Friday, October 31, 2014

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

When I grow up I want to be ...

Sometimes I can’t make up my mind who I really want to be.

My wife, of course, would prefer me to hurry up and make a decision because the garbage is piling up in the kitchen and she’s got this “take out the trash now or I’ll break your kneecaps” kind of look.

It’s not that she’s violent or anything, but women do hate to wade through garbage bags just to get to the coffee maker.

Now if I were Captain America, things would be different. Tall, buff, handsome, saving the day for the good of the country. I could so live with that. All I’d need to do is exercise a bit, take a few martial arts/kick boxing lessons, eat plenty of roughage, grow about 12 inches and have cosmetic surgery.

On second thought, cosmetic surgery sounds expensive.

Instead, maybe I can transfigure my personality into Johnny Depp cool, Johnny Depp suave, Johnny Depp urbane. Women would swoon at just the mysteriousness of my smile. I could live with that. All I’d need to do is exercise a bit, learn to talk low and slow, get some tattoos, grow out my hair and have a little plastic surgery done by some Hollywood “Surgeon to the Stars.”

Except I might have a problem with the “growing out my hair” part. I’m good at losing hair. Growing it, not so much.

Well, forget Captain America, forget Johnny Depp. I think I could be a spy. A good old fashioned, James Bond, always undercover superspy, never showing my face to the enemy, thus precluding the need to grow hair or indulge in plastic surgery unless my cover is blown, but since the government is paying for it, what the heck?

I’m not sure what it would take for me to become a superspy, but I’d probably have to exercise a bit, become a master of all kinds of weapons, and learn to control myself in the face of obvious female seduction. Unless being seduced is a part of the mission, then I could live with that.

Until my wife found out. Then I’d die a horrible death. Buried under mounds of garbage that is piled high in the kitchen because I forgot to take it out.

Nobody would ever find my body.

She’s thorough like that.

Monday, October 27, 2014

Beauty...

... comes, mingles, dances for awhile, then takes a cab to Lou's All-Night Diner to smoke Marlboros and laugh at bad jokes.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Canine Companionship

I've been reading some poetry by Ogden Nash and really like the way he sometimes didn't write in a strict meter. So, I thought I'd give it a try:

Canine Companionship

They say a man's best friend is a little bitty doggy
that barks at him, whines, licks the newspaper until it's downright soggy,
where you can't read the obits, the comics or even the sports
which would put me dearly, not merely, but quite clearly out of sorts.

A dog requires a leash, a collar, a bone, a house of its own, and a ball,
and to be walked halfway around the planet, but the gall of it all
is that he demands to be rubbed every night on his tummy;
which to me, if he's supposed to be my best friend,
                         sounds a little bit too chummy.

I had a best friend once, and he never slobbered on me (that I knew),
and if I had tried to put a collar on him, and walk him, he'd beat me
                       until I was entirely black and blue.
He never begged for special treats or chased cars that were just passing by,
and he never barked at little old ladies, or young ones. He was kind of shy.

No, a dog is not my best friend, and never will one be.
I'd rather have a goat or two, maybe a llama, a ferret, a hamster,
                 or some fish from down under the sea.
A raccoon would be fun to have, or maybe a vampire bat.
But I'll never befriend a dog, or for that matter ... a stinkin' cat.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Like I was saying...

Life has a way of making perfect sense until you wake up and find you are 20 minutes late for work and there's no way on Earth you're going to tell the boss you overslept, so you come up with some ridiculous lie about how you came upon a nasty accident, and since you were the only one around who knew the number to 911, you were obligated to stay and render whatever aid you could give, to the best of your ability.

The horrific wreck, which was 20 miles south of the Middle of Nowhere, was burning when you came upon it, bodies were strewn across the county road like dropped matchsticks, and the smell of gas fumes meant an explosion was eminent.

With only moments to spare, you moved the helpless victims away from the wreckage, beat the fire down with your jacket, performed CPR on three victims at the same time, set the broken leg of a middle-aged woman who kept screaming she was going to die, and sang a lullaby to soothe a scared little toddler who seemed to be the only person not hurt in all the carnage.

Exactly eight minutes later, the ambulances started to arrive and you, not wanting to be known or recognized as a hero, quietly snuck away just like Batman, but without the utility belt.

"Sure I was late, so fire me," you tell the boss as you head to the men's room to comb your hair.  You slam the door shut just for effect.

The boss, stunned at your boldness, stares at the place where you were just standing and contemplates early retirement.

Monday, October 20, 2014

My mother and father...

... are saints for having me and for not selling me to gypsies when they had a chance.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

My kind of poem

I am no poet.

A poet is somebody who delves deeply within their psyche and writes about universal thoughts and emotions that may or may not strike a nerve with their readers, but they don't care if it does or doesn't because they're writing only for themselves in the hopes of making sense out of this curious thing we call life.

I don't delve into my psyche. It's too messy.

