Peeling Wallpaper

Timing Chain

2011-07-17T15:51:00.000-07:00

The loveable old clown car
is badly in need of service.
The engine won't backfire
when you turn the key.
Open the hood and
confetti just drizzles out.
Even without the hinge
pins the doors refuse to fall off.
The spare clown in the trunk
is flat, uninspired and cynical.
And the horn no longer makes
its funny noise – a sad little
wuga
has replaced the once proud
WUGA-WUGA!!
so often heard calling to
the latecomers and undecided
outside the big tent.

Beautiful and Pointless*

2011-07-02T08:16:00.000-07:00

Poetry is the lava lamp of literature. Lava lamps are the poetry of Spencer gifts.

*title of interesting new book about modern poetry by David Orr

Service Call

2011-06-09T18:15:00.000-07:00

Back behind the Safeway

a short unpaved road
cuts through a line of scraggy trees
blocking the view of trash dumpsters
and a large mound of fill dirt.
Beyond that the road wends

to a dusty gravel parking lot.

And beyond that a lovely park:

an unexpected wonderland

with picnic tables
charcoal grills
a horseshoe pitch
sand volleyball court
even a butterfly garden.
The pond in the distance is swimmable.
There are people here.
The parking lot is nearly full.
Laughter and friendly conversation

compete with the eager summer cicadas.
The people here wear uniforms
of one sort or another
except for the swimmers
who have left theirs

on the Adirondack chairs
or back in their vehicles —
vans mostly with colorful logos
for the cable company
plumbing firms
exterminators
heating and air conditioning.
This is the morning shift.
One of them will be at your house
between the hours of 8 and 12.
But it’s only 9:30.
No one here is in a hurry.

Dear Valued Customer

2011-06-01T14:44:00.000-07:00

This morning at 06:52:27 PDT a small earthquake registering 3.2 on the Richter scale hit just outside Palo Alto, California – really nice city, Palo Alto, albeit a bit pricey. The epicenter of the temblor was a mile or so below where one of our TX-24b fiber optic cables is buried. This is a very big cable, the TX-24b, with respect to its data-carrying capacity, which is why it carries the TX prefix, as in Texas-sized. Simultaneous with the strike-slip release of energy from the earthquake – that's geologist talk; you get to know their lingo out here in the shake zone – there was this electronic zap heard inside our server room, followed by the faintest whiff of something burning. A zap followed by a whiff in the computer world is never a good thing. Well, things just went from bad to worse. The power flickered on and off a few times and we lost communication with our geostationary satellite, which, for all we know, is no longer geostationary, but tumbling its way through the stratosphere. Heads up Space Station guys and gals! After that, our computers locked up like Fort Knox. So, this is why we are writing to you, dear valued customer. Sadly, we've been forced to shut down service to nearly all 3 million of you worldwide. We've been working hard on this problem since, like, 06:52:28 PDT but so far no luck. We've tried unplugging the main server, counting to 30 and plugging it back in. Also, we've tried hitting the side of the case with the flat part of our palm, which works sometimes, like once when it developed an annoying rattle. We checked the fuse box, of course. No problems there. What we are seeing at the moment is an error message flashing on our monitors with a lengthy ID number, which we can't find in any of our manuals. It's like they're written in Greek! OK, this would probably be a good time to admit that we don't really understand what we do here and haven't for quite some time now. The technology that underlies this business has just gotten too complicated. The one guy who really knew all of this stuff retired last year. He lives in Palm Springs and won't return our calls. (Come on, Bob!) Basically, all we can do at this point is keep trying different things – maybe it will fix itself, who knows with computers? Most importantly, we would like to take this opportunity to apologize to you, dear valued customer, for the inconvenience. Whatever that might be.

Clean as a whistle

2010-11-28T16:30:00.000-08:00

I had this dream recently where my doctor woke me from my colonoscopy exam and directed me to look at a high definition monitor up on the wall of the operating room. I was still a little groggy so it took a moment for me to realize that this was a live shot and that the camera was still inside of me. The doctor pointed to the screen and said, "just look at that." When my eyes came into focus I saw clearly what had him so disturbed. There, clinging to the walls of my colon, were hundreds of small colorful emoticons: smiley faces, sad faces, crying faces, winks, devil grins, puckered lips, the whole kit and kaboodle. "Wow," I said, "I had no idea. So this is where they end up." The doctor just shook his head. "It's going to take me all day to clean up in here," he grumbled. I watched as he got back to work, plucking a Facebook "thumbs up" emoticon from a dimly lit crevice of this heretofore uncharted territory. This place where the sun doesn't shine.

Word of the Day

2010-11-16T18:55:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I found my dictionary in the bathroom and started reading. The dictionary in question is a pocketbook-sized edition by Random House that dates back to 1980. Its pages are yellow from age, crumbly and folded from heavy use. Most of the time, it is stowed in a nightstand next to my bed along with a chaotic stack of books. Whenever I am reading in bed and need to look up a word, I can usually reach over without looking away from the book in my other hand and find the dictionary by its weathered feel.

I’m not sure how my dictionary ended up in the bathroom, but one morning I saw it there, picked it up and began flipping through the pages. It opened to a page seemingly of its own choosing. Two words in particular caught my eye, one right above the other: submerge and submerse. Submerge was defined as “to sink or plunge beneath the surface of a liquid.” Submerse was defined as “to submerge.” The question that came immediately to my mind was: why do we need two words, one letter apart, to say the same thing? I kind of feel bad for submerse, which seems to me like the underachieving and unpopular younger brother of submerge. Submerse? Oh yeah, we knew his brother submerge. Nice guy. He drowned, didn’t he? I am sure there is an etymological evolution that led to the “submerge versus submerse” distinction, but the pocketbook Random House volume simply does not have the space to devote to it.

