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Idle chatter in these parts often begins with “When I win the lottery, I will . . .” It is fun but people don’t really think it through. People who win the lottery quickly find that their winnings have a down side, for instance the rise in probability that bad people will want to get their hands on part or all of their money.

“Be careful what you wish for” seems so obvious, but requires first to know what we really, really, really, REALLY want. Today one of my wishes is likely to come true: I will be having a meal at Tokyo Express with my daughter Katharine. I love her with all my father’s heart, and I have the acute realization that life is finite, and special moments are numbered. I won’t be making a big deal about it, but today is more valuable than winning any lottery.

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While not yet afflicted with dementia

I do have my episodes

I have left home for work with mismatched shoes

One black semigloss anti slip work shoe

The other New Balance white pseudo leather trainers

And today I’ve left for work beltless for the 2nd day in a row

That’s Out of Uniform for a restaurant host and could get me written up

Though yesterday the manager regarded it as no big deal

 

At my work as a host at an airport restaurant I sometimes

(As when wiping down a table and knocking down a salt shaker with a BONK!)

Get embarrassed

And that may trigger full-body Tourette’s syndrome

And that, my friends, ain’t pretty

I may say “Thank you, sir” to a departing guest in the same manner Kevin Bacon said “Thank you, sir, may I have another?” in the classic college comedy ANIMAL HOUSE

And then I may mutter “Makin’ Bacon” under my breath

And realizing I’m muttering out loud I may get more embarrassed

And may inexplicably clap my hands to the sides of my buttocks

While my head jerks around like a velociraptor’s

Throw in a little eye-twitch and you’ve got Son of Quasimodo manning the restaurant podium at America’s Friendliest Airport

 

My niece Lisa, learning I’d become a restaurant host, and knowing I am an introvert, said, “Wow, I’ll bet that takes you out of your comfort zone . . .”

 

Indeed it does

I go out of my comfort zone and into a psychodrama

Title: “The Noodle”

Written by Franz Kafka

Directed by Mel Brooks

 

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I was talking about this just-written acrostic poem to my poet friend Victoria this morning. The word unmoor, I said, might not just mean take the rope or ropes off. It might also refer to making a swamp into an oasis.

Vic liked that but thought my readers could use a footnote or annotation or they might not get it. I said Nah, my readers are very smart–many smarter than I. They’ll get it.

Cacophony diminuendo

Heuristic’ly-arranged decor

A sport, e.g. a foot that’s se’en-toed

Oasis crisis heretofore

Solved elegantly. Swamped? Unmoor

 

 

A few months ago a woman asked me, “Are you churched?” I answered, with the unwelcome shame that my culture has imposed, “No, Ma’am, I am not.”

Nor am I mosqued, nor synagogued, nor tabernacled, nor shrined. But today I am Saved. I acknowledge that the best word that described Life-Now and Me-Here is Miracle.

Sal: salt. Vat: big container. Ion: superfluous electron. That’s Life.

Live long and happily, Friends!

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Desperation has many flavors. A child of 13 learns she has new, unwished-for life inside her. A band of brothers and sisters shuffles for the last time out of a factory that is closing. An energetic person with a head full of ideas and plans is told there will be at most six months to do something about them. A man is lonely for a woman who no longer exists.

There is another desperation, one that is needed. When with clear eyes we see the severity and the complexity of the world’s troubles the desperate truth cooperate or die comes to light. Co-operate: operate together in the common cause of survival.

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Do not weep in public
Even if your stomach
Screams agoraphobia
Plastic bags and cancer
Entered the arena
Racing with malefic
Alacrity of intent
The ownership of conscience
Eliminates the easy answer

Friends, the next post will be #900. I hope to make it extra special . . .

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Beef is silent. No more moos interfering with our sensoria. Tear it, grind it–no objection. Eat it in bread and the makings of salad.

That’s how we roll today and will tomorrow. Hearty appetites of the hoi polloi and their satisfaction alter the ethic to accept slaughter as nothing much.

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Long ago, Certified Public Accountant John A. Eck asked me if I knew what CPAs used for birth control. I didn’t. “Their personalities,” he said, grinning his leprechaun grin.

This year John did my taxes for what will be the last time, unless I get way above poverty-line income. He also put Artist in the OCCUPATION box on my returns, and included at my instruction $220.00 in income for which I gave no receipt–money I had earned in 2015 for my artwork. This bolsters my artist-identity a great deal, and I’m happy to thank John publicly for that.

 

Fatty, fatty, two-by-four,
Can’t get through the bathroom door.
Childhood taunt

 

I used that taunt more than once in my childhood. That is perhaps forgiveable. But well into adult life I made a cruel joke about a co-worker who had a wide and ample backside. “What’s the sound of [co-worker’s name] getting out of a bucket seat?” [Pause, then insert finger into mouth and make a popping noise pulling it out.] Shame on me.

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This post, then, is an oblique attempt at atonement. The illustration is a visual pun: a pair of scissors has been busy cutting remarks. The remarks are all fool-related. “There’s no fool like an old fool” is folk wisdom. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” is, according to STAR TREK’s Pavel Chekov, a Russian saying. “They are fools, who eat fugu. But those who do not eat fugu are also fools.” comes from Japan, and refers to a sushi of blowfish that, improperly prepared, will kill whosoever eats it.

The acrostic suffers from the need to put too much content into too few lines. Here are the words, un-acrosticized for better clarity:

cruelty verbalized can be a cancer
ugliness audible: dissing of grace
tap-dance on feelings then ho-hum the answer
sic transit gloria in mists of mace
whether or not we’ll exist to thank God
is anyone’s guess but i don’t like the odds

 

From here on in, I rag nobody.
Henry Wiggen in Mark Harris’s Bang the Drum Slowly

 

Plow a furrow through the skies

Land and taxi and eat linguini

And this marvel becomes humdrum

No more worthy of note than a good night’s sleep

Explorations turn to the metaphysical

And mere ballistics cannot compete

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Pour species has taken the tendency of electrons and the combustibility of certain substances to stratospheric heights, and most of us shrug . . .