the phone ring and its some guy looking for John MacLean and if he doesn’t talk to him he’s going to blow me up – that’s the plot of Die Hard 7: Die Hardest Ever – because the phone is going to ring a full 5 times, Killer Klaus is going to pop that button and I’ll be wall splatter.

Here’s what happens when the phone rings and I have no idea where it is:

1) First Ring: Surprise. The phone rang. Who could be calling? What could they want? What did I do now?
2) Second Ring: Oh crap! Where is the phone anyway? Is it under the cushion?
3) Third Ring: Okay I think it’s over here by the piano
4) Fourth Ring: Okay, it’s not over here by the piano – oh it’s over on the other side of the room.
5) Fifth Ring: Okay it’s not here. Screw this – the machine will get it.

Now yesterday I managed to find the phone in time, only to hear the not so dulcet tones of “John” (who was as much of a John as I am a Rajan) asking me if I used Long Distance [(not interested), excuse me do you use long (I am NOT interested) …. Okay have good day)] but that’s a rare scenario.

The next time you phone my house (you better not be calling about long distance) get this picture in your head: a flustered fellow frantically fishing for phones.

Making my aural incompetence even slightly funnier… we have three phones in the house.

Pinball Wizard

So I heard a story on the news this morning about this guy from somewhere who won a pinball champion over the weekend. He ended his day with 55 million points. On a scale of 1-10 in the world of pinball I’m sure that’s amazing (on a scale of 1-10 in the real world it’s not quite worth the stamp to send in the application to be on the scale of 1-10), but get this: what astonishing prize was this valiant champion given for his Herculean efforts?

A pinball machine.

They gave the guy a pinball machine.

If this man can get 55 million points on a pinball game, chances are he already has one (or else he’s spent a lot of quarters on the wrong thing). I haven’t seen the pinball machine but I can’t imagine it would be worth the time and effort required to obtain it. Even if the backlit features of a nude Angelina Jolie were front and centre on this thing it wouldn’t be worth it (only just).

This is a man who has honed his reflexes to respond to split second decisions. Doesn’t he realize he can move on to other things? There’s a whole list of Sensei out there looking for new students to train into deadly ninjas. He’s got the reflexes, he’s got the drive to crush the competition: get out there mysterious Pinball wizard and sweep that leg!

I tried to find an article to link to this blog but surprisingly few news web sites consider this actual news. What I did however find was that there are a number of web sites for people who adore pinball.

Don’t get me wrong, I like pinball, just not that much.

The World’s Oldest Rock

Scientists in Quebec have found what they’re touting as the world’s oldest Rock which comes in at a nubile 4.something billion years old. You can read the article here: World's Oldest Rock

I have some questions regarding this:

1) Why are we paying scientists to look for old rocks?
2) How do you know it’s THE oldest Rock… did you check the rock next to it?
3) Isn’t Keith Richards the world’s oldest Rock…er?

The ego of science amazes me sometimes. They’ve found an old rock. So what? Supposedly it’s suppose to realign our understanding of when life appeared on this planet, the life they’re referring to being bacteria. I’m sorry; while bacteria is alive I’d hardly consider it life. It just sits around in the body and poisons (kind of like the McD’s breakfast I just had) or its out in the world doing its thing – but if its not in anyone’s favourite 5 cell phone numbers, it doesn’t have “life.”

Life has more moving parts. To me it sounds like some rock nerds trying to justify their research grant.

So if its not Keith Richards... is it Bob Seger?

A Carnival of Idiots on Show

It’s election time.

In mere weeks Canadians will be going to the polls, not necessarily to support the party they put their beliefs in, not necessarily because any candidate sticks out as a good and honest person, not because any candidate is a clear cut leader but because 70+ years ago a bunch of really brave people went to fight and die so that we’d have the right to do so. Or at least that’s why I’m going to vote.

But look at the choices we have, considering party by leader:

Jack Leyton: Despite the mailings you’ve persisted in sending me over the last 3 years Mr. Leyton, I won’t vote for you. Three years ago when the NDP did the best its done in a long time you promised you’d go off to Ottawa and make a difference because your party could be that deciding vote. But the first I’ve heard of Jack Leyton in the last three years was about a month ago when the election was announced. It’s been easier to find Waldo than Jack Leyton. So unless you’ve been on the Island with the people from the Oceanic flight bugger off my radio Leyton, there has to be some good music on.

Stephan Dion: I don’t know if I spelled his name right. I don’t care if I spelled his name right. He’s massacring my language, so his name is not off limits. We already went through having one barely understandable Prime Minister when Chrétien was in office and now you want to go back to putting Canada as a laughing stock on the foreign circuit? Oh yeah and he’s another lawyer from Quebec and we still haven’t had enough of lawyers from other provinces yet. I would vote for Pablo of the Backyardigans before I’d vote for Stephan Dion.

Stephen Harper: The Conservatives on the whole haven’t pissed a lot of people off and that’s probably why they’re going to win; now and then some idiot says something anti-gay, anti-father of killed war vet but for the most part their political policies didn’t bring down the Canada we’ve learned to tolerate. But Stephen Harper kind of scares me. There’s just something about those beady eyes and that grin that makes me think that I’m looking into the eyes of a soulless vessel – that if we gave Harper his majority he’d channel Cthulu and Canada would go right down the tubes.

Elizabeth May: I wasn’t going to put her in the blog but her people called and complained. What is this chick doing? This is the leader of a two bit party that all of a sudden has found herself on the public stage and she’s using her 15 minutes to make herself look like an idiot – or maybe showing people she actually is one, I don’t know and could barely care. This morning I heard a clip that she admitted she’s not going to be the Prime Minister but why not waste your vote because a couple of Green’s in Ottawa can make a difference. I paraphrased that. The only way I’d vote for the Green Party is if Kermit the Frog was the leader.

The problem with politics and politicians in my eyes is this: the type of person that seeks power as a politician is not the type of person that should have it. Maybe people go into it with a desire to change but because the system is clogged down with so many people and interest groups who are used to being consulted and being paid to do nothing (wait, I already said consulted didn’t I?) that when a new person comes to town he or she can’t do anything because the other parties in the system won’t move.

I’m not telling you how to vote. I’m not telling you how I’m going to vote. I merely lament the lack of options.

A Brief Glimpse inside My Head

Lately I’ve been sick, not knocked down dragged out at Death’s Door kind of sick; I’ve just had a run of the mill cold. But from this cold I learned something, other than the fact that phlegm comes in interesting colors: my brain has at least three operating stages.

