It’s Not You–It’s Me

These excuses never worked, anyway.  The dogs didn’t eat my homework.  Check was in the mail.  I never received my bill.  It has been an extremely busy day, and I’ll leave it at that.


Sorry blog

I don’t know how

To break it to you

Words fail me right now

You’re not first on my priority list

Hope you don’t mind

It’s yard work

Washing the car

Cleaning inside of car

And only for today

Where does this

Leave you and me?

Same place as before

Time will tell

Hope you can see it

In your heart to forgive


From One Obsession To the Next

It was fun, hanging out with sleazy puns

Until the euphemisms and acronyms arrived

Got into scuffles with exclamation points

All the other punctuation marks joined in

Disgusted by the pugilistic spectacle

Nouns booked passages out of town

Conjunctions became dysfunctional

Abbreviations lost all their brevity

Puns, absolved of responsibilities

Went on gargantuan spending sprees

Prepositions copped nasty dispositions

Adjectives objected to all suggestions

Articles scattered like dust particles

Participles dangled–tripped in the aisles

To the accompaniment of awkward smiles

While verbs hung out with Pokémon nerds

Adverbs sucked up all remaining words

All hope for today, faded away




“Wake up Grimsley!”

“You’ve got some nerve–sleeping on the job.”

“Get some coffee, splash cold water on your face.  When you go home tonight, get some shuteye!  Get back to work.  Do I need to remind you that my son-in-law needs a job?”

Thank goodness I never worked for the stern Mr. Cavanaugh.  The person in the background found the scene amusing.  Perhaps, because Mr. Cavanaugh was preoccupied with someone else.


This is leading up to me taking a break for a few days.  Feel free to search through the archives.  Vacations lead to good story material.  I’m not as tired as Grimsley, but could use some time off.


It started last weekend-preparations for going on vacation.  I can’t find favorite shirts, underwear, socks because they’ve been packed away.  I have favorite articles of clothing–doesn’t everybody?

Then, I was viciously attacked by my wife’s shower sponge this morning.  Something moist and soft hit my left shoulder and dropped.  Has anyone ever been injured by one of those things?  Right away, I thought possible conspiracy.

The family buggy is back from its pre-travel check-up.  No surprises for a change.

“Hey neighbor–how are you this morning?” Greeted my cheerful neighbor from across the street.

“I’m fine.  Did you order this hot weather?”  I asked.  “No, I don’t like it either–I’m staying in the pool all day.”  I wasn’t fine, but didn’t want to bore her with my troubles.

I’d rather dance naked on an anthill, covered in syrup, than mow the yard in this hot weather.  That would give the neighbors something to talk about.  It has to be done.  And will need to be mowed again when I return.

My wife’s a planner.  I’m a “go with the flow” type guy.  That’s where the discomfort lies.  The journey begins the day after tomorrow.  This blog will be less active during the next week.  I’m hoping the change of scenery will inspire new stories.

Excuse me–my phone’s ringing.  “Hello–who is this?”

I don’t talk normally talk to telemarketers.  Something told me not to hang up.

“Who are you?  What are you selling?”  I asked.

“Philadelphia Insanity Insurance,”  Replied the disembodied voice.

“Hold on a minute.  Tell me more.  I just might be interested.”


Milt inked the New York Times daily crossword at the breakfast table.  A blue jay sounded an alarm call from the backyard,

Muffy, the Persian cat, suddenly leapt from his lap with a hiss and growl; dashed to the front window, upsetting Milt’s plate of waffles and syrup.  What the heck was up with that cat?

Milt, still in pajamas and slippers, looked out the front window to see Bob–the neighbor’s pointer, hiking his leg; urinating on the mailbox post.  There’s probably a big steaming pile of poop out there somewhere. 

