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Though Nozzles, even in the senescent, are capable of dispensing two kinds of fluids, Gasoline and Diesel Fuel, our remarks will be confined to the dispensation of Gasoline.

Over decades, the hydraulic force involved in the dispensation of Gasoline tends to diminish. Where once there was fire-hose pressure allowing the flow of Gasoline to fill a tank quickly, there is now a variable somewhat dependent on the Gasoline supply but never of the power of yore. At its worst performance the  Nozzle yields its fill with great reluctance, sometimes requiring up to a minute or so even to begin. At the same time, the configuration of the nozzle tip has been altered through extended use and misuse to preclude an even, laminar flow. Indeed, the turbidity of the escaping Gasoline often results in what can only be described as semi-spray. This often results in the dispensing area, if not the Owner himself, smelling faintly, or not so faintly, of Gasoline.

Prevention of this nonhygienic outcome may be achieved in several ways. A funnel may be employed; the Nozzle may be brought closer to the tank via leaning or squatting; or the Owner may dispense his Gasoline in the back yard, if he has one.

The topic of Leakage, while of paramount importance, is beyond the scope of this discussion.

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

 

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with faultlines and slippage and cracks in the crust,
our toothscapes erode and degrade–for they must.

When Piestewa Peak was Squaw Peak, the footstrikes of thousands of hikers accelerated the erosion of the mountain, especially at the base. When this became a safety issue, concrete was poured over the eroded ground in certain places. It was analogous to a dentist putting fillings in a tooth.

My own toothscape includes gullies where four extracted wisdom teeth once resided, a years-in-the-making buildup of plaque that is disgustingly visible in the front lower teeth, and the shattering and/or calving of three broken teeth. My investment in tooth care has been restricted since 2006 to dental floss, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and toothpicks, incorporated into a rigorous schedule of personal oral hygiene. I don’t eat anything harder than a crisp apple, and  I must always chew carefully, and mostly on the right side.

“Get thee to a dentistry–go!” you say? “No thanks,” I reply. I know a good-souled woman whose tooth-investment since 2006 is in the tens of thousands of dollars, and issue after issue with her much-tinkered-with mouth has come up. And my long-suffering, breathtakingly-brave younger brother Brian has had not a tooth in his head for years.

I will see a dentist, probably within the year. But not now and not soon. My toothscape helps me take nothing for granted.

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i was the host at an airport restaurant
i sat her at the communal high-topped table
she must have watched me while she ate

there was one large man who didn’t want to wait to be seated
and there was a sneaky pete who wanted to eat his wendy’s at our table
and there were others in twos and threes and ones
all rushed all with a plane to catch soon

on her way out she transfixed me with her wise tired eyes
“you have the patience of job,” she said
“i want you to have this,” she said
“it isn’t much,” she said with regret
and she pressed three dollar bills into my hand

i told her truly that her words meant so much
while touching my heart through my sternum through my shirt
with three fingers as i said it

she brightsmiled and left

after i clocked out at 9:25
and walked and skytrained and escalatored to the lightrail station
and got on the lightrail at 9:58 or so
and off at montebello and 19th ave at 10:44
i walked north to northern and west to 31st
where there was a circle k

i bought two burritos for $2.22
and a 99-cent circle k water
and plain m&ms
(“dinner! drink! dessert!” coquelin as cyrano once declaimed)

took them to my apt
microwaved one of the burritos and ate it
washing it down with the circle k water
and then i ate one of the m&ms
a blue one

but i was not blue
an elegant, gracious lady had just bought me dinner

 

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Here is a 2010 outtake from a modeling session with Valley enchantress Crystal Cruz. I found it while searching in vain for the drawing “God’s Breakfast Table,” which I’d intended to enter in the Glendale 2016 annual juried show. It makes me nostalgic for the student Life Drawing days, but it also makes me happy and hopeful since I see many things I would do differently with this drawing–it could be so much better with patience and care.

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Friends, it is three years to the day since I began this picaresque blog. I have published somewhere north of 800 posts. Anyone caring to start at December 3, 2012 and go post by consecutive post to the present day would have a good idea of who I am, what I like to do, and what triumphs and tragedies have occurred in my recent life. But who has the time and inclination to do so? Here’s a quick way to go down your own private memory lane with these: Look at the posts that were written on your birthday. There will be at least one, but four at the very most. If your itch still isn’t scratched, go for other important anniversary dates in your life. If you get to a dozen posts without losing interest, please declare victory for both of us.

I have some loyal followers. I’m especially grateful to “The crazy bag lady” and Marlyn Exconde, who both live halfway round the world and are extraordinarily talented. But I am also quite grateful to the thousands of other readers, international and domestic, who’ve given irreplaceable time from their lives to view my blog. Many thanks!!

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In the Spring of 1973 I was full of myself, and full of beans as well. (Not much evolvement on either of those fronts has been made.) I was a student at Glendale Community College and my pal Evan Bishop was that year’s editor of its literary magazine, The Traveler. Evan let me inflict my then-meager illustrative talent on the magazine, and I can only hope that not many copies of that misbegotten edition are floating around still. But one drawing, an illustration for a poem about a melting snowman, did have a crude charm. The lady who wrote the poem was happy enough to say, “THAT’S my Snowman!” So I feel as though I achieved some modest success with illustration, even forty-odd years ago.

Today the phrase “snow globe” evoked memories of that snowman, so I brought him back.

What a tumultuous year it has been. Karen died. Betty K died. Denise and I broke up. I gave two weeks’ notice at work and then moved to Phoenix. Dorine died. Anne Meara died. B.B. King died. I lost about fifteen pounds. And Bruce is now Caitlyn.

But one bright spot is that I now have a genuine, just-like-high-school Steady Girlfriend. Her name is the title, and acrostic, of this sonnet. And here’s a shout-out to Judith Lynne Cameron, my Aunt Judy, who as long ago as March suggested I write Joy a poem. This is it!

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Joy Riner Taylor

Just asked this Glendale girl if she’d go Steady
O what a thrill ’twas when she answered Yes
You see, she’s fun as handfuls of confetti

Religious yet unjudging–I confess
I want to go to church with her, but fear it
Not due to Hellfire–rather to embarrassment
Ecclesiates ROCKS, and in its spirit
Religion’s nothing new–yet neither’s harassment

Thus courting Joy involves a change of scenery
And serendipitous improvisation
Young love will never see such ever-greenery
LUST is all well & good–still, mere sensation
Omits the richness found if spirits blend
Regard the beauty of this WONDROUS FRIEND.

Here is a two-hour drawing that demonstrates how pitifully inadequate two hours can be when attempting true-blue illustration. But mission accomplished: the artist learned more about the intricacies of the tenor saxophone. The next ones will be better.

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