And here they are:

“Normal” stage: this stage is far from normal. When I’m healthy there’s so much going on in my head that I sometimes find it hard to concentrate. There’s always a buzz in the background and from that great buzz stuff comes out: a funny comment, a poem – frankly it can be anything. There’s a droning that’s always going on: maybe it’s the voices of the Many Man, the original inspiration for He Through Which All Voices Can Be Heard (htwavcbh  see it stands for something); maybe it’s the bingo roller of thought that gives me ideas for things or maybe a mosquito flew in my ear as a kid and has made his home there.

Low Power Operating Mode: In the initial stages of sickness I feel run down physically, mentally however the controlled flow of juice means that I actually understand most of thoughts that are cycling around my brain. I get only one idea at a time, which I can then focus on and complete, if I could harness this for work that wouldn’t be a bad thing from work’s point of view. Even now I can tell I’m starting to feel better and my mind is wandering even as I type th…. Oooo a butterfly!

FOG Stage: This is that stage where everything is distant. Acronyms and concepts I’ve worked with for years are too far away to grasp. My thoughts are the equivalent of the sigh of Droopy Dog. FOG Stage is fun, but it’s not safe for work.

Now that I’m back on the road to a healthy me I look forward to the normal chaos of thought, back to that party in the old brain pan!

A mathematical proof of why I think the thumb is a finger

There are some questions that man (and woman) have pondered throughout the ages: how many angels can dance on a pinhead, if a tree falls on a philosopher does anyone care, what is the sound of one hand clapping and will it activate the Clapper. But perhaps the most important of life's unanswered questions is: The Thumb; a finger or a ... well thumb.

I think I've solved it.

Today at work I made a joke to my boss about the middle finger, referring to that digit used to commit the act colloquially known as "flipping the bird" and the answer struck me.

If the thumb is not considered a finger then there are only four fingers on each hand (unless you're the guy that Inigo Montoya was looking for: a six fingered man (who by the way had five fingers and a thumb which is further evidence that my argument contains aqua) and at this very moment you're preparing to die). In a set of four numbers it is conceivably difficult to find out which finger would be classified as the middle.

If you assign a numeric value to each finger, for instance the pointer is 1, the index finger is 2, the ring finger is 3 and the pinkie finger is 4 you now have a set of numbers that looks like 1234. To find the middle in this set of numbers you add the middle two numbers and divide it to find the average - in this case 2.5.

Where does that leave us?

Now let us assume that the thumb is in fact a finger and we are left with an odd set of numbers. Keeping the same numerical arrangement as listed above, yet this time assigning the #5 to the thumb we have a set of numbers equaling: 12345. Where the set of numbers is odd, the middle digit (interesting how numbers are digits and fingers are digits; by saying middle digit I in fact again said middle finger) would be 3. Using our numerical assignations, 3 is on the index finger or "middle finger."

Here are some assumptions used in this mathematical proof:
1) The finger used to "flip the bird" is the longest finger on the average human hand.
2) The finger used to "flip the bird" is also known as the "middle" fingers.
3) Assuming the normal number of fingers on any given hand, in order for the "flipping" finger to be called the middle finger there should be 5 fingers on the hand.
4) The thumb is the 5th finger.
5) The thumb is A finger.

Math - its not just for arithmetip any more (arithmetip is the sub-branch of arithmetic used to find the exact amount of tip required to round your total bill to an even number).

Shredding Memories

One of the good things about moving is that it’s a time to go through all the useless dross you’ve collected over the years and throw that trash out. It doesn’t matter what it is, if I haven’t seen it in two years, it’s gone. As a corollary, in many respects I’m not given to nostalgia, and when it comes to junking crap I’m usually fairly ruthless, but last night proved to be an interesting walk down memory lane.

While going through one of the filing cabinets we acquired (which we stopped using after it got so full that we had to move on to the next one that got so full… rinse lather repeat…) I ran across much of the documentation from the first real job I had after moving to Vancouver and graduating university with my 2nd degree. Let me take you back to that mystical time:

It was the year 2000; mankind was in awe of its ability to weather the crisis that was known as Y2K but also slightly ashamed of the panic we ourselves had created over that same crisis. I stepped off the plane in April to meet my future wife and begin that university graduate’s nightmare: the job search. University is a wonderful place, but with the exception of a couple of programs (business, engineering) it doesn’t really do a whole lot to prepare you for a world in which you pay your own bills, make your own food, live your own life; to do all of which you need a job.

I was in a magical place (not Vancouver). It was a place where I had been transformed like an ugly duckling, wandering into the business department from my Arts background and coming out with my Masters in Business. It was the land of opportunity. My English degree was for fun, I joked, and the MBA was for practicality. In retrospect there were a couple of dark sides that at the time I was unaware of (which makes it like a triangle or something): virtually every graduate of every university seemed to have been given a free MBA on their way out the door (talk about dilution of currency) and that other looming giant on the horizon: the Student Loan.

But despite the darkness of the landscape, we were in a golden time. It was the era of the DOT COM; a magical era when the same conman that was selling you Uncle Bob’s Hair Removal and Growth Tonic the week before could sell you stock in his upcoming IPO on IEatShorts.com. Any fool with a computer could and did make a website, and any fool on Wall Street could and did tell you it was worth something. And with that stage set, I landed at Stockscape.

Stockscape, on the surface, was a financial news web site. We offered our own take on the news stories, real time stock quotes so you could see how your stock of newfiehitmen.com was doing, and newsletters which gave fairly questionable investing advice. Oh, and we did “email blasts” (think spam).

Situated at the corner of Howe and Cordova, the Stockscape building was likely to be the first casualty of an earthquake. But we were tech. We were downtown. Maybe it was that high priced rent that killed us.

The company, I later discovered, was a converted mining operation (frankly it went from mineral mining to data mining) and some of the executive, unfortunately, came over from that very business. Our COO, in fact, was a 73 year old chemical engineer who believed that a website’s table of contents belonged on the right side of the page because most people were right handed. Maybe it was the lack of youth in the executive that killed us.

I was hired as a writer to cover the Canadian markets by James, one of the more intelligent people I’ve ever met, and he was a man with a vision. His integrity forced him to lay the Monty Python “Spam!” skit whenever he sent out one of our vaunted “email blasts.” He struggled for months to bring about his vision of what our content department should be; he butted heads with the programmers, with the executives, and the sales teams but in the end he left the company in frustration. Perhaps it was his leaving that killed us.