Boy, that really steams my oysters.  I’m gonna’ tell Lee about this–give him a piece of my mind.   


detective 3

It was a foggy morning at the Hudson River Diner.  Sam and Jimmy stared out at street light halos; sipped cups of Joe until their nerves were jangled.  Jimmy’s newspaper lay on the table unopened and unread.

Over the years Sam mellowed.  He now wore glasses most of the time.  Warned of an impending myocardial event–Sam gave up unfiltered Camel cigarettes.  Shots of Irish whiskey, before bedtime, he refused to relinquish.  He’d just as soon be dead.

Jimmy’s boss, Sam, cradled his electronic cigarette between thumb and forefinger.  Sam ran a semi-successful private detective agency on the Lower East Side.  Smoke vapor curled from his lips to the ceiling like incense in a sacred temple.

Jimmy drummed his fingers on the Formica table top.  “What’s the scuttlebutt, Chief?” Jimmy asked.  “You’ve got something on your mind–might as well come out with it; rather than sit and stew about it all morning.”

A well-worn Yankees baseball cap with a curled bill perched on Jimmy’s head.  Jimmy lifted it for a brief moment, ran stubby fingers through thinning salt-and-pepper hair, waited for an answer.

“People keep coming up to me.  They’re getting pretty sore about their friends disappearing.  Right out of the blue–they’re gone and never heard from again.”  Sam’s forehead wrinkled in deep thought.  He stroked day-old chin whiskers, rested an elbow on the table.

“Why don’t they call the police?”  They could fill out a missing person’s report?”  Jimmy asked.  “That’s what happens on TV detective shows.”

“You’re right Jimmy.  On TV shows, there’s never enough evidence–they won’t do anything for 48 hours. By that time somebody’s dead; returned from the dead; kidnapped, or smuggled out of the country.  By the time a dead body shows up, it’s always too late.  The really sad part–life is even messier than that.”

“Come to think of it, Sam, I haven’t heard from Alvin lately.  He could, at least have said, so long or something.  I thought we were pals.  That’s not the way friends treat each other.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s been bumped off,” Sam answered.  “Maybe he’s going through a rough patch–doesn’t want to talk about it?  Maybe, and I hate to say it; he doesn’t want to be pestered by you?”

Sam was one of the last holdouts–carried a pager, (kept on vibrate), and a flip-phone, as concessions of the digital age.  Most of his clients did business in cash.  Sam knew there’d always be those that prized discretion.  

What he lacked in technical savvy, he made up for with toughness.  Jimmy handled technical issues; served as foil to Sam’s abrasive charm.    

“I know, Jimmy, and that’s what’s killing me; there’s got to be more to this story.  Didn’t Alvin write for one of those blog things on the world-wide web?”

“Yes, he did, along with myself, and a lot of other people.  We’re in the same group of blog writers–exchange ideas, opinions, stories, experiences,” Jimmy answered.

“Either someone doesn’t like what’s being said, or choices being made–regarding friends.  I don’t know about you, Jimmy–my friends are my business.”

Sam had never sent an e-mail in his life.  He was right.  People didn’t just disappear into the blogosphere.  Blogging platforms were controlled by people.  If this were a technical glitch; why did it happen to random people?

I was one of the unlucky ones–had my shorts in a bunch when a blog I’d been following (and liked) disappeared.  I blamed my own ineptitude.  From other accounts, I may have been another “victim” in the “Great Disappearing Blog Mystery.”  

Old-time detectives saw things in terms of black and white–wrong and right.  They helped the downtrodden stand up against the powerful–sometimes at great risk.  I see some of that same spirit of fair play practiced by some bloggers; that have been more vocal about this issue, than I.

Meanwhile–the story continued at the diner.

Sam adjusted his brown fedora, grabbed up the ticket, headed for the register.  “I got this one–you can get it next time,” He said to Jimmy.

“A little bit of truth goes a long way.”   Sam’s mantra and favorite saying.


DAILY PROMPT: FIVE A DAY–You’ve been exiled to a private island, and your captor will only supply you five foods–what do you pick?

