I am tired of the Donald He’s been kvetching too long Like a broken recording Of the same, worn-out song So, cuz he keeps on whining I searched on Google while in bed And on a health advice website There was this counsel I read
If you like piña coladas And hate goin’ down the drain If you’re not into MAGA If you have half a brain If you like living life in freedom Not cowed by a big ape Then here’s the cure you’re looking for It will get you in shape
He didn’t think much of that lady I know you know who I mean Don with his side kick J.D. Had slunk back into the same sordid routine And so out in the Garden MAGAS sieg heiled their Führer And while he thought no one noticed He can’t fool all the voters
Yes, I like piña coladas And some distilled sugar cane I’m not into his BS I am into champagne So we got out to vote in November To make a change of landscape And toast to all our hopes— But Damn! He did escape!
Well, when my luck ain’t no damn good You don’t listen, you don’t listen No good deed goes unpunished But I don’t mind being your gotcha boy I’ve had that pleasure for years and years
No, no, I never was a winner, tell me, what else could I do? Yogi Berra’s what you get ’til you learn to follow rules And chance respects no person, and what I want often fails You’re waitin’ somewhere to fall into my arms
Saw my picture in the paper Read the news about this face And now some people don’t Wanna treat me the same
When you guys come tumblin’ down When you guys come tumblin’, tumblin’ When you guys come crumblin’, crumblin’ down (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)
Well, some people say I’m too foolish and crazy I am just a softy, my compassion’s plain silly But I know that there is something more Don’t need to look over my shoulder to see what I’m here for
Everybody’s got their problems, ain’t no new news there I’m the same old person you’ve been seeing for years Don’t confuse the problem with the issue, man, it’s perfectly clear Just wish that chance doesn’t need me to appear
Don’t wanna put my arms around you Feel your breath in my face You may bend me, you may break me But please stay safe in place
So no one comes tumblin’ down So no one comes tumblin’, tumblin’ So no one comes crumblin’, crumblin’ down (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there’s a feline perched on cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to her august stature. Her eyes are chill half-moons, impervious orbs, that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of her subject’s soul— fond, but fumbling denizen of her domain. His callow voice, symphony of uneven notes, falls like scattered autumn leaves all about her, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge her from predetermined scheme. She just stretches in a languid arc of catlike grace, feigning boredom while her attendant croons his reverent, heartfelt paeans of devotion, soundtracks to her staid, indulgent resignation. And as day wanes and dark fills the room, she will purr out “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of her solitude and the clumsy affection of the human heart. In that certain moment, when she so deems it, she may settle in a bit closer, an inch or so, as if saying, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” Her subject, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, grooms that kitty with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is her boon and grace, and affection a crown she wears lightly, if at all. Thus, in enigmatic tandem, the two coexist: a sovereign planet with her sidekick satellite, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of her immutable indifference.
Beneath the cwm zenith where nymphs wheezily prance, whizbang melodies from an old jukebox entrance. Faqirs strum quickly on sweet mezquite-wood guitars, highjacking reality, exciting quasars. A Jezebel sylph winks, zombifying the night, the zymurgy of enchantment, bathed in moonlight. Below the Qi’s frolicking flybys, swift and free, caziques and vizcachas equalize at tea, as quetzals dose on outoxyphenbutazone, jazzed by zippy zephyrs that sizzle to the bone. And while muzjiks whisper, “Quixotry is preferred. To maximize the magic, Xerox the absurd,” xylophonists scarf flapjacks, yelling at bezique, “Prizes in zuz and xu, not exempt from our pique.” Chutzpah and qwerty thusly are here intertwined, defuzing the mundane, leaving logic behind. So, exorcize your qualms and brush the “phphts” away. Squeeze out cynicism. It’s Oxazepam Day!
As I pee, sir, I see Pisa Dog doo? Good God! Desserts, I stressed! God saw I was dog. God’s dog. Dammit, I’m mad! Step on no pets. Go deliver a dare, vile dog! Dogma in my hymn: I am God! Dog’s God. Was it a cat I saw?
Light, and warmth! How could it be? Last night, it had been getting dark and chilly, even cold. He certainly hadn’t expected any hint of warmth after a late autumn night’s slumber. But it did feel warm, how odd. Could he have gone into hibernation like his father had told him happens at the turn of the seasons? His sleep did seem longer than usual. Could this then be spring? Perhaps. Gosh, he felt really good. He did not remember ever feeling so rested.