The atmosphere of the company was great. A fair number of cynical people in one spot (which is the actual definition of dot com), with as much fodder as could be imagined in the form of management. Young people with heightened metabolisms working next to a McDonalds. The guy in the corner who said “IT Sucks!” all the time whether it did or not. The Croatian Programmer. The Asian IT guy who spoke no words of English with the unfortunate name of Hong (after his hiring all subsequent IT problems were referred to as “Hong Ups”). The teenagers working at the company whom we strongly suspected of being underage (but didn’t care because they knew what they were doing). All of this contributed to an atmosphere that was really and truly awesome.

The content department was also fairly typical in its array of characters. After James’ departure the content department was taken over by yours truly. With growing confidence as a writer and a freehand to scribe whatever I wanted, I was merely lucky the low readership kept us from being sued. The IPO writer who we were sure jabbed the full time market writer in the eye to take over his spot, and proceeded to write better than the temperamental Frenchman ever could. The Temperamental Frenchman who’s greatest claim to fame was having once been in a bar brawl with Russell Crowe. The talented freelancer whom we had to let go; the talented freelancer whom we convinced to work full time and then had to let go. All of these people came together to form a unit on the verge of success before the plug was pulled by that mysterious clock and dagger group called the Shareholder. As the Content Manager I had to let each and everyone of those people go as our financial situation worsened and that well and truly sucked.

Generally we could tell how the company was doing by the pomp and circumstance of the company meals. Christmas that first year was celebrated at Hy’s Steakhouse – delicious, delectable and an open bar. Summer of the following year was Joe Fortes, another of Vancouver’s trendy eateries. After that the situation got grimmer. When company lunch turned out to be order in pizza we all got the sense that there was a hole in the ship somewhere and then it got to the point where the company lunch turned out to be coffee break.

At the end the company was bought out with the hopes of flipping it. I was kept around to write articles and a 17 year old was kept around to make sure those articles stayed on this bucking bronco that was the Internet. Readership went up, but the final straw in my career with Stockscape was when I politely refused to endorse companies who’s primary function was to loot the stock portfolio of 86 year olds.

One week my contract was not renewed.

From there I went on to two years of multiple part time jobs until finally landing in the job I currently despise. Now there are a bunch of pay stubs, some letters of intent, some useless stock options in a box that’s about to go to the shredder. Theses are my physical reminders of those times. I have other reminders though. The IPO writer and I turned into fairly good friends, verging on arch-nemesis, and through him I met Fist, I met John and Roc and a goodly number of others who are damn fine people.

And that is the true legacy of Stockscape.

Why Maple Leaf Has Nothing To Worry About…

… at least from me.

While on my way home from doing some tech work yesterday I stopped at ye olde grocery store to pick up some of the ingredients required for the evening victuals. I cased the store for the required materials, including the marinara sauce which turned out to be a chore equivalent of an Herculean labour, and while doing so, my eye happened upon something I ate a lot of as a kid growing up on the Rock:

The Vienna Sausage (mmmmmmm sausage).

If you’re not familiar with the Vienna Sausage phenomenon let me explain it to you. Seven wee sausages that have been sitting in a small tin can, in their own juice like substance, since who knows when – they’re only about 2 to 2.4 inches long but that small size is crammed chock full of taste.

Oh yeah, and they’re made by Maple Leaf. You know the guys with the big listeriosis thing on the go right now? 16 people dead, nationwide panic and here’s me wandering through the aisles of the local grocery store drooling mindlessly: “Mmmmmm sausage.”

I try to keep up on public events, but I try not to let panic and fear rule my life. This was not one of those times when I thought through the situation and said to myself: “Corey (I call myself Corey but it is not my true name for you to summon with), after due consideration I believe we can ingest this product safely.” This was a clear cold-cut case of: “Mmmmmmm Sausage.”

If you’re wondering I checked the full recall list of Maple Leaf products and this one wasn’t on there. But now I'm wondering if all those discount meats I bought out of the trunk of that guy’s car are a problem…. “Mmmmm cheap bacon.”

A Multitude of Verisimilitude

Why a Cop’s Life Can Sometimes Suck: Now sure there are bad cops out there – if you believe the movies, every cop is bad or if they’re not they’re after a bad cop – but on the whole I’m a cop supporter. This morning we’re on the freeway driving in and there’s a huge parking stall in the non HOV lanes (love my HOV lane). I get to work and one of the local radio traffic mavens says that the line up is due to an HOV lane check and sarcastically says “Thanks a lot guys” talking to the cops.

I take issue with that.

The cops are doing their job. It is after all ILLEGAL to drive in the HOV lane without the required number of bodies in the seats. But it’s causing an inconvenience (but not to me cause I’m LEGAL IN THE HOV wheeeeee (okay that has to be turned into a song, see below)) so the cops should ignore it.

So a cop can’t check for proper HOV usage without getting flack. A cop can’t arrest a marijuana grower without getting flack (who will then be out on the street in a matter of hours anyway). A cop cannot do anything in this day and age without a high profile investigation of whether or not a criminal’s right has been violated.

In the past couple of years there have been a couple of very high profile mistakes made by the cops, and they were then handled even worse. But I still have faith in the people who go out there and try and enforce the laws set down by the government (granted the same government that then lets those same criminals go with a stern talking to). I wouldn’t want to be on the streets seeing the things they see, dealing with the crap they deal with.

So if any cop reads this – thanks for taking all the shit for me.

Memory: I was going to write an article about who forgetful I’m becoming, but I can’t remember the times I was forgetful.

Football: NFL Football, the only sport I can stand to watch, is back on TV. More time to hang with my boy and watch the games. Though if I’m going to indoctrinate him into my $85 million shoe endorsement deal I need to start watching basketball *shudder*. At least the last two minutes of the game anyway. Shut up evil dingo – its time to put all those times you were stuffed in the locker behind you.

LEGAL IN THE HOV
(Think fast, with a lot of exuberantly played piano)

I’m legal in the HOV
I’m legal in the HOV
I got me gal, she wants to ride with me
I’m legal in the HOV

I’m legal in the HOV
I’m legal in the HOV
It only needs two and that’s you and me
We’re legal in the HOV.

You’re not legal in the HOV
You’re not legal in the HOV
You’re morally corrupt and all can see
You’re not legal in the HOV

I’m legal in the HOV
Woohoo! I’m legal in the HOV
I‘m going fast to where I need to be
Cause I’m legal in the HOV!

Lines on the Earth

So the big push at the office today is subdivisions. “Get’em done” is the word that has come down from on high, so the other worker bees and I drone on.