Pretty much every day now, I pick my dictionary in the bathroom and allow it to randomly open to a page. Some days are more interesting than others. I am not so much looking to expand my vocabulary by learning long complex words. No, I am much more interested in the stories behind the words that point to the quirky nature of our language. The fact that there is a long word in English, sesquipedalian, that means “a long word” is reason enough for me to pick up a dictionary.

Sometimes, the words I focus on in my morning dictionary reading are words that I think I know, but always get wrong. Hoi polloi comes to mind. I always think that the word refers to “pretentious upper class people,” when in fact it means “common people, the masses, riffraff.” I wonder if the reason hoi polloi trips me up is because of its rhythmic pronunciation, not unlike highfalutin, which does mean pretentious!

Sometimes it is the second meanings of words that are more interesting to me than the first. Take “measly” for example. The first meaning, not surprisingly, deals with the infection commonly associated with the measles. The second meaning is “wretchedly scanty or unsatisfactory.” Huh? Waiter, this portion of lasagna you served me is measly, it reminds me of the red puss-filled sores that covered my body when I was younger. Take it away.

Then there are the words that I have never been able to spell. When I see them on a page of the dictionary it is as though I have turned the corner and encountered an old nemesis in an alleyway – Oh, you again! Despite my determined stare-down of the word, (damn it, I will get you this time!), despite projecting the word, letter-by-letter into my mind space using enormous bold fonts, I will still forget the correct spelling within ten minutes. That’s the way it is with bad spellers; it’s in our DNA. The other day, the dictionary opened to a page that contained the mother lode of words I can’t spell: the “bou” page. Bouffant. Bougainvillaea. Bouillabaisse. Bourgeois. Boutonnière. Hopeless, I tell you.

This morning was a great word: hors frost. It means simply “frost.” What’s the hors part? The Random House editors didn’t say. I could look it up in a bigger, more comprehensive dictionary. I could even Wikipedia it. Then again, the mystery is probably more interesting than the explanation.

What can I say? I like reading the dictionary. I have begun to look forward to my minute or two with the dictionary every morning. It beats the bad news of my morning newspaper. OK, one last dictionary gem: inestimable, "not able to be estimated." Seems straightforward enough. Would it be safe to assume, then, that the word estimable means the opposite: "easily estimated”? Well, no. Estimable means "deserving of praise." Go figure.

September 21, 2009

2010-11-02T18:48:00.000-07:00

It was snowing hard on the last day of summer in the Rocky Mountains. I was with three work colleagues tired from a long day in the field. We were stopped in traffic at the entrance to the Edwin C. Johnson tunnel, the highest vehicular tunnel in the world, on our way back to Denver in the late afternoon. Freakish white-out conditions at over 11,000 feet. Too soon, even for up here. Through my fogged up window in the rear seat of our SUV, I could barely make out the dimensions of a tractor trailer in the next lane. The truck was squealing even though it was fully stopped, as we were. I wiped the condensation from my window with the sleeve of my jacket. It was a livestock truck. I wiped the window again for a better view. The trailer was filled with pigs. Little bitty pigs. Hundreds of them, on three levels. I had never seen a stacked array of so many animals like this before. They were agitated. I watched flashes of pink appear and then disappear through the slats of the container as the pigs maneuvered and fought for position. Flat noses pressed through the ventilation holes blowing steam into the freezing alpine air. Most troubling were the faces pressed firmly against the trailer wall, just a few feet away form me, bright eyes peering out of the holes, searching for clues as to what was going on out there. I was wondering the same thing.

Template Contemplation

2010-11-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

There are a million new templates here at Blogger since I last checked. I'm going to play around.

Midterms

2010-10-31T06:02:00.001-07:00

The mangy yellow stray lifted his leg and peed on a fire hydrant, covering the mark of the dog that peed there before him. He looked up at the median strip of grass that ran down the middle of the road and watched a man hammer a shiny red sign in the dirt that read "Sparky for governor." Directly in front of that sign was another shiny colorful sign, blue this time, that read "Max for governor." In front of that sign was another "Sparky" sign, and in front of that another "Max" sign. And then another "Sparky" and another "Max." On and on they went, one shiny colorful sign and then the other, for as far as the mangy yellow stray could see. He couldn't read, of course, because he was a dog. Nor did he know anything about the two party system in politics. But being a dog, he had a bladder that just wouldn't quit and a strong desire to participate.

Up, up and away

2010-10-28T15:40:00.000-07:00

Grab a ruler. The plastic kind with a round hole directly in the middle. Now, grip a ballpoint pen in the palm of your hand, pointy side up. With your other hand, balance the ruler by resting it on the pen through the center hole. With a free finger give the ruler a flick. Watch it twirl. Do it again, a little faster. And again, this time slowly raising and lowering the hand with the pen while the ruler spins. Did you think to make a helicopter noise? Whop whop whop whop whop. Okay, well, I guess I'm blogging again. Write what you know, they say. That's what I know today. Tomorrow I may know something else.

Birds fly under your chair

2010-01-02T15:19:00.000-08:00

"Get to work. Your work is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears that spin the belt in the engine of belief that keeps you and your desk in midair."

- Annie Dillard (The Writing Life)

Go here for the whole passage. Actually I'm sure Ms. Dillard would prefer that you go out and buy the book.

Pain Calls in Sick

2009-08-09T07:17:00.000-07:00

The coalition of body aches and pains, including twitches, pangs, jabs, throbs, stabs, burns, tingles, numbing and cramps, has posted a notice on its web page stating that something is going around the office there, and that the elements of discomfort are themselves not feeling well. Some sort of virus, is the official word. It's hitting hard. "Yes, even pain itself is not immune to a nasty flu," the statement reads. The coalition asks our patience as its agents of bodily harm recover. "Surely, our usual customers can understand how we are feeling right now."