But wait, there was something even more puzzling. Hadn’t he last been deep underground when he turned in after eating that last tasty morsel of mammoth dung. Yum, that was so good. How the heck was he now on the surface?
The surroundings seemed so very strange. He could not come close to identifying anything that he was sensing. The light and the warmth were so unusually uniform. Nothing made sense.
He had been to the surface several times before. The area above his tunnel home was where the great forest met the cold edge of the Artic tundra. The tundra was covered with moss and lichens. Dwarf shrubs dotted the stark landscape with an occasional sparse grove of fir. The region was also home to woolly mammoths, giant bears, dire wolves, and elk, whose delicious droppings made up much of his daily diet. He enjoyed the wide, free space whenever he was above. There he could flex his singular endowment, his extraordinarily strong abdominal muscles, which allowed him to sprint twice as fast as his nearest competitor.
Whenever he ventured above ground during the day, the warm sun would always sit low on the horizon. However, this light now came from directly overhead. It was not the warm light that he was used to, and there was more than one sun! Very strange.
Suddenly, voices began booming out. Only once before had he heard a human voice, as one of that species passed along a trail nearby. Now there were at least two human voices.
“Jenn, according to the report, they discovered them while digging deep in the Siberian permafrost near a river called Kolyma.”
“I looked that place up; and that’s way up, opposite Alaska.”
“This is one of the worms that survived through cryptobiosis. This one’s assigned to us.”
“Say, I think the little fellow is waking up, Rog. I bet it’s wondering where it is.”
“Come on, do you think it knows or cares? It’s like Rip Van Wormkle.“
“Ha, Ha, Rog. Perhaps so, but I bet it’ll figure it out soon.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Listen, I’ve been around these little critters long enough to know that they are much smarter than you think.”
“Well, we know of one worm that’s pretty smart.”
“Give me a break, Roger. That worm is too single-minded. At least these guys can serve other purposes. And of course, each is both sexes.”
“Okay, okay, sorry. Let’s chart it up and bring this guy/gal over to its new home. I missed my lunch waiting for our Siberian visitor to arrive.”
******
As typical for a late Monday afternoon, Harry Worm went about his business. He was one of several dozen Wigglers assigned to the Agriculture Lab’s compost bin No. 4. Everything was routine – eating contentedly, digesting ardently, and pooping dutifully – morning till night, day in and day out. After each sequence, he would pause for a good belch to free an extra space in his gut and proceed to the next food item ahead of him. Whether it be plant or human waste, it didn’t matter much to him. It was all good. That afternoon he had been progressing at his usual pace when he encountered an especially enticing chunk of discarded newspaper script. He slowed down, licked his lips, and began to chomp down for a good bite when he spied the start of a headline: “Scientists Revive 46,000-Year-Old Worms from Siberian Permafrost”.
“Hmm, that’s something you don’t read about every day,” he chuckled and then continued single-mindedly with his delectable task. “Newspaper print sure is delicious.”
He and his work team continued for a while with their assigned meal when suddenly the lab’s main lights turned on full bright, followed by a noisy commotion.
“Over here. Bring it over here to this temp bin. We’ll see where the PI wants it later. Hope it’ll like its new home.’’
“I wonder what’s all the commotion about?”
“Don’t know,” his pal Willy replied. “It’s odd. The staff is sure kicking up the dirt about something.”
“Yeah, normally they’re like Gregorian monks chanting all that data manure, if you know what I mean,” Gummy giggled.
“If only it was real manure! You know, some fumier de cheval or bouse de vache! I’m tired of eating the same old ordure.” Curly chimed in.
“Oh Babe, I get all wiggly when you do French,” Harry flushed as he coiled up his tail.
The commotion lasted a little while longer; then the bright lights turned off, and the lab’s ambient lighting returned to normal.
“Well, I guess the show’s over,” Harry said as he settled back in to finish his meal before turning in for the evening.
It did not take too long before it was lights out too for him and his pals. But this was not going to be an ordinary night.
“Hey, hey, what’s going on? Where, where am I? Help! Somebody, help!”
Harry was startled awake. It was not yet morning.
“What the heck’s going on?” he muttered groggily. At first, he thought the cries were from one of his crew; but he soon realized it was coming from another part of the lab, in the direction of the commotion from yesterday.