But while I’m processing the value effect (or non-effect) of who did what to Lot A, Block B, Part C, DL D, PLAN E PID F in the required drone like fashion, I wonder: What right do we have to place these imaginary lines on the earth?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hugging a tree, weeping for Mother Earth while praying to the goddess with my mouth full of granola while I type this. But here we are carving up imaginary chunks of the very earth we walk on in our self important fashion, as if it mattered in the grand scheme of things.

But think about this: if a tornado were to land right now, and let’s all hope it doesn’t, it wouldn’t stick to Lot A, Block B, Part C, DL D, PLAN E PID F – in fact it would put parts of Lot A, Block B, Part C, DL D, PLAN E PID F right on top of Lot G, Block H, Part I, DL J, PLAN K PID L. Those tornadoes, and weather phenomenon in general, have absolutely no respect for the laws laid down by humanity.

Our society, all societies seemingly, are about ownership (and don’t get me wrong, I’m trying to sell my house to buy another house like a good little capitalist). I own this. You own that. I will trade this for that. It’s what keeps us busy so that we don’t turn our full attention as a species to destroying each other. Most days I’m happy to work the system – frankly I like stuff – but today, and its these bloody subdivision, my mind is doing one of its rare deeper looks at something I deal with everyday.

When God told us to be stewards of the earth (I used to think it was Stuart’s of the earth, so I was always jealous of guy’s named Stuart) I’m pretty sure He didn’t mean to go forth and carve the earth up in to parcels and lots, and bequeath unto the father his parcel, and unto the son his lot, and at the end of the day all of the earth shall be as one cell in the body of the Kingdom of Man on earth. But then again, who knows? Maybe He did.

Maybe lots of land are like people, individually they mean one thing, but put in a group or crowd they become less but again something more. Maybe the earth weeps when Doreen over at the land title office processes another subdivision because we have taken another piece for our own devices. Maybe land likes feeling useful and needed! Maybe I’m full of shit. Okay, no maybe on that one.

Okay at the heart of it, this is a semi-eloquent dissertation on why I don’t really feel like doing subdivisions. I might as well get to work and start following the mandate delivered from on high:

Go Forth and Subdivide.

The Three Pains of Softball

Like all young men, I had an oracle present at my birth and these were the words she spoke on that miraculous occasion:

Lo, beware this one
Whenever he is in the prensence of the ball
That is soft but is not a soft ball
He shall endure the three hurts.
Hurt the first shall be on his arm
Enough for pain, no lasting harm;
Hurt the second will be on his knee
Hey I just tell it, don't glare at me,
Thirdly when he plays softball
And wears upon him no screen at all
A lesson will he up and learn
In the form of dire sun burn.

And sure enough the oracle was right.

I took a fly ball on the forearm. It was hit hard enough that you can see the imprint of the laces around the bruising. I think I'll live though.

I took a stumble going into first base and did a fantastical sprawl leaving much of my knee and not a little of my chains lying in the dirt. I think I'll live though.

When my wife asked me: "do you need sunscreen?" and I replied: "Nah, I think I'm good" it turns out I wasn't good and got burnt. I'm farily certain I'll live though.

The oracle didn't say anything about soreness though.

Useless Oracle...

Use Your Head-Line

I was surfing the web this morning before work starts for something that would catch my eye. Something worth talking about. There's not a whole lot out there I feel inclined to talk about at 7:23 in the morning. But I did find one thing that struck me as funny, not funny haha, not funny peculiar, but funny sad.

The article, New York trucker accused of license plate disappear ruse isn't all that special. It's just a story about some guy in New York who'd rigged his license plate to flip under his truck so that the cameras couldn't see it and he could beat the toll. I leave whether or not he actually did it to the courts to decide.

But in the court of entertainment, I am my own judge.

New York trucker accused of license plate disappear ruse... what kind of a stupid headline is that?

I mean yes it fulfills the duty of a headline in that it sort of tells you what the article is about, but the only reason I clicked on it was try and figure out what the article was trying to say. It's like they threw article related words into the Bingo hopper and that's what came out.

Here's some alternate headlines they could have chosen:

1) Truck Driver takes Licence with toll fare
2) Truck Driver engaged in Un-Fare Behavior
3) New York Driving Authority cuts Cable on Truck Driver
4) New York Truck Driver rigs Rig

Those are just a few headlines I came up with in 3 minutes. They're not the best headlines in the world, but I venture they're better than "New York trucker accused of license plate disappear ruse" and I haven't even finished my first coffee yet.

Put some effort into it news people or there'll be a new headline and it will read: "People not read newspaper it not doing good"

The Pelican's Briefs

Some shorts this morning:

Traffic: Well September is here and with back to school comes back to school traffic. And with back to school traffic comes back to school traffic idiots. A short shout out to say welcome back to the following:

Angry Mini-Van Driver: this fellow always wanted to be driving his Iroc (Iroc-4-Life!) but an unplanned 12 seconds in the backseat of said iroc lead to a quick marriage and a kid. Now he's driving a mini-van and he's angry with fate for the hand he has been dealt. He cuts off other drivers (to symbolize the castration of his freedom), he swerves in and out of lanes (symbolic of his switching of roles from parent self to child self) and he shows his free wheeling attitude by well... freewheeling. His mini-van handles like an iroc. But it is not his Iroc. Weep for the iroc man.

The I'm Doing Okay Guy: This is the guy who gets in the fast lane, the one that's been moving at a good pace, and thinks "I'm Doing Okay! I don't need to go any faster!" This is the guy that drives the speed limit and no faster. Oh sure, he may venture 5K over on a straight stretch, but when that curve comes you gotta go slow - because slow and steady gets you there later.

The Make-up, Cellphone Coffee Chick: Didn't have time to do all this before leaving, the MCC chick has all this spare time in the car to take care of the essentials. Sure the lipstick is a little smeared from going around a curve, and sure her new dress is covered with coffee stains but she makes it to work because of her awesome time management skills. But one question? Who in the hairy frell are you calling at 6:34 in the morning?

But anyway, welcome back to all of you. I've missed you. But only because I've been paying attention.

Computers: I have been spending an inordinate amount of time in front of computers these days and its seriously impacting my World of Warcraft time, which I ironically would be playing on a computer. I've been working a lot of hours in the computer lab for the school where I do some part time work and that combined with the desk job that occupies most of my time equals sore wrists and tired eyes. So when it comes 8:30pm and I'd normally log on? Not so much. Computers are wonderful things - but you can only take so much. I don't want less computer time, just a little alteration with what I'm doing on the computer.