Indeed we do. Take your time. Don't hurry back.

Kibble

2009-08-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

There are so many books
sitting up beside my bed
you should see the looks
I get before they're fed

The Mind's Eye

2008-12-24T07:55:00.000-08:00

My brain twisted a word in a Washington Post headline today. For a split second I thought it read:

"After Rapture, Road Still Closed"

Ah, well, as long as there are alternate routes.

Enforcer

2008-10-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

As I pry hard at
the stick pin lying
flat on the bathroom floor
in the space between

somehow there is always
space between

Sir Isaac Newton
pulls back mightily
the sumbitch –
doesn't he ever quit?

I dream of an oar

2008-05-05T16:05:00.000-07:00

"My poetry costs me endless
labor. I sit down to it...like the
galley-slave to his oar."

- William Butler Yeats

Stop and smell the roses in ten easy steps

2008-03-15T10:30:00.000-07:00

1. Do your research. Get to know roses. Where do they grow? What do they look like? Why should you care? Learn to recognize a rose as opposed to, say, a thistle, from ten paces away.

2. Clear your schedule. Dedicate at least half the day.

3. Wear appropriate shoes. Landscape can be tricky, especially for those unaccustomed to being out-of-doors.

4. Bees! Don't forget the EpiPen.

5. Hang up and turn off your cell phone. Yes, really!

6. Clear your head of all extraneous thoughts, except the one about where you parked.

7. Obtain all necessary permissions, pay entrance fees and visit the rest room one last time.

8. Single out a rose that you find attractive. Lean in and put your nose close to the soft, colorful pedals. Caution: Avoid the thorns. They are not fragrant, and will slice your nostril right open. (But, of course, you'll know this if you do your research. See step 1.)

9. Inhale deeply, trying not to cough, sneeze or lose your balance.

10. Equate the pleasant aroma with joie de vivre, the joy of living. Hold that thought. Hold it longer. Done.

That place you go

2008-02-17T17:03:00.000-08:00

We meet in the dingy office kitchenette
At the ergonomic center of cubie-land.
Pouring a coffee from the communal pot
You ask me how I'm doing.
Terrible, I answer.
This stops you in your tracks.
It's not the answer you expect.
Fine, OK, not too shabby,
Maybe a shoulder shrug, a grunt—
But terrible?
Yes, terrible, I hold firm.
Your hands fidget around your cup,
Not sure what to say next,
Or if you want to speak at all.
No worries, I'll talk.

I begin to tell you my tale of woe:
Too much, too little time;
Unfair expectations, rampant stupidity.
Your eyes begin to darken.
Layer upon layer of detail
I weave so that you might understand.
But you have gone someplace else.
I can see straight through your pupils
To a dark wall at the edge of your being.
Rods and cones are moving about
Like a miniature inflatable bounce ride
At the fair.
Then I see you in there, too,
Floating, bouncing, laughing.

Seems like I could shout
Or snap my fingers—
Bring you crashing back—
But you seem so damn happy
In that place you go.
So I continue with my ranting,
Tell you about yesterday's meeting
That went on for hours
Led by that idiot in finance
All the while looking deep into your eyes
As you do one somersault after another
Gliding in slow motion up, up, up...
—HEY!—
Are you waving to me?
From in there?
I think you are;
I think you see me.
That's very rude.

PRL

2008-02-06T15:28:00.000-08:00

Every so often the New Yorker runs an advertisement near the back of the magazine for a “perfect reading lamp.” The ad itself is not very imposing, a small box sitting in line with a few others that together make up a single column of the three column page. And yet this ad for the perfect reading lamp (henceforth PRL) always catches my eye. I don’t know why. Well, yes I do: it’s perfect; or so they say. A perfect reading lamp. Who couldn’t use one of those?

The advertisement in the New Yorker for the PRL includes an inset photo of the lamp. It’s attractive enough. Truth be told, the look of this lamp doesn’t knock me off my feet. But appearance isn’t everything. It’s function, not form, that matters more in an argument for perfection. Appearance is subjective; the real factors here are the optics and ergonomics of the lamp. Optics and ergonomics: that’s science! And on this matter, the ad states that “the Double Swivel Action places light correctly for a high or low chair, desk or a computer.” Note the capital letters in Double Swivel Action. I didn’t put them there; the advertiser did. Everybody knows you don’t go around using capital letters in a reading lamp advertisement unless you can back them up with science.

I have come to know the PRL in my life, even though I don’t actually own one. My familiarity with this product has grown over time such that I imagine I do possess a PRL, and that it sits proudly next to my favorite reading chair. Not only that, but I also imagine myself sitting in that chair reading a good book under the glow of the PRL, a warm throw on my lap, a tumbler of whisky on the end table, a log crackling in the fireplace. It’s a peaceful place within my imagination. Perfect, even?

Actually, no. Quite the contrary. It wasn’t long after my imaginary PRL was out of the imaginary box and my imaginary self was enjoying the latest edition of the New Yorker under the lamp’s perfect light, laughing out loud at the funny cartoons, that the real me became a bit, well, jealous. Okay, I know that sounds ridiculous. I mean, why would I be jealous of a scene out of my own head? Theoretically, I am in charge of my own fantasies, right? Why not just push these thoughts away? Believe me, I tried. But I would no sooner throw the switch controlling the PRL to the off position when my imaginary self would turn it back on again and commence reading. Once my imaginary self even smirked at me and jiggled the ice cubes in his whisky tumbler indicating that he could use a refill. The nerve!

