No Alarm Bells Going Off in My Head

This has been a quiet Saturday. There was a ninety per cent chance of rain predicted. I’m looking out from the ten per cent side of that prediction.

Rain would possibly have made it more comfortable, than the over eighty per cent dew point. So much for meteorological chit- chat.

What does one do when there’s nothing in particular to write about? Write about why there are no subjects about which to write. There are many topics–some of them I won’t touch.

I repaired the vacuum cleaner this morning.  Did that get your attention?  I certainly hope it didn’t.  Two dogs in the household with associated hair clumps, tortured the poor machine almost to oblivion.

Do you dislike posts on Facebook that call for participation? Copy and paste this–otherwise you are an insensitive, boorish, non-believing hypocrite, or some other (fill-in-blank) foolishness. Subjects repeated in a closed loop, eight-track tape fashion, again-and-again.

Do you find “phrases of the moment” annoying? The latest one seems to be “at some point.” At least it has drawn attention away from the other annoying phrase, “at the end of the day.” Because “at the end of the day,” “at some point,” people have to think for themselves.

Loving It and Living It (Without Losing It)

Eclipses

Potato chip clips

Blank stares

Shooting stars

Truces declared

In word wars

Post-it notes cluttered

Ink blots splattered

All over the pages

What was the skinny?

What were the latest rages?

Teases, and taunts

Top tips for this or that

Wear sunblock, wear a hat

Fifty favorite vacation haunts

What was my favorite font?

Why it was important

To know what I wanted

Captions searched

For pictures

Messed with

My mind’s eye

Gave it just

One more try

Mercy me

What just fell

From the family tree?

Wasn’t that pitiful?

If it was anything at all?

Dash and dine?

Anything that was fun

Was fine with me

Conversation With a Friend

It’s been tough to get going today.  Started a post, didn’t like it.  It’s been shelved, till later. What would Floyd have to say?  If I know him as well as I think I do–something like this.  “If you have something to say–say it!  If you don’t have anything to say–then keep your trap shut!”  Maybe this little talk from 2015 will do me some good.

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“There seems to be a general decline in the ‘effimacaceousness’ of this blog,” Floyd observed–stroking his chin.

“How you figure?”  I answered his question with a question.

“He who answers a question with a question is a fool,”  Floyd philosophized.

“Will you get to the point and knock off the pseudo-intellectual shtick.”

“You’re first and foremost an imaginary character that exists only in my mind.  If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Did I hurt your feelings?  Don’t get your shorts in a bunch.  Just listen.

Floyd was attired for summer–bib overalls and slouchy railroad engineer’s cap.  At least, this time he had on a t-shirt.

Customary brown chewing tobacco spittle stained the corners of his mouth.  He expounded homespun philosophy with one foot on the front bumper of his light blue Ford pickup.

“All I was trying to say–is you need to lighten things up a bit,” Floyd answered.  “Most people get #$%@^& tired of hearing the same negative, mopey )*%@%^* day after day.  I failed to mention that Floyd’s vocabulary would make longshoremen blush.

“I’m glad to see you turned out smarter than your buddy Larry.  He’s purt near broke with three ex-wives.  Hasn’t got a pot to *&$% in.  He should have had enough *&^#$@^! sense to quit after wife number two.”

I hadn’t thought about Floyd for a long time.  Something about unshaven, sweaty men in bibs I’d prefer to avoid–as a general rule.  He was a memorable character.  If one looked past the disheveled, gruff exterior–he always gave good advice.

 

Grammar Gremlins

For the next two weeks I won’t be a victim of grammar gremlins, since I will be away for jury duty.  Here’s a post about the perils of writing, from two years ago.

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Grammar gremlins, syntax stealers

Alliteration acrobats, cliché contortionists

With distorted senses of importance

At my expense, of course

Blew things out of proportion

Stealthy scissor seizers, poisoned-penned

Word-weavers, master manipulators

Reveled in misnomers, kept busy

With both ears to the grindstone

Eyes on the wheel

Because they knew

When donkeys flew

And where clouds kept

Hidden silver rainbows

Why, the man-in-the-moon

Smiled from ear-to-ear

And while I slept, they discussed

Barbie doll grills, Groucho pants

Willy worms, hair clanks, word banks

Prose pilfering, things that were

In every sense, way too weird

 

Word Storms

Hope sprang eternal

One could always hope

Broke the mold

Broke the bank

Shivered in cold

Just plain broke

Unknown unicorns

Unexpected Disney

Goofs, gaffes

Giraffe babies

As yet, unborn

Privacy fences

Fences mended

Hiccups, hedgehogs

Halves, wholes

Plastered, pasted

Consequences

Unintended

Waste not, want not

No time to waste

Prickly pears

Privacy pleas

Privacy, please

Shutterbugs

Starlets

Beautiful faces

Without hiding places

Charlatans

Blanketed in

Loosely knit

Cardigans

Wrong-way

Wayward Willies

Wicked Wandas

Agreed–word storms

Made the world

Seem weird

 

 

Dear Occupant

Step away

From the nostalgia posts

And no one will get hurt!

Said my conscience

Try something different

Dear Occupant

Was as personal

As this conversation

With my conscience

Was going to get

Arguing with one’s conscience

Never worked before

If I were lucky, a truce

Would be worked out

Those were pitiful

Attempts at humor

Remember humor?

What about just a few more

Slipped in–now and then?

Don’t overdo it!

Here’s what always works

What always worked?

What was sure fire?

Self-deprecating humor

That’s what

Knowing you

You’ll probably

Overdo that, too