Bad Memory and a Long Walk: So listening to the radio this morning there's a "news" story about how a brisk walk can do almost as much to help memory problems as drugs. It makes sense in away: when you're out walking you've got the time to think and you can walk your way to what you were trying to remember - plus I'm sure there's all sorts of hormonal things that go on when you walk. But the story also said the walk did as much as Alzheimer medication to bring back memory function - so here's the question? Would you want someone who's memory is that bad going for a walk? What if they don't remember to come back? Seriously though, it would be great if true - prescription drugs are great but side effects suck (despite the fact that you can scratch your back with that third arm that grew from taking that Tricocilimborex for your sinuses).

As my boy would say: dereygo (or "There you go" in adultspek).

A Clear and Pheasant Danger

http://current.com/items/89182301_killer_birds_to_save_moscow

The mind of mankind astounds me.

If you don’t have the time or the inclination to look at the article above, it’s essentially a story about Russian ornithologists who are breeding killer birds to take care of Moscow’s pigeon population.

Sounds innocent enough… unless of course the idea of someone breeding “killer birds” scares you.

A couple of years ago I remember reading an article which said that scientists had dug up the graves of people who had died in the influenza epidemic of the early 1900s. They wanted to study the DNA strain of the bacteria so they said. To help study and eradicate it, so they said. It still sounds like a bad idea to me.

Now they’re breeding killer birds. (Tangent: I just wrote breading killer birds hehehe… mmmm breaded killer birds. Tangent Resolved).

Over the years our literature, and now our film, has inundated us with several campy warnings of the problems that can occur when meddling with science and nature. The Frogs, Night of the Lepus, virtually any zombie movie, Phase IV and oh so many more of this type of movie aren’t just cinematic gems (or aren’t even cinematic gems in most cases) they’re clear warnings of the dangers of forcing our limited intellect on the surroundings we live in.

For millennia, mankind has been working with an “Okay let’s try this” attitude. One day we’re going to try something that will finish us off completely. It’s probably some noble feature of our species that we have to strive for the unreachable, know the unknowable, do the undoable and so on and so forth; but it’s only noble if it doesn’t wipe us out completely. If it does, it will turn out that it was just old fashion human stupidity.

Don’t get me wrong. I have benefited from all of the advances made by scientists and will continue to do so.

But I think from now on I’ll just keep my birdshot handy.

Old Poems

This is all the stuff I wrote over on the old Blogetry site to which I can no longer remember the password. Just putting all this stuff together in no particular order.

*****
Poxes Upon Inappropriately Named Items v.2

A Pox Upon A Sandwich Make

Mmmmmmm Open faced club sandwich. Awhhhhwhwhwh!

--Homer Simpson

Could there be a bigger faker

Than that which we call the sandwich maker?

I’ve never seen it make a sandwich

Neither sloppy joe (or that crappy Manwich).

Since a kid, I’ve grown much wiser;

This thing will not make a Kaiser!

And Heav’n forbid you even try

To make yourself a batch of rye.

Now I know you’re thinking you’ve caught me dead

That what I’m talking about is baking bread;

That’s my first proof, what does it take

To prove this machine cannot bake.

Now I have established it doesn’t bake bread,

I hope I’m not filling you up with dread.

Rain’s what I bring, no better weather,

For now I will prove it doesn’t put food together.

Think about the ingredients lying in the fridge,

You’ve never seen the machine create fresh sandwich.

If you depend upon it, you’ve quite the wait

For a Sandwich maker, it cannot create.

So what does it do? I’m sure you ask

What’s the purpose of it? What’s its task?

A sandwich maker, if I might be so rude,

Is merely there to cook the food.

With human hands we bake the bread,

From the ideas in our hand.

A sandwich maker merely took it

And in a short while proceeded to cook it.

So there you go, another misnomer

(Accompanied by a quote from Homer);

Less aptly named than the salt shaker

We call pox on thee: sandwich maker!

****
March 21

The Ode to the Tear Line

Ahhhh! My pudding is trapped forever!

-- Homer Simpson

A sign that’s there for all to see

That tells you how something should be

Reduces both confusion and fear:

This one says clearly “Tear Here”

Oh dotted line, thank you so!

For letting one such as I know

In iconology loud and clear

That all I need to do is: “Tear Here!”

How long I sat and cried

Over this fruit pack that had been dried;

To get inside, the price was dear!

I saw no sign that said “Tear Here.”

“Alas!” I cried and then: “Forsooth!”

And got drunk on gin and vermouth.

What use in purchasing dried pear

If there were no sign saying “Tear Here”

As I lay in my drunken stupor

I saw then the sign that was super;

And proceeded further with joy so sheer

And did what I was told, I tore there.

Finally into the package I descended

My pangs of hunger they were upended;

From that moment on my path was clear

After seeing the sign that said “Tear Here”.

So an ode to thee, dotted line,

To let thee know I think thee fine;

And let’s all give a great big cheer

For that line that says to us: “Tear Here!”

*****

March 20

The Curse of the Red Dishwashing Soap

“Madge, I soaked in it!”

-- Ad slogan

Mwahahahahaha

-- Some evil person

What madman made thee none can say.

What fell hand created thee on that fated day?

No sane person, that at least is my hope,

Could have created the red dishwasing soap.

Conscious without Conscience

Alive without heart

Would we survive such fell art?

I walked into the kitchen this afternoon

With an empty dish, a fork and spoon;

The utensils in the dishwasher were placed

And next I uttered a girlish scream, much to my disgrace.

Emotion, but not feeling,

Cruel in stature,

No category for its nomenclature.

There on the counter it stood,

As stoic and silent as a piece of wood;

It looked as if some creature had weakly bled

For the dishwashing soap was… it was red.

Is it the blood of some old demon

That has been diluted?

Or something much more convoluted?

It assaulted my soul like some spiritual shiv

And put the pall in Palmolive;

Dishwashing soap should not come in that hue;

They must needs come in green or blue!

Yes it is still a primary colour;

Yet the other two denote a friend

While this one merely denotes the end… of life.

“But what about the curse?” you ask.

The curse comes as you complete your task,

You but need to look at the dish to see what I mean,

For though you scrub and scrub it comes not clean!

Is this some ironic Greek hell?

Like Midas and his touch of cold?

It’s sends shivers down my soul!

It turns the tastiest morsel to dross

And makes it so you need to floss!

Each bit of food by this red stuff coated

Swells right up and becomes bloated.

Some hope there must be,

Some savior out of time

To dismiss this horrible reddish slime!