“Help, help. What is going on? Where am I?”
“In a lab stupid,” Harry responded snarkily.
“A lab? What is that?” a perplexed voice queried.
“Must be another newbie,” Harry rejoined, surmising that the voice was coming from someone in the next bin over.
“Please, please, could you please tell me what’s happening to me.”
“Look, pal, could you pipe down. Our work crew needs to get some shut eye. We have a new delivery of trash tomorrow Tuesday, and the staff here runs a really tight ship for deadlines.”
“Work crew? Trash? Staff? Tight ship? Deadlines? What are those?”
“Are you from Mars?”
“Mars? You mean the red planet? I live in Siberia.”
“Siberia, in Russia? Well, pal, you’re not in Kansas, I mean, Siberia anymore. And how the heck did you get all the way here to Berkeley?”
“Berkeley? Where’s that?”
“Berkeley Bears, Sunny California, the Golden State, the Left Coast! Don’t you know?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I don’t understand it. Were you born yesterday?”
“Yesterday, no, a few months ago. What are you talking about?”
“Hold on, hold on, Siberia. That rings a bell. Yesterday, yes yesterday I was reading, well munching on a headline about some scientists finding worms out there. They had found them and then defrosted them.”
“Defrosted? You mean, no longer cold. Yes, well I do remember waking up this morning feeling a bit cold and then suddenly warm. It was so confusing. I was no longer down in my home underground. There was bright light, like on the surface; but it wasn’t the ordinary surface. I found myself within a confined space with borders on all sides that I couldn’t penetrate.”
“That was a box, my dear. Haven’t you ever seen one?
“A box?”
“Well, you’re probably right since I guess you’ve never seen one, since you’re 46,000 years old.”
“What? 46,000 years old? How can that be? My grandfather lived for almost three solar cycles, and I thought he was very old. Never heard of a worm living more than seven or eight years at most. 46,000 years.”
“I think something happened to you way back then and you got frozen somehow.”
“The last thing I remember was worming my way under some tasty mammoth dung and starting to doze off. I did perceive a change in the surface weather. The tundra soil was turning colder than usual.”
“Mammoth dung, huh? And wow what a story! Have they given you an assignment?’
“Assignment? Sorry, again I don’t understand. Could you explain where we are now? And by the way, who are you?”
“Oh sorry. I’m Harry Worm. I’m your 21st century model.
“Hello, I’m called Gogo.”
“Gogo. Does sound Russian.”
“Rushing? Well, yes, I have been known for my speed.”
“Speed, no, that’s not what I meant; but in any case, nice to make your acquaintance.”
“What is this place and what are you doing here?”
“This is the University of California, Berkeley’s Agriculture Lab. I was born here and live and work here. The staff here provides me and my colleagues with a wide variety of waste to eat and process.”
“You were born here? And you live here?”
“Yes, it’s quite a comfy life. Beats going out and looking for the next meal. Also, there are no worries about being eaten by predators. There’s a supply of food that comes in about every day; and the company is always good. Oh, and the hours are regular, or if you prefer, you can do overtime.”
“Well, that does sound appealing. All I remember was constant foraging in the sparse, harsh environs of my home in the tundra wondering when and where my next mean would come. Say with all this talk of food, I’m getting hungry.”
“Well, go ahead a have a bite now, or you can wait until tomorrow’s delivery for something fresh.”
“Say, could you do me a favor. Please explain how things go here.”
“Sure, no problem, but (yawn) it’s getting late. How about we get some sleep now? I’ll give you the nickel tour and show you the ropes in the morning.”
“Nickel what? Ropes? I guess I’m completely clueless as to what you mean.”
Silence now from the bin next door. Curly approached Harry in the dim lab light after his long conversation with the new tenant.
“Harry, I heard you talking with someone in the next bin. Was that what the commotion was about?”
“Yeah, a newbie from of all places Siberia. Right now, he’s a grub in a bird’s nest, clueless and scared.”
“Siberia? Wow. Say Harry, how is it that you’re able to talk with him? Does your new friend speak English? Or do you have a hidden talent I’m not aware of and speak Russian?”
“No, I don’t speak Russian; but we didn’t have any problem speaking. I thought it peculiar when he said he was from Russia, but then I remembered when they brought good old Chili in. We could communicate with Chili with no problem even though he was from South America. I guess we worms are at least a couple of evolutionary steps ahead of them humans. We speak a universal language, Worm, which we can all understand.”
