Bob Dylan’s Still Got It

Bob Dylan

My friend

Is once again

Blowin’ in the wind

After all these years

Talkin’ bout people’s fears

Wond’ring ’bout governments

War, peace–too many cars

Potentates, cheshire cats

Politicians, stovepipe hats

Still asking the right questions

Choices drift like falling leaves

War, peace? Right or wrong?



Sweater Sensations

Not since Mr. Rogers, has there been so much hubbub about sweaters.

Of course, I’m speaking about Ken Bone, the heavy-set, bespectacled guy, with refreshing, relevant, thoughtful questions at the last Presidential Debate.

The red sweater, a last-minute wardrobe choice, is as much an internet sensation, as it’s wearer.

What a relief from a campaign, thus far riddled with insults, was Ken Bone.  Shouldn’t he be in the “Sweater Wearers Hall of Fame?”  …Along with other famous sweater wearers?


That Blowed Up Real Good

film-farm-report-john-candyIn the words of Billy Sol Hurok, from SCTV, played by the late, great, John Candy.

In so far as, things didn’t blow up as much in the good old days; mainly because there were no smart phones; nor were there hoverboards.  We had washing machines, but they weren’t prone to exploding.

Pinto cars had exploding gas tanks.  Corvairs were deemed unsafe by Ralph Nader.  A lot of us drove those cars every day.

I’ve been busy running errands all day and I simply have nothing to write–except about things blowing up.

Overthinking Is Never Done

It was 97, a few days ago.  Finally, some cool autumn mornings are on the way.  Max, the wonder dog will be happy.  Mosquitos and gnats will be gone somewhere else.

This morning, illuminated by flashlight, was a black plastic fork in the road.  “When you come to a fork in the road–take it.”  Thanks Yogi for the suggestion,  but I’ll politely decline.  It appeared to have crusted food on it.

Speaking of Yogi Berra, there’s a family connection.  My first cousin, once removed, attended high school with Yogi.  She grew up in the same neighborhood as Yogi, Joe Garagiola, and Harry Caray.

When it comes to some tech–I’m mentally challenged.  My goal as I age is to simplify my life.  Are there Cliff’s Notes or Tech for Dummies books out there?  There’s an answer for everything on the internet–whether it’s right or not.

Just in time for Thanksgiving; canned pumpkin isn’t really pumpkin.  What?  Apparently, it is mostly butternut squash, because of the smoother texture.  What’s wrong with texture in food?  That’s why I like pears-because of their grainy texture.

I’ve uncluttered my mind for another day.  It’s OK, I’ll just clutter it up again.

Hark, Hark, the Chork

Chinese takeout

On way home from work

Hard day–boss was a jerk

Packed inside, along with fortune cookies

Strange thing, new to this rookie

Hark, hark, the chork

Half-chopstick, half fork

Nothing like having to work

For one’s dinner

First, the fork, spoon

Then the spork, stroon, and woon

Could eating be easier on the moon?

Stop Giving Me Reasons To Complain

There are far worse problems–namely the thousands of homeless Louisiana flood victims.  The South, will, once again, take care of its own.

Memories of hurricanes Ivan, Katrina, and the oil spill are still fresh.

Closer to home–why does WP keep defaulting back to the old editing page?  This has gone on for the last two weeks.

Far be it from me to complain.  I wouldn’t complain–if there weren’t things to complain about!

All the Sleaze Unfit To Print

I’ve never read the New York Post.  This incident was like the kid from fifth grade with dirty pictures.  The kid with all the answers about birds and bees.  All the boys knew it was wrong–looked anyway.

With nearly nude pictures of Ivanka Trump plastered across the New York Post front page, two days in a row–coverage of the 2016 election hit a new low.  It went far beyond political dirty tricks and mudslinging.

Nothing more than supermarket, tabloid sleaze, that catered to prurient interests.  A big hook to reel in the peep-show, Neanderthal demographic.  Like love and war–no one was to blame, all was fair in the tabloid game.

Why wouldn’t New York Post editors allow nude photo spreads, featuring the other candidates and their spouses?  Possible answers to that question, are reasons why the first pictures, should not have been published.  They’re too old?  Not enough physical appeal?  Wouldn’t sell papers?

Making something from nothing–that’s what artists, musicians, parents, writers, and teachers do.  Nude pictures of a Presidential candidate’s wife, made public, did nothing for positive change.

Since nothing seems to be off-limits for the New York Post, I suggest the following headlines from history.

Martha Washington Was a Hottie–story and pictures on page 7

Secret Letters Revealed: Honest Abe Slept Handcuffed In a Log Cabin

Constitutional Framers Buzzed On Weed, Apple Jack

The Truth Behind Teddy Roosevelt’s Quiet Walks and Big Sticks

Did Margaret Truman Play Piano In a Bordello?