So the next time as you walk down the aisle

Of your grocery store wearing a smile

Think upon this moment, as I barely cope

With the curse of the Red Dishwashing soap!
Never again can I do this,

I cannot fulfill your wish

Because of this I can never, ever clean another dish!

****

March 19

Poxes Upon Inappropriately Named Items

Part the First: A Pox Upon A Waffle "Iron"

At first I thought I'd struck the mother lode

When I praised this item once in ode;

But walk with me, follow its plunging stocks

For now I throw at the waffle iron a pox.

Think about it, take a moment,

Resent is what I'm trying to foment;

The purpose of an iron is to flatten out

Something a waffle iron doesn't do. No doubt

About the way it works, it rivets

My attention by crushing pancakes with divots;

Before we can hear the crushed cake whimper

We'd best start calling it a pancake crimper.

The irony in this case is delicious

The intent I'm sure on someone's part malicious;

I know pleasure to some madman it brings

To go around inappropriately naming things.

I will act as police, hear my first siren

I call down pox upon the waffle iron

My passion for correctness has been enflamed

A pox upon that which has been inappropriately named!

****

March 15

The Elephants of Surprise or The Teddy Bear’s Massacre

How do you know an elephant's been in your fridge?

It's footprints are found in the butter.

-- Children's joke.

If you go out in the woods today you're sure of a big surprise

If you go out in the woods today you won't believe your eyes;

For every bear that ever there was

Is lying there dead just because:

Today was the day the elephants crashed their picnic.

The last thing they saw was ebony

As they were gored by ivory;

One moment, one another they were fluffing

Til the great beasts came and gored them to their stuffing.

Tusks gored and tusks thrashed

Too much detail already rehashed

Today was the day the elephants crashed the picnic.

If you're a bear in the woods today you'd better not be alone

Because elephants are somewhere out there waiting to crush your bones;

For every bear that ever there as

Will be ground to dust just because:

Today was the day the elephants crashed their picnic.

Who knows what misplaced rage

Caused that dark and bloody stage?

Who could predict that rage would be freed

And cause such a horrible stuffing stampede?

One of the worst beaten up 'hoods

Just happened to be 100 acre woods

For today was the day the Elephants crashed their picnic.

Every teddy bear that's been good doesn't matter today

The Valkryes of Fallen Bears will come to take them away;

Beneath the trees where nobody sees

The Elephants brought them low to their knees

Today was the day the elephants crashed their picnic.

***

March 14

Transcend Ant: The Ant Who Would Be More

Just another cog in the wheel I am,

A drone, who they think does not feel;

But feel I do and strongly too -

Yet now is not the time to yet reveal.

Often have I toiled this way

In silence I have worked with reason;

Striving to improve, other to approve

And I have worked season after season.

Gifted with the strength of ten

I lift and bring to my colony this food;

I am not the best, I don’t always get the jest

But much good in life I have accrued.

Through fire and flood I have lived

Through both I have persevered

Yet I have never seen the visage of my queen

The one I have so long revered.

I could not say when these thoughts began

When I began to think outside my being.

One day the light came on, and it has never gone,

Affecting all the world and how I’m seeing.

Each day is harder, more difficult

I am a little wearier than the day before;

But perhaps I will recover before they do discover

That I am not the same, I’m something more.

One day I will strike out

Go it on in this world alone;

Much to my disgrace, this is not my place

Outside of my shell, I have grown.

Therefore, I will stay here

But I feel I will not make the year;

I will take this path with no fear of wrath

I see it now my way is clear.

So down the road I travel

Leaving with my hopes and a song;

One sad note, to keep afloat

The others will not even know I’m gone.

Small or little, hopes are the same,

Striving to be more, and never laying down.

All this keep in mind, life would often leave us blind

Rise above it all, stand your ground.

***

March 13

A Pox Upon .... Um.... Er..... Indecisiveness.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...

-----"The Road Not Taken" Robert Frost

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

----"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" TS Eliot

I could not think of what to write;

I was up all day and up all night

Pondering upon all these ponderings.

As day turned into passing day

No subject came around my way

For I was lost in empty maunderings.

Here! A topic! Alas! It sucks!

Another comes! It's gone! Aww shucks!

My brain danced around like some drunken dancer

Stumbling from one place to another,

Tripping over one thing and then another.

Alas! I wish I could find some answer!

Will I go left or right,

What shall I eat tonight?

What's my favorite candy bar?

I wrote this poem once, then made revision

A monumental testament to indecision;

But for the course that just happens to be par.

So I call down pox upon my lack of voice;

The one that inhibits my making choice

Between that which has offered. I impress

Upon you all the importance of choosing;

For in not using it you are surely losing.

So join my Pox Upon Indecisiveness!

***

March 12

Requiem For A Troll Under A Bridge

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
--"Ulysses" Alfred Lloyd Tennyson

I was a creature of legend, in legend born,
Feared around the countryside, my strength
Was as the strength of an honest man;
Now I am but a victim of modern day scorn,
This fate will come to you all at length,
For inevitably this is the fate of man.

Who's that.... whoooooom

I was the one who watched, the waiter,
The Guardian of the passages over and under;
Crossing over from one place to another
Could not be done; but now, in this later
Day I am a victim of Fate's blunder,
I am a shadow of myself and my brother.

Who.... whoooooom

Yes I crouched in my accursed hole
Waiting for one to come, and yes perhaps
I ate him if he could not best me fairly.
Yes I spent my days knowing my soul
Was safe should my abode collapse;
Fate deals with such as I most squarely.

Who's that trip, trap.... whoooooom!

Now I have been left by time far behind;
My brethren have slunk away and lost
Yet I remain, holding the passage still;
One day I will be awarded peace of mind,
But these days I ponder the cost,
For with age my bones have taken chill.

Who's that trip...... WHOOOOOM!

Bah! This day I will draw to a close;
Soon I will leave this place and join
My brothers standing on that farther ridge;
But not before I utter these words Fate chose
For me, the very words I long ago did coin:
Who's that trip, trap, trapping UPON MY BRIDGE!!!!

***

March 10

A Pox Upon a Runny Nose

I could sit down and do this in prose

But would not properly curse a runny nose

Without the degree of rhyme required;

I wished this subject to evade,

But I could make some phlegmonade

If only I wasn't so damn tired.

Also it's become an issue,

The alarming rate that I use tissue

Is causing tree huggers to protest at my door.

I wish those people I could appease

But instead I greet them with a sneeze,

While claims of germ warfare from them pour.

But trust me if could relieve,

I would not wipe my nose upon my sleeve,

Til then, if I might be so bold.

Do not judge me, I am a gem,

Just one buried deep in phlegm.