“Harry, you said two steps ahead. What’s the other?”
“Well, we all have both sexes, so no need for any feminist or incel movements,” Harry said with a wink and nod.
“Oh Harry, you’re silly.”
“Yeah, poopsie, you’re right. Humor is the spice of life. And on that note, here’s something sure to floor you. Our neighbor is extremely old.”
“Old? You mean elderly. I thought they only brought us in young.”
“Well, our guest is young, but also very old.”
“What?!? How can that be?”
“It’s getting late. I’ll explain in the morning, night night.”
******
The lab’s lights come on full as a staff member enters with a large, heavy tray. Detecting the strong scent of fresh trash, Harry awakens with a smile and a song borrowed from a commercial he had heard playing in the lab.
“It’s a new day, it’s a new way, and I’m feeling good…”
Another round of commotion.
“Ouch, don’t do that. What are you doing to me?”
As she did the day before, Jenn takes Gogo’s statistics – length, weight, color, skin condition, light sensitivity, etc. This is despite his many protestations, which of course she couldn’t understand even if she did hear them, since humans don’t speak Worm.
Jenn then cleared an area near the edge of the bin and with a pair of tweezers gingerly placed the new tenant down into the bin.
“There you go buddy. It’s your new home. Have a good day.”
“Have a good day? Oh, that’s right. It must be my pal, Gogo. And yum, here comes breakfast.”
Jenn adds the usual amount of new waste into the bin, marks her chart, and leaves the room.
“Hey, Gogo, welcome to your new turf!”
“Hi, I guess so. Do they do that every day?”
“The measurements? Sure, at least for newbies like you. You’ll get used to it fairly quickly. I like it when Jenn does it. On the other hand, Roger is often in a hurry. He can get a bit rough, though I can’t say I blame him; because he’s always looking to score a sandwich. I do like the crumbs he leaves from his lunch.”
“Harry, you were going to tell me what’s going on here, right?
“Sure, let me do a quick intro before we get started on our tasks for the day.”
“Ok.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, we live here in a sort of worm’s paradise.”
“Paradise?”
“Yes, all we need to do here is wake up, eat, eat some more, digest, poop, and then sleep.”
“Well, isn’t that what we all worms do?
“Yes, but there’s no one here to eat us. Because of that, worms here generally live three, four, and even up to eight pleasant years. The food is plentiful and constant, and very varied. In short, a worm’s paradise.”
“Wow. This is some place. No worries? Wow! I like it already. But you didn’t mention one thing.”
“Oh? What is that.”
“Cuddle.”
“Cuddle. Of course, you mean sex.”
“Yes, I guess so, though I was taught not to call it that so directly.”
“Hell, yes. Often, very often and with whomever you please. Personally, I tend to be a bit more monogamous than most, having read or rather eaten a few articles on the risk of serial boinking.”
“Boinking?”
“Well for us it’s coupling.”
“And what food do they serve us?”
“It runs the whole gamut, a wide range of urban waste.”
“Urban waste?”
“Yes, It’s what humans use and throw away. It varies quite a lot. Here’s a quick list – ordinary cut vegetation (grass, leaves, decayed fruits and berries, twigs). I like in particular coffee grounds from which I get my morning buzz.”
“Coffee? Buzz?”
“It’s brown and soft and has a nice aroma. It gives my few neurons and a quick wake up call. Some others prefer tea or something with a little alcohol. Too much though can make you woozy.”
“Then there’s hair and poo from all kinds of sources. Or it can be wood bits and chips from houses and buildings.”
“Houses and buildings?”
“Oh course, I guess those didn’t exist in your time. They’re kind of like huts, only permanent and much bigger.”
“There’s also boxes and books, and newsprint and magazines. That’s where I got the news about your discovery.”
Hearing Harry talking with Gogo, Curly was drawn over.
“Hi, guys. How’s it wiggling? Wow, Harry, our new pal sure is very handsome! Why didn’t you call me over sooner. Are you hoarding him for yourself? Come on over here, sugar.”
Harry’s skin turned beet red when Curly slivered up toward Gogo. In reaction to Curly’s maneuver, Gogo began to secrete.
“Hold your beetles there, Curly, you sly hermaphrodite, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
“Wow, this place is something special! How could I have imagined? I think I’m really going to enjoy it here.”