I told my therapist about the struggle I was having with my imaginary self over the PRL. He said that this was a very normal situation, that the rational brain sometimes collided with the irrational subconscious on issues of expectation, desire, insecurity. Underlying all this fantasy and cerebral playacting, he said, was a deep-rooted disappointment, probably related to some childhood incident – a much ballyhooed toy that didn’t live up to expectations, a real dud of a family vacation, that sort of thing. According to my therapist, the jealousy I felt toward my imaginary self stemmed from the irrational notion that he possessed what had eluded me all my life: perfection. The next time I saw my therapist, there was a warm radiance about him. Something was different. Was that a PRL beside his chair? Yes, he admitted it was true. He purchased one after he heard about it from me, and he loved it. Especially the Double Swivel Action. He motioned for me to give it a try. “Come bask in the glow of perfection,” he said. Instead, I got up and left, calling him an opportunist and a traitor.

For a long time after that, my imaginary self and I didn’t communicate. We learned to coexist. What choice did we have? We were kind of stuck with each other. I got pretty good at ignoring him, though. Whenever my imaginary self was around, I would purposely and completely turn my attention to something else. Something pleasant: a good meal, my favorite Sopranos episode, sex, roller-coaster rides. It got to the point where I became comfortable enough to be in the same room with my imaginary self as he sat reading next to the PRL. I could even tidy up around him, gathering up old magazines and depositing them in the recycling bin, removing the empty whisky glasses from the end table, vacuuming the Cheez-It crumbs on the carpet – my mind a thousand miles away. In this manner, I was able to return some normalcy to my life. Really, I had let this PRL business get out of hand.

For his part, my imaginary self was happy to ignore me as well. He stopped grunting when I walked too close; the frequency of taunts and smirks decreased and then stopped altogether. Without the expenditure of energy spent annoying me, my imaginary self became more and more lethargic. He started looking sickly and seemed to nap more than he read.

Nevertheless, I was still having serious pangs of jealousy. I hadn’t sat on my favorite reading chair since the imaginary PRL showed up and my imaginary self parked his ass there. The worst was at night. As I lay in bed propped up on my lumpy pillow under the diffuse, yellow, inadequate light cast from my bedroom reading lamp, I couldn’t help thinking of my imaginary self downstairs dozing comfortably under perfect light. I was even bothered by the waste of imaginary electricity from the PRL burning bright. Money doesn’t grow on trees, not even in the world of make believe.

I couldn’t envision this situation getting any stranger than it already was, but that’s just what it did. Late one night, long after I had gone to sleep, I woke to a faint thumping sound, like a finger tapping on the skin of a drum. At first, being groggy and disoriented, I couldn’t place the noise. Then I became aware that it was coming from downstairs. So, I got out of bed and walked in the dark by feel – first through the bedroom door into the main hallway, and then down the stairs, carefully holding on to the banister and avoiding the squeaky steps. From the foyer on the first floor, I could see that a light was on in the living room. Surely it was the PRL. I quickened my pace, the thumping noise growing louder as I got closer.

When I reached the living room, I found that the PRL was indeed switched on, but there was no sign of my imaginary self. The chair was empty. I reached down and touched it with my hand. It was cold, indicating that no one had been sitting there for some time. (Does an imaginary person give off body heat?) The thumping noise, I quickly determined, was coming from the PRL itself. I bent down and looked up under the lamp shade. There I discovered the source: a moth, frantically drawn to the light. The poor thing was alternately bouncing off the light bulb and lamp shade with alarming frequency. When the badly beaten moth finally stopped to rest momentarily on the edge of the shade, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Involuntarily, I sat on the chair and stared up in disbelief. The moth had a face. My face. Or my imaginary self’s face. Whatever! The distinction was irrelevant. More importantly, my imaginary self had metamorphosed into a moth. And now it was being taken by the light of the PRL.

This was it; this was the end. Despite my jealousy and feelings of misplaced animosity, I could never have wished this fate on my imaginary self. I looked up at the moth as it leaped again from its perch, ready for another round with the PRL. Horrified, I reached out and grabbed at the moth repeatedly until I had successfully cupped it in my hand. I could feel that I had it there in my closed fist. It was moving, attempting to open its wings. Thankfully, I hadn’t squished it. With my free hand, I found the switch of the PRL and turned out the light. I brought the fist holding the moth close to my chest and sat back in my comfortable reading chair. Breathing deeply. In the dark. In the perfect darkness.

Two views

2008-01-13T14:15:00.000-08:00

A minivan is parked on the side of the road, hazards flashing. The driver, a man, visibly irked, stands outside the vehicle. Something is on the road. Something small. Still rolling. The man is looking both ways, waiting. No other cars are coming, just mine. He is waiting for me to pass. Whatever it is, wobbling now toward a stop. I slow, ease across the double yellow line. It’s a Mr. Potato Head. Wobble. Wobble. The man is uneasy, embarrassed. Why? Well, yeah, okay. I drive by, trying not to smirk. Mr. Potato Head is face up on the road, smiling. The man is not.

City Lights

2007-12-15T08:54:00.000-08:00

I stopped in at City Lights bookstore, as I usually do on trips to San Francisco. City Lights fills me with wonderful feelings of literary history and pride in America's independent publishing houses. This is one great bookstore. The store itself has expanded a bit and remade itself over the years, but it is still essentially the same warehouse it was when in opened on Columbus Avenue in North Beach back in 1953. Founder, owner and renowned Beat generation poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti still works here, although, despite my many visits, I have never seen him. That is, until this time.

I was upstairs at City Lights. The upper floor is a loft of sorts with walled offices to the front that look over the main floor below and a small oddly shaped room to the rear filled with books of poetry. I had the room to myself on this visit. I picked up a copy of “City Lights Pocket Poets Anthology” and browsed through it. The air was warm and musty. The light dim, despite the incandescent lamps and a window that looked out on dead space in an alleyway.