There’s no pressure to write this–the prompt’s expired.  I find some responses to Daily Prompt questions baffling, anyway.  In particular, posts, with subject matter, completely off-topic.  Avoidance is so skillfully displayed–there isn’t the faintest resemblance.

Everything is subject to interpretation.  Perhaps, I’m incorrect in thinking Daily Prompts are only to further discussion; to help overcome writer’s block?  Daily Prompts are really spirited games of keep-away.  And, we should be challenged, as such: “Daily Prompts: Do your best to avoid talking about them.”

My shallow answer to the real question would be.  I like White Castle belly bombers, so I couldn’t do without them.  Oreos, dipped in cold milk, are to die for–they’re number two on my list.  Number three–freshly made tortilla chips, and to go along, home-made spicy salsa.

Some might say–I wasted choice, number four on chips.  Live with it.  I’m the one being held captive.  My fifth and final choice–smoked Gouda cheese.  It’s so good on crackers.  It’s delicious melted over juicy, thick, backyard grilled burgers.

My practical self would make far different choices.

  • Sunflower seeds:  to consume and to plant.
  • Sushi/shrimp: to eat and use for bait.
  • Rice Cakes:  to eat and use for insulation. Anybody that’s ever been on a diet, knows regular rice cakes are tasteless.
  • Peanut Butter: to eat and use for bait; to trap edible critters.  Survivors can’t afford to be squeamish.
  • Honey: for nutrition, and for medicinal properties.  Also for bait (see, previous answer).
  • Being practical is boring; doesn’t attract anyone’s attention.

    For those that thrive on bizarre, off-topic discussions–I offer leftovers, from a morning discussion with my spouse.

    “Honey, our neighbor, with all the clutter, now has two pit bulls in their backyard,” I commented.  She looked at me, rather puzzled, and responded.  “Why would they have two pickles in their backyard?”  Communication was such a
    wonderful thing.



Help yourself to the coffee and doughnuts.  Talk among yourselves, while I wait for inspiration.  It should happen any minute, now.  If you know any good tunes–you may share, or hum them if you don’t know the words.  Watch your step–as I step out of my comfort zone.

The first topic is about writing in the broadest sense.  Feel free to discuss writing successes, failures, struggles–writer’s block.

Songs, in particular, offer an unlimited playing field.  Song lyrics can be about anything–about advent of spring, the way a doorbell rings.  Case in point–country music.  Even if you’re not a fan–you’ll have to admit lyrics can be colorful.  “I Won’t Go Hunting With You Jake, But, I’ll Go Chasin’ Women.”  I remembered that one from childhood–eons ago.

Proper attire, is definitely, not my area of expertise, but, this caught my attention.  The state of Montana, recently, outlawed the wearing of yoga pants.  I’m not even sure what they are.  Will law enforcement officers, now, also be the “Fashion police?”  No wearing white after Labor Day?  No mixing stripes and plaids?  I can think of more egregious fashion errors.  Spandex, for example–there are quite a few people, wearing it, that shouldn’t be.

“Fifty Shades of Grey” seems to be the topic of the day.  I’ll not belabor the issue–except to say; I miss Joan Rivers.  Oh my–wouldn’t she have plenty to say?  It could go something like this.

“Honey–I’m not into the whole S-M thing; unless it’s me cracking the whip.  If hanging upside down, makes me sexier–I’m for it.”

Ozzy Osbourne, heavy metal front-man, was alleged to have bitten the heads off doves–and a bat.  He recently hired a pest control company to rid his domicile of bats.  There’s a bit of karma for you.  Maybe, he should be on the lookout for dove attacks?

OK–last call for coffee.  What did you think about all this?  I’ve got a busy Saturday planned.  Hope your weekend is a pleasant one.  We’ll have to do this again sometime.  Just coffee, we’ll talk–no big whoop.