My Kind of Poem

I don't mind
reading poetry that don't rhyme
as long as it includes
zombies,
a motorbike,
or traveling through time.
But I don't much cotton
to rotten poems about
begotten lovers,
or feelings
written in such a way
that makes me want to
puke up
what I ate for breakfast;
puke it up right down
on my freshly mopped floor.
Poems about vomit I can handle.
Poems about emotions I abhor.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

The Key to Happiness

The key to a long and happy life is Routine.

If you're used to getting up at 5 in the morning, don't get up at 4:50 or 5:10. If you shower before you brush your teeth, don't change the order one iota. If you put your socks on first and then your pants, do it like that for now and ever more. If you have coffee and cereal before going to work, don't have a banana and juice.

Routine.

Routine is the key.

This morning I got up late. I forgot to brush my teeth. I'm not sure if I'm wearing underwear. I forgot to bring my coffee cup to work so I could have my morning cup of "get up and go." And I have no idea where my cellphone is so I can call up my wife and complain about the whole thing.

Routine?

Mine's out the window.

I probably won't survive the day.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Every day's a good day to ride

My wife pert near killed me for taking this photograph, but I assured her I was wearing a helmet.

Every day's a good day to ride.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

El Chupacabra

El Chupacabra is legend in Texas, and legends deserve sonnets written about them.
 
I wrote this sonnet a few years ago, and I think it's time to share it again:


El Chupacabra

Down in Texas there lives an ugly beast
With no hair but fangs as sharp as knife points.
He stalks the back woods for his nightly feasts
Of goat blood and gnawed animal leg joints.
It hunts its prey by the light of the moon,
Keeping to shadows from hedges and barns.
Its spine-chilling howl can make old men swoon,
Like man-eating wolves did in ancient yarns.
Very few have glimpsed the beast on its hunt,
And those who have pray to never again.
For its eyes glow red as the blood it sucks,
Its eyes shake the knees of the bravest men.
Down in Texas where Chupacabra roams,
The locals lock doors, and stay in their homes.

Friday, October 10, 2014

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

To be honest with you...

... I'm usually not.

I can make it "appear" as if I'm on the top of the world, but we both know I'm not, because neither are you.

And you're trying to create the same illusion as well.

"Howdy, how's it going?"
"Just fine, and you?"
"I'm having a glorious day!"

Rubbish. Hogwash. Lie to me one more time and I'll call you out and we'll stand in the middle of the dirt street and shoot stories at each other.

At high noon, bucko!

We lie because we think nobody really wants to hear our sad tales. Either that or we're too scared of the insecurity that comes with opening ourselves up to another human soul.

And it's embarrassing to admit that not everything is hunky-dory.

Well, here's the truth of it all: We're all broken, we all hurt, and we all need each other if we're going to survive.

So here's what I'm suggesting -- Stop thinking only about YOUR hurts. Think about how to make others feel better.

A smile works wonders.

How about a Howdy every now and then?

Handshakes, pats on the back, hugs, high fives, compliments.

They all work miracles and cost so very little.

(But don't try to kiss someone. They may not be as progressive as you.)

And maybe, just maybe, by helping others we'll help ourselves.

At least it's worth a try.





Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Me and My Shadow

The Shadow
This is the first "artsy" photo I ever took of my Honda Shadow, way back in 2010 -- and it's still my favorite.

Monday, October 6, 2014

I let the cats cry...

... for a second or two before I jump up to feed them because I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

Saturday, October 4, 2014

My Friends Are Crusty

I wrote this poem way back in 2010. So I was sitting around the house one day, not really doing much, when all of a sudden I thought, "My friends are crusty."

I have no idea where the thought came from, but I wrote it down because I just KNEW I could make good use of it one day. Once I finished the poem, I went looking for the perfect photo to go with it.

And here it is:

My Friends Are Crusty

My friends are crusty, hardheaded and proud.
They wear leather jackets and ride really loud
motorcycles, but sometimes they thumb for a ride.
My friends, they take it in stride.

My friends wear moustaches, beards and goatees.
They have more tattoos than you ever did see
but you won’t, ‘cause they share them with only their crew.
My friends, they know what to do.

My friends don’t care if you like them or not.
They do what they want and they don’t give a snot
what you think, so it’s best if you don’t criticize.
My friends could lick out your eyes.

So if you want my friends to be your friends, too,
you should be respectful, kindhearted and then you
could pay for the kibble, next time they’re in town.
That’s what keeps my friends around.

biker dogs by istolethetv, on Flickr

Photo courtesy of Istolethetv on Flickr

Friday, October 3, 2014

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

I Am a Biker-Man

Just a short little biker poem to while away the time.

Of course I rode my bike today.
I ride it almost every day.
I ride it in the heat and cold,
through pouring rain and falling snow.
I ride it Summer, Spring and Fall,
through Wintertime, but most of all
I ride it just because I can.
I am a Biker-Man.