The quiet of the moment was broken by a sharp ratcheting of a door latch opening and closing. I looked over and saw an old man, gray hair and beard, wrestle with the hook on one of those “store personnel only beyond this point” chains. The man was Lawrence Ferlinghetti. There are vintage photographs of Ferlinghetti everywhere in City Lights bookstore. No mistaking him.

Ferlinghetti walked right past as if he didn’t see me. In fairness, I purposely made myself small and stood out of the way. I briefly considered asking him to sign the anthology book I intended to purchase, but I am always wary of such invasions of privacy. They just seem wrong to me. Instead, I watched as Ferlinghetti shuffled slowly past. He is 88 years old now (I looked this up later) and impressively robust. Near the top of the steps, Ferlinghetti stopped and rearranged some postcards in the literary postcard rack. A few more steps and he stopped again to pick up a book that was lying backwards and upside down on the shelf. Did I do that? Before putting it back, Ferlinghetti, opened the book and read from its pages. It is amazing to me that this remarkable man, the last great Beat poet, former Poet Laureate of San Francisco, friend and publisher to Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Neal Cassady, Bob Dylan, was also a simple store clerk. Business is business after all.

Satisfied that everything was in order, Ferlinghetti walked slowly down the stairs. I listened as his feet made contact with each creaky wooden step. At the bottom of the staircase he stopped. There was a click. To save electricity, he turned the lights off for the upper floor. He turned the lights out on me! Before that thought could fully register in my mind, there was another click and the lights came back on. Ahh, so he had seen me, and remembered that I was up there. For one brief moment, Lawrence Ferlinghetti thought of me – only me and my need for light. Pretty cool. After that, I suspect, his thoughts turned to lunch.

On Union Square

2007-12-14T18:12:00.000-08:00

The view is spectacular
from my hotel room
33 floors up
in this city that
randomly
quakes

The bay at dawn
Alcatraz shrouded in fog
33 floors down
I am awake early
San Andreas
sleeps

Uppity uppers

2007-10-30T18:00:00.000-07:00

These old shoelaces go too easily untied
Failing even my best double knots
Oh Lord, believe me I've tried
Every trick in the book we were issued as tots.
So see here lace-ups, give me a listen
I'll take no more insolence from you
Shape up this instant or I'm switchin'
To a steadfast and tasseled slip on shoe.

These dreams

2007-10-28T18:09:00.000-07:00

Just so you know, I’m dreaming right now. That you’re reading this while I sleep has to do with my new dream-to-blog technology which allows me to transcribe my dreams real-time onto my blog. Pretty cool, huh? Oh, there are the electrodes to deal with. The fire wire. The cranial wifi router. It only hurts a little.

Bob Marley is here with me. He says that I'm stressing too much in my day life and it's affecting my sleep cycle. He can tell from all the tossing and turning I have been doing, the teeth grinding, the nearly indecipherable rambling on in my sleep about time lines and deliverables. Marley has pulled up a chair and is seated next to me. I am rubbing my eyes. Not to wipe away the sleep, but to clear out the smoke that has wafted over from his big fat cigar. He takes a hit and exhales. Funny, it doesn't smell like cigar smoke. Now he is singing to me. This is what he has to say:

Don't worry about a thing. Cause every little thing gonna be alright.

That’s really nice, Bob. Thanks for dropping by tonight.

Singin' don't worry about a thing. Cause every little thing gonna be alright.

I appreciate the concern, Bob. I'm going to work on reducing the stress. Hold on...what's this? There are three little birds on Marley's shoulder, swaying to the music. Cute little things. In unison they come in for the refrain of his song:

This is my message to you-ou-ou.

Such beautiful voices. Beautiful plumage, too. I applaud. Perhaps too vigorously because I’ve startled the birds. They've taken flight. One of them has crapped on my bedspread. But that’s okay. This is a dream. There’s nothing to clean up in a dream, right?

Bob Marley looks like he is getting ready to sing again. Here it comes:

Ooh, yeah! All right! We're jammin': I wanna jam it wid you

Yeah, mon. And I want to jam it wid you, too, Bob. Really I do! What exactly does that mean?

Bob Marley laughs. Apparently, I am amusing him. He reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. He tamps out what remains of his funny-smelling cigar on the nightstand. In reality that's going to leave a burn mark, but not in a dream! Marley is looking around for his three birds. They have perched on top of a book shelf. “We gonna go,” he says to them.

On his command, the birds are in the air again, flying low and fast circles across my bedroom, singing:

We're jammin', we're jammin', we're jammin', we're jammin...hope you like jammin' too.

Then they fly right through the wall and are gone. Bob Marley vanishes with them.

And just like that I am alone again in my dreams. Not for long, though. Someone's coming. Is that… Yes, it is. It’s Groucho Marx. Groucho Marx has come to visit me in my dreams.

Come in, Groucho. Have a seat.

Groucho? What is this? Some kind of joke? I am Dr. Abbott your freshman calculus teacher. This is your final exam. Why are you naked?