Why is there no cure for this common cold?

Not only do these germs make me ill,

Of them I have had my fill,

I do not feel at all here rightly groovy.

To prove then that germs are bad,

Here's a fact that will make you sad:

They saved Tom Cruise's ass in that stupid movie.

A cure, that is what I am seeking,

As I sit here with my poor nose leaking,

I'm sure someone out there finds this funny.

I've emptied out my tissue box,

I've wiped my nose on both my socks,

Yet the damned thing is still so runny!

Now I must conclude this poem,

Scientists have come and I must show'em

That the phlegm leaks and never slows.

And for my final trick

I will sneeze and make all of you sick!

And a Pox upon this runny nose!

***

Bill Against the Demon of Snacks

He stalks in silence, like the night

Hunger, constantly

Gnawing at my belly.

No succor for me.

You are not safe, not day or night,

Assailed by Hunger,

I crave sweet sustenance,

Something to fill me.

Wake you will to find you're craving

Strength enough in me

I resist this temptation;

How long can I last?

Soon this hunger makes you raving.

The eyes of the demon are large and wide,

The hunger he brings endless like the tide;

Nothing to sate him, when he finds his hold

Soon you must give in, or live in the cold.

Strength, there is and more, inside

Enough to keep the demon from my side;

For now the demon has been halted,

I crave nothing that has been salted

Or sweetened; these things I can resist

But I fear he will return, and gets not my gist.

The eyes of the demon are unbelieving,

This is not an end but a slight relieving;

Another day he will renew his attack

For he is a demon, the Demon of Snack.

The peace I feel is but a respite

Rest now, while I can,

Hunger even now assails,

Hold fast and hold on.

Just a small morsel would be alright.

Even now it comes,

Slinking back. Subtle hunger

Knocking at my door.

Back you demon, I will hold steady!

Supper, that's the key,

Tasty, regulated meal,

Holding hunger at bay.

Come again, and I will be ready!

***

March 08

A Pox Upon Day Light Savings Time

Or A Pox Upon The Thief of Hours

O! Lament ye one and all;

So far we find ourselves from fall

And now, such a dark and horrid thing

Comes to our clocks; for it is spring

And time springs ahead.

One hour of my life they borrow,

Withholding it all year to my sorrow;

I want it back with interest thief!

That hour would have brought much relief!

Now it brings restlessness instead.

In through the window comes the Thief of Hours;

Stealing time while the alarm clock cowers.

Out through the window he goes with my time

Yet I meekly, mildly accept his crime.

When I was young, certainly no charmer,

I blamed this loss upon the farmer.

"Who cares if Old MacDonald needs the light!"

I cried. "I wish upon his crops a blight!"

But it turns out I was wrong.

Now they tell us that to conserve power

They need to take from us an hour;

"We should not worry! Not at all!"

Says the MAN. "I"ll give it back to you in Fall"

Play it again Sam, play that song.

In through the window comes the Thief of Hours

Stealing time from me with his powers;

I thought to stay awake and theft

Yet I awoke again temporally bereft.

His hands are the hands of a grandfather clock;

He wears numerous watch bands instead of a sock.

His thoughts they are ticking like the passing of time

His eyes are like clocks, counting his crime.

Is there a bank somewhere that you store my time?

Does it gain interest from this temporal crime?

Who can draw upon the minutes accrued

Now that I have been temporally screwed?

These answers I hope to learn.

Take my hour then! Take it soon

Between rising of sun and setting of moon.

I will count the hours and the days

Until the reverse of this situation plays

For fear not, the hour will return.

Out the window goes the Thief of Hours;

Along the row of houses he scours

Stealing time, as time still beckons,

He gathers up lost minutes and seconds.

I know you thief, I know your face

It will take two seasons, but this time you'll replace.

In the seasons that brings the death of flowers
I will find you, Thief of Hours.

I will hunt you til then sly, sly fox.

Til I find you then, take this. My Pox.

***

March 07

A Pox Upon A Bunched Up Mattress Sheet

I counted sheep but couldn't sleep

As I lay there in my bed;

It was not dreams or silent screams

Running through my head.

In the sack my poor back

Was causing me much pain;

I tossed and turned, my lumbar burned

While I went insane.

It may be vanity, but my poor sanity

Hinges upon my sleeping well;

It's bad enough I'm not that tough

But to look like hell.

So late last night, to no delight

I found myself awake;

I'm sure I moaned, I know I groaned

So much I couldn't take.

What you ask? Was it some task

Left undone that kept me awake;

Nay I snort, nothing of the sort

Twas the pain I couldn't take.

For you see, what happened to me

(And this tale is almost complete)

The blankets bunched, my shoulders hunched

Because of the mattress sheet.

So tonight I'll do it right

The sleepless demon to defeat;

I'll fix that blanket, and never thank it,

And a Pox Upon A Bunched up Mattress Sheet.

****

March 06

The Saga Of Tuesday

And William, Son of Robert, brave warrior

Did wake to the sound of the chiming beast;

With a mighty punch from his fist

His swipe quelled that wrenching sound

And William, Son of Robert, did arise ere the sun

As Duncan, Son of William, Son of Robert did sleep

Safely in his bed, Carole, son of no one,

Daughter of her mother, did sleep as well

But bid her husband farewell in his daily trials.

With that William, Son of Robert, did leave the bedroom

Making his way downstairs aware of the questing beast;

The beast was called Litter Box and with mighty sweeps

Of his scoop William, son of Robert, noble warrior

Did cleanse, a minor version of a labor of Hercules;

Yet it was done.

Far away something brewed....

It was the coffee.

And Rhonda, son of no one,

Daughter of her mother, did come in her chariot;

And in the Corolla of Catastrophe, William,

Son of Robert, and Rhonda, Daughter of

Her Mother did make their way speedily to put

Out the fires of Trouble.

Voices spoke from far away...

They were on the radio.

William, son of Robert, did drive into the cave,

The Cave of Underground Parking, and there

Left his chariot behind to stand guard against

The Way Home. Without fear, William, Son of Robert,

Staunch warrior, did make his way deeper

Into the heart of the beast. Into a cave within a cave

William, son of Robert, did go

He stepped into a box, and it did lift him up...

It was the elevator.

William, Son of Robert, renowned warrior,

Did make his way to his home from home,

And removed he from his bag of holding

The Discs of Edibility. These he placed within

The Machine of Toasting, and garnering aqua vitae

From the Machine of Boiling, he made his chocolate hot

And bore his Discs of Edibility back unto his desk;

William, son of Robert, Son of William sat then at his desk

And did work that day.