Oh dear God.

uphill both ways

2007-10-08T06:36:00.000-07:00

you need to have grown up in the mountains
the poor mountains of Appalachia
on a steep street, a crumbly street,
a place where stone walls didn't stand up long
where dinner plates slid off the table
all by themselves, unless you held on tightly –
when I say steep, I mean steep!

the school was up at the top of the hill, of course
crane your neck from the porch and you could see it
if the snow piles weren't too high
(fact: it doesn't snow like that any more)
back then the schools didn't close for any reason
you were expected to get your bare feet
into the classroom and on time, or else –
nuns with rulers, need I say more?

dad was insane, understandable for the times,
all that coal dust, the lucky strikes and bathtub gin
door hinges didn't grow on trees, he would say
imploring us to use the front door and back door
alternately, so as to wear the hinges evenly
and don't slam either door, or so help me god!

mornings we used the front door on our way to school
all twelve of us, the tall ones up front to serve as beacons
for the little ones whose heads were barely above the snow
it was straight up and steep, you already know that,
but it was a long way, too, requiring that we embark
before dawn, short on sleep, our pancake breakfast
a distant memory from the weekend

after school we were to come home through the back door
on the rickety downhill side of the house
there was only one way to get there
from school, that meant a detour around the open pit mine
across the railroad yard and down to the tough part of town
so low and narrow that the sun didn't touch those streets all winter
giving those who lived there a tinge of blue in their skin
and an irritability that frightened even the junkyard dogs

then it was uphill again with the help of the rope pull
that Mr. Stanowitz installed when his ninety year old mother could no
longer make it home along the path from church six days a week
beyond there we had only to cross the frigid but wadable creek
and then sneak through the PCB factory grounds
(our little shortcut)

finally, we'd sprint up, up, up the two hundred forty step wooden staircase –
two hundred sixty-eight if you counted the rotten ones you couldn't
walk on or you'd fall right through – before reaching our gate (phew!)
frozen, rusted; no matter, we had to climb it

there mother stood waiting, her trademark upside down smile,
ready to greet us with fresh-baked cookies
assuming they didn't slide off the flimsy paper plate
onto the rocky outcrop that was the back yard
in which case the goat got them

Now showing on GOLTV

2007-10-04T15:19:00.000-07:00

I have a pet peeve about my son's disposition to talk with his mouth full. I have corrected him nearly a million times already in his twelve years of existence and, sadly, I suspect it will take about a million more.

Today when I got home from work, Conor was watching some soccer on television. "Who's playing?" I asked. Unfortunately he had just taken a big bite of a carrot.

What came out in response was "leverkusenversusfcbayernfromthebundesliga."

"Could you repeat that?" I asked, "after you have finished chewing?"

Conor held up a finger indicating I should wait while he swallowed what was left in his mouth. Then he very clearly enunciated the following: "Leverkusen versus FC Bayern from the Bundesliga."

"What?" I asked again.

My son smiled. "It didn't matter that my mouth was full," he said. "you were never going to understand that."

I have to admit that he had me there. He gets a pass this time. Not so, the next time he tells me about his day with a mouthful of chewed up spaghetti.

Humor's wide stance

2007-10-04T15:07:00.000-07:00

The cover of this week's New Yorker is brilliantly funny. But you don't want to explain it to your children. Nope. Nope. Nope.

The cardboard box

2007-09-30T18:18:00.000-07:00

"We were evicted from our hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake!"

"You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road."

"Cardboard box?"

"Aye."

"You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank..."

- Monty Python, The Four Yorkshiremen sketch

* * * * *

How we happened to have a large collapsed cardboard box in our TV room is a story in itself. A few weeks back, I was watching a football game on ESPN while I waited for a soccer match to come on another station a bit later. The soccer match would be presented on tape delay, meaning that it was on-going as I watched the football game. Given that ESPN is forever scrolling the scores from other sporting events along the bottom of the screen, there was a very high likelihood that I would see the outcome of the game I wanted to watch later. That's how I came up with the idea of folding up a box to cover the bottom few inches of the TV screen where the scores were displayed. It needed to be a rather large box, as the TV is a 53" widescreen HDTV. Just so happens I had a box that would do the job. I watched the football game and then switched over to the soccer match never having heard the score.

As I mentioned above, that was a few weeks ago. The box has yet to be put away. The other night we settled in to watch the season premiere of The Office. I was the last one downstairs. By the time I arrive, not only are the sweet seats in the room taken, but the blankets too. Our basement gets kind of chilly with the air conditioning on. A light throw is pretty much a necessity to sit comfortably down there.

Without a spare blanket in sight, I scan the room for something to cover up with. That's when I spot the box standing up against the wall. Without a word, I walk across the room, pick up the box and carry it back to my chair. I position the box over my body. Cover myself in cardboard. The box reaches from my feet to my shoulders.

It is really quite comfortable, the box, and remarkably warm. I feel lucky to have it. My son takes notice and is quick to comment. "What are you doing, Dad?" He has a look of disbelief on his face. "Do you think you are too good to cover yourself with a box?" I ask him. "A cardboard box is all the shelter you will ever need." He rolls his eyes. Wifey knows where this is going and stays out of it.

We watch The Office for a while, my son and my wife under soft down blankets, me under a large cardboard box. Then:

"Dad, are you going to keep that box on top of you for the whole show?" my son asks. I answer affirmatively, repositioning the box gently across my torso. It makes a soft scratching sound where it rubs against my knees. I signal my satisfaction with a smile. My son shakes his head.

We turn our attention back to the television. Moments later:

"Okay, give me the box." My son reaches out with both hands grabbing at the box. "No way," I tell him. "You can't have the box. You were just dissing the box." But he is determined. "Come on. I want the box." I tell him he is not worthy of the box. "Please, let me have the box." Wifey pleads for quiet, telling us she can't hear the television. Finally I relent. "Fine," I tell my son sternly. "You can have the box. But only for a few minutes. After that you have to give it back. Deal?" He agrees.

I pass my son the cardboard box. He passes me his blanket. The box is huge on him. He can barely balance it on his body. "Pretty nice, huh?" My son smiles, his braces glimmering. He feels he has pulled a fast one on the old man. I position the down blanket across my lap and take a sip of wine from my glass before pushing back in my recliner.

Once again we are enjoying the program on TV. Until:

"Dad?"

No response.

"DAD?"

Nothing. Eyes straight ahead.

"Come on, Dad. Give me the blanket back."

Exact Title TBD

2007-09-22T12:37:00.000-07:00

I always keep a fresh idiom in my back pocket in case I need one. Come to think of it, symbolically stowing anything in one's back pocket is in itself an idiom. Or maybe it's a metaphor. Who really knows the difference? No doubt about it, for those uncomfortable pauses in conversation that require a jump start or change in direction, the idiom is just the thing. Problem is, people are rarely prepared to step up to the plate and deliver the winning run, idiomatically speaking. Or metaphorically speaking. And even if they are able to come up with an idiom at a moment's notice, it's likely to be some hackneyed cliché that falls like a lead balloon. In fact, many people are fond of that very expression: "it fell like a lead balloon." Except, technically, that would be a simile. Or an aphorism. It's difficult to say.

Anyway, without further ado, here's one of my original idioms:

"Don't bake a potato unless you know there's butter in the dish."

Pretty good idiom, wouldn't you say? Or metaphor. Or maybe it's a colloquialism. Whatever. I like it. It's deep and meaningless at the same time. Everything that an idiom should be. Or a maxim. Either way, lay that on people at a party, tell them "don't bake a potato unless you know there's butter in the dish," and they're going to shake their heads and say, "Amen to that, brother." People appreciate a well-crafted idiom, especially one they haven't heard before, one that makes them think. Or maybe reflect.

I have quite a few other original idioms. You know, to cover a wide variety of situations. In fact, I'm working on a book of idioms. It's going to be called "Jack's pocket guide to original idioms or metaphors or _____." I'm going to let the editors work out the exact title. Every morning I go down into the writer's cave that I dug in my basement and work on a new idiom for the book. The cave is a wonderfully creative work space, albeit a bit damp.

Here's another of my idioms for you before I go:

"If you notice that your socks don't match your pants, you probably spend too much time looking down."

Or maybe that's a non sequitur. Also, I may have read it in a Chinese fortune cookie.

Please buy my book when it comes out. In addition to the paper copy, there will be digital versions for your iPod and car's navigation system. Now, back to the cave...

thump thump thump

2007-09-22T06:28:00.000-07:00

"What is that noise?" I asked my twelve year old son.

I was sitting quietly, enjoying a morning cup of coffee and thinking about nothing in particular.

"Oh, that's me," my son answered. "I'm trying to see if it's possible to jump without bending my knees."

You can always count on a twelve year old to both interrupt a quiet moment and give you something to think about.

I defy you to put the hypothesis of jumping without bending out of your head without at least visualizing the process or even standing up and giving it a go yourself. Just be prepared for questions from anyone within earshot trying to enjoy a quiet moment.

Patina

2007-09-19T18:53:00.000-07:00

The installer said our new patio doors should be stained or painted within the first six weeks to protect the wood. That deadline slipped. Then Bill Clinton left office making room for George Bush, 9/11 and war with Iraq. Obviously, I was in no mood for staining wood. I gave up my gym membership somewhere along the line. Stopped running, too. Got out of shape. Some nasty accusations about secret torture camps made the news, complete with nasty photographs. The furnace broke on the coldest day of the year. Then I started running again, but fell. It hurt. I vowed never to run again. Another election. Domestic spying. The air conditioner broke on the hottest day of the year. Melting ice sheets. Sea level up to here. Still the patio doors remained untreated. Lately, though, things have been okay. There's talk of bringing home the troops. I've returned to the gym. Run a few times without falling. My football team has a winning record. There are fewer Hummers on the road and more hybrids. There’s money in the bank. The mortgage is solvent. I am feeling, well, hopeful. So, last weekend I went to the hardware store and bought a pint of wood stain, some sandpaper, masking tape, a drop cloth and a new paint brush. I came home and got busy. First there was the sanding. The patio doors had taken on a patina over the years consisting mostly of human exhaust, skin oil and kitchen smoke. It took a lot of sandpaper to remove this grime. But it came off eventually and the replenished wood soaked in the stain with a pent up thirst. A second coat deepened the luster and filled in the spots I had missed. The doors look nice. Clean. Transformed. Red oak now instead of yellow pine. Next weekend I'll add two coats of polyurethane to lock in the stain and they'll be done. It’s hard for me to imagine. The patio doors are ready. Ready for what? That's the question.

Equal footing

2007-09-15T15:03:00.000-07:00

Be thankful for the symmetry of toes.
Left foot equals right, only opposite.
It's a blessing, really.
Last thing any of us needs
is one toe standing out from the rest.
Next thing you know there's cliquish behavior
on the part of the other toes,
exclusion of the unpopular toes,
idolatry, gossip, flirting, practical jokes,
teasing, name calling and, quite possibly,
falling over.

Spin cycle

2007-09-10T16:59:00.000-07:00

Our new washing machine and dryer were delivered last week. The washer is one of those high efficiency front-loading machines that uses about a thimbleful of water to clean a load of clothes. The Energy Guide Statement claims that running this machine for a year will cost $9 in electricity. That's less than I spent at Starbucks in the last three days!

I wouldn't normally get excited about laundry. I haven't actually washed a single article of clothing in many years. Wifey handles that. Okay, now, before you get all uppity about how my domestic behavior perpetuates sexist roles and responsibilities, allow me to state in my defense that I do most of the cooking in our house. And a good deal of the grocery shopping, too. And in my spare time I sew little sweaters for the short-haired dogs locked up at the local shelter so they don't shiver at night. I, uhm, well, I cook and I shop - let's just leave it at that.