And from the great web of the world

He did pull distant images unto his fingertips

And from out of paper and ink did cause these images to be.

And he conversed with those far away in an instant...

He used the phone.

William, son of Robert, did then go away from his watch post

Trusting that his staunch companions woul0d keep*

Away the Beast of Immediacy from him, til

He could come back. And he did take unto him

Sustenance. And they did call it lunch.

William, son of Robert, son of William, did then peer

With the eye of eagle site, over the reports called by some

The Statements of Expense and of Income;

And they spoke to him of a horrid place wherein

The Feet of all maintained where square;

Such Square feet! Our noble warrior plunged on.

And it turns out that some of the feet of the square people

On the floor called main belonged unto those in the cavernous basement.

William, son of Robert, Son of William did look forward

Also to seeing Duncan, son of William, Son of Robert, Son of William

And Carole, Son of No One.

Then went William, Son of Robert, once more to the chariot

Which awaited him in the bowels of his workplace;

Climbing in, he did ignite the fire and the beast roared forth

Emerging into the afternoon sun as like something which
Emerges from darkness into an afternoon sun.

Then was he reunited with Rhonda, son of No One,

And the trust steed bore them once more unto their home;

On the way William, Son of Robert, did read of a boy

Trapped in a cupboard under the stairs; thereby making

His own life and that of Rhonda, Son of No One, Seem better.

Then he got home.

Then he changed.

Then he changed Duncan, Son of William, Son of Robert, Son of William.

Then he fell down the stairs, holding Duncan.

Duncan is okay.

Then William, son of Robert, Son of William, did write this ghastly poem

Causing the Norse skalds of eld to roll over in their graves.

****

March 05

A Pox Upon Shook Und Book

There are ways to tell the real from fake

In such simple things as Shake'n' Bake;

Tis true you'll find, much to your shame

That there's an answer to: what's in a name?

"No name" the brand, and no name deserved;

Those that find they have been served

Will wonder at life's cruel turn

As their teeth crack and stomachs start to burn.

Twas but the other day when a cruel turn fate took

Whilst eating the fake Shake'n'bake called Shook Und Book

I noticed not, to my own chagrin,

A hardened clump and threw it in

My mouth only to find that the solid ball

Was not edible, not edible at all.

And lo and behold and alas and forsooth

Whilst biting down I broke my tooth.

The repair of that cost a pretty shilling

For it fractured not just a tooth but a filling;

And as I forked over cash to the dentist on that day

I cursed Shook Und Book all the not merry way.

So ware those of Scottish descent

Do not, in trying to save the last cent,

Believe that all products are the same;

As I hinted; there's something to the name.

For the quality control people do let things pass;

From hardened clumps to shards of glass (Conjecture)

The gods of taste they've already forsook
And called down a pox... a POX upon Shook und Book!

****

March 03

The Ode to Rain

The Itsy Bitsy Spider climbed up the water spout...

I feel as if I have walked this road before;

From the moment I stepped foot outside the door

My steps have lead my along this path;

I walk now, devoid of glee and wrath,

Feeling rich with laughter, yet poor

For I have walked this very road before.

Down came the rain, and washed the spider out...

I crouch here on this path and feel renewed;

The rain has come, and I would not be misconstrued,

For this rain is a cleansing, cleaning rain.

That is not to say that I have lived life in pain,

On every path I've taken I have eschewed

To be the best; to be something more than crude.

Out came the sun and dried up all the rain...

I have come along way down this same road,

Recognizing my friends the bat, the hare and toad;

Stopping a short while to exchange stories

Marveling in the rain and all its glories.

I feel refreshed with the seeds of friendship sewed;

Such is the joy that I have given and bestowed.

And the Itsy Bitsy Spider climbed up the spout again.

****

March 02

An Ode to a Waffle Iron

"I had a dark dream," so spoke Lord Byron

"That I found myself encased in iron.

I dreamt I was a crinkled piece of bread

With iron rivets making divots in my head.

Herein lay the dilemma for I was happy

All covered in syrup sort of flapjacky;

What wicked muse would have taunted me thus

That I dreamt of carbohydrate based sus -

tenance.

"Fine! So be it!" Stated awful Byron

"I dreamt again last night of waffle irons!"

I must pen this ere I forget;

I sate my appetites without fret.

"It toasts in beauty in the morn

Oh from heaven was this idea born!

Oh how I love thee, let me count the ways

With jam and preserves for all my days

I burst my pants!

He did proceed then to eat jawfuls

Of crispy toasted golden waffles;

He spent his life in gluttony awful

Engorging himself on toasted waffles;

His life was like quidditch without the Quaffle

But he noticed not as he ate his waffles.

It was the longing that drove Lord Byron

To create and write Ode to the Waffle Iron

His last, greatest romance.

****

March 01

A Pox Upon Germs

I woke up this morning singing the blues

For I felt like crap as I put on my shoes;

Inside my chest I know sickness squirms

And that's why I say a pox upon germs.

Too small to see with the naked eye

Strong enough to sicken one great big guy;

I now feel as bad as Eighties Perms

Look, so I say again a pox upon germs.

The phlegm is disgusting

My throat, it is rusting,

My energy level lower than worms.

I feel very strongly, a pox upon germs!

My lungs they are coated, coated I say

With a thick sticky phlegm that won't go away.

It's the kind of scum found at the lowest law firms

And hence I write my pox upon germs.

Smaller than I, yet so much stronger

I can't yet imagine what could be wrong(er)

Tis packed a punch like the mightiest of wyrms

And I can but reply with a pox upon germs.

But this pox comes too late to do any good

As my lungs are wheezy, my brain turned to wood.

For I'm sic as a sick guy, that you can see

And these germs have laid a pox upon me.

****

February 28

Introduction: Or an Ode Upon Blogging

I sat me down one day and thought

I should share these thoughts of mine;

For these thoughts to me have brought

Feelings fell and fine.

I sat me down one day to write

Some words of benediction;

But think I may and think I might,

I could write naught but fiction.

I sat me down one day to pen

A word or two of cheer;

I sat me down once again

But could write naught but fear.

And so I stopped and dropped the pen

And fled from the keyboard;

I kept my words inside again

And pretended all was above board.

And so I stopped and bid my muse

Farewell and adieu;

No words I dropped, this no ruse

My writing days were through.

And so I stopped, grew discontent

As days would pass me by;

I felt I had some things to vent

But my words still came up dry.

But here I am, back again,

Once more the muse to flog;

And now I'm in, this will begin

My first (but not last) Blog.