Anyway, the new washer is pretty cool. Except that it really vibrates during the spin cycle. In fact, the whole laundry room seems to vibrate. The first time I saw this happening, I was a bit concerned. "Don't worry," Wifey told me. "This is normal." She went on to explain, "this machine spins so fast that clothes come out barely moist, which of course cuts down on the time they spend in the dryer." I haven't seen the energy rating for our dryer yet, but I'm guessing it is pretty efficient on an annual basis as well. Maybe the equivalent of five or six Starbucks cappuccinos.

Sensing that I wasn't sold on her normalcy claim regarding this vibration business, Wifey pointed to a sticker on the washing machine. "Read for yourself," she said. "I can't," I replied. And I couldn't. The washer was spinning so hard, the words on the sticker were a blur. Just then, the spin cycle ended and the big box of a washer came to a halt. The sticker that my wife wanted me to see came into clear view. It read:

"Your new high efficiency washer spins almost twice as fast as conventional top load washers. You will notice different sounds and slight vibration. This is normal."

The last sentence was underlined. You can imagine the people at the washing machine factory answering all the phone calls from concerned customers claiming that their washing machine is shaking as though it's poised to take flight.

"We have to tell people that this is normal," the shop manager must have screamed to his customer service staff in frustration.

"But we have, boss – look, it says right here on the sticker: 'This is Normal.'"

"Well, it's not enough," the shop manager surely fired back. "Underline it, damn it, underline it!"

I'm still getting used to our hyper-active washer. It sits on the main floor of our house, so during spin cycles you can feel the vibrations from a good distance away. Mind you, it's not a problem. The rumbling just catches me off guard sometimes.

Last night, in the upstairs bathroom, I was getting ready to snip a few nose hairs with a pair of those really sharp curved scissors designed for this purpose, when I felt a slight vibration between the metal blades and my left nostril. Near the sink, some toothbrushes rattled softly in the ceramic dish holder. For a moment, I didn't make the connection. Were we having an earthquake? Then I remembered the washer. "Oh yeah..." I went ahead and snipped the nose hairs. What the heck. The clothes need washing and the nose hairs need trimming. This is normal now.

Labor Day Weekend Merriment

2007-09-01T08:27:00.001-07:00

Body surfing in La Jolla
People watching at a Zurich cafe
Hiking above 10,000 feet in Colorado
Installing a new floor in the laundry room
Scuba diving in Belize
Dinner and a show in NYC
Fly fishing in Yellowstone National Park

Which of these do you think I'm doing this weekend?

Shaken, stirred, or whatever

2007-08-29T05:15:00.000-07:00

I have never had a martini in my life. Never even tasted one. But last night I had a dream in which I drank a martini in a classic martini glass, and it was the most delicious drink that ever passed my lips. It was one of those five second dreams that comes out of nowhere without even a trace of relevance. The glass may have been handed to me, although I don't remember there being other people in the dream. For all I know, it may have been floating around in the air for me to grab. I drank the martini down in one gulp and was strangely overcome with the savoriness of the cocktail. That seemed to be the entire focus of the dream, as if this was some important moment of erudition in my life – the recognition and acceptance of what I have been missing all these years. At the bottom of the glass was a single green olive. At this moment in the dream, as the olive rolled into my mouth from the upturned glass, my attention switched from the surprise of loving this unfamiliar concoction of vodka and vermouth to the anticipation of the familiar briny taste to follow. But just before I could bite down on the olive, the dream ended and I woke up. Shortly thereafter, I sat down to a bowl of Cheerios and milk that tasted, well, just plain strange.

More than just Pooh

2007-08-27T17:35:00.000-07:00

At the bookstore I spotted a book by A. A. Milne called "The Sunny Side." Milne, of course, is best known for his Winnie-the-Pooh stories. But before he wrote Pooh, he wrote humorous stories and poems for the British magazine Punch. First published in 1921, "The Sunny Side" is a compilation of Milne's favorite writings from Punch, or at least those that he thought an American audience would appreciate. What first caught my eye with this book was the subtitle on the dustcover, which reads "Short Stories and Poems for Proper Grown-ups." Now there's a grin! I opened the book and read the blurb on the inner sleeve. Then I read the opening lines from several of the stories in the book. The more I learned about A. A. Milne's humorous side, the more I liked his style, and the more I saw similarities between this book and the book I would like to compile of my own stories and poems. Putting aside debate as to whether or not I qualify as a proper grown-up, I purchased "The Sunny Side" and took it home. I'm about half way through. The stories are a bit dated, but quaint and creative. I suppose this is the best you can hope for with a book of humor pushing 90 years old. "Well, isn't that quaint." I wonder if that was what Milne was getting at when he mentions in the introduction that "The Sunny Side" will be the last of this sort of book. The reason, he says, is that "this sort of writing depends largely on the irresponsibility and high spirits of youth for its success, and I want to stop before...the high spirits become mechanical and the irresponsibility a trick." Really?! Let's see, in 1921 when Milne wrote those words, he would have been 39 years old. Too old to write humor? But just the right stage of life to start writing children stories about a bear named Winnie-the-Pooh? Go figure.

Welcome to the new Peeling Wallpaper

2007-08-21T19:08:00.000-07:00

I used to write Peeling Wallpaper here, but starting today it will reside here at Blogger. Same name. Different look. A bit simpler. I'm thinking of not having any images - just my thoughts, my words. We'll see how long that lasts. With luck I'll blog a bit more than I have in recent months. I've been busy as hell. That hasn't changed, but my resolve to get back to writing has. Here's a short poem of mine that sums it up nicely, I think.

I lost my way.
Then I found it.
Then I lost it again.
Only to find it once more.
Then I had lunch.
Then I lost it.
Bad tuna fish.