Curly was disappointed and a bit miffed when Harry poured cold water on the encounter with Gogo.
“Harry is pretty good with the intros, but always tends to leave out some important details.”
“Oh? What are those?”
“Well, this is a science lab. And we are all guinea worms.”
“Guinea?”
“Yes, the humans can do with us what they like, for whatever reason they want.”
“Oh! Like what?”
“Like spike the food with industrial trash and waste,”
“Curly, you shouldn’t…”
“Oh, please continue.”
“These wastes include substances tainted with all sorts of chemicals – common and exotic, mild and harsh – to see if we can digest them and convert them into something they can use.
“Oh, interesting.”
“They call this recycling.”
“Well, that at least sounds good.”
“Yeah, but often it’s not good for us.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Well, the obvious is that it is frequently not good for us. The stuff is anything but natural, often what humans come up with mixing, blending, and transforming all sorts of materials. Wait till you have a taste in your mouth of alcohol, bleach, dye, and even more exotic chemicals. It will make you sick. You’ll often want to vomit.”
“I don’t understand what these things are. Sounds bad, but are they dangerous?”
“Of course, you wouldn’t have encountered these chemicals in your lifetime, I mean in your first life. They have only been around for the last few hundred years. Many of these materials and liquids can be dangerous, especially in high concentrations.”
“Concentrations?”
“When there’s a lot. And sadly, we lose quite a few comrades when these substances come in the trash that they deliver.”
“Oh my.”
“Rarely, but sometimes, some of us are even exposed to radioactive contaminated waste. “
“Radioactive?”
“It’s something invisible and tasteless that causes a slow, excruciating end.”
“Oh my, oh my!”
“Sometimes they insert changes into the genes in our eggs, using a technique the staff here calls CRISPR. They say it is to improve our offspring, to make them even more efficient in decomposing trash.”
“This sounds hideous. They actually make or change our babies? And I thought Harry was painting a picture here of paradise.”
“Paradise with a lot of asterisks. That’s the real life here.”
“Asterisks?”
The conversations with Harry, Curly, and others in his new home really put an exclamation point on Gogo’s new circumstance. He became frightened. Very frightened. How could this be acceptable? Back in Siberia, so long ago, he had never feared what he ate. Everything was natural, safe. Here, your next bite could truly be your last. What an existence. It’ simply intolerable. But what could he do? There seemed no hope. He began to cry and cry.
“What’s wrong, Gogo?”
“I’m not cut out for this. I can’t take it. You may be used to it, but I’m not and don’t intend to. I’ve got to get out of here. Tell me. Is there any, any way to get out?”
“Well, with some coordinated help, we have occasionally taken a spin out of the bin and onto the lab floor. We call it Breakaway.”
“So it is possible. But how so?”
“Well, first we gather and form layer upon layer, should upon shoulder, so to speak, a worm-pyramid. Then when some of us make it to the top, we go up over the bin’s lid. I’ve done it a couple of times. It’s fun. Breaks up the monotony.”
“Can you guys do that for me? Please, I have out of here. Even if they catch me, it would be worth it to breathe the air of freedom just one more time.”
“Well, okay. Jean Val Jean. But aware that the drop is steep. Some don’t make it; and then there’s the staff will probably catch you and put you back where we started.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Well, then let me round up the crew.”
“Thank you, I’ll be indebted to you.”
“That’s your funeral.”
After a few minutes, Harry was able to summon several dozen of his comrades for Projected Escape.
“Fellas, you know the drill. Get to your usual positions. Ready? Okay, okay, here we go. One, two, three … and up.”
Slowly the base was built, slithering layers of creatures were added one by one, building a vibrating, unsteady pyramid up to a its tip. At last, Gogol mounted and was nudged and pushed up until finally he reached the top edge. Then one last shove and he was over in free fall. Splat. The height was significant. The descent stunned and hurt, but he did make it down to the floor in one piece. That was great.
After pausing a few moments to recover, he happily detected that no staff members were present and began to search for an exit. He was aided by a trail of human odor and the flow of air coming from a single source along the floor. He took a very deep breath and kicked his abdominal muscles into gear making his dash for freedom through the gap under the door.
******
“Say, Russel, did you do what I asked you and help your mom rebuild the nest. Last night’s windstorm was a doozy.”
“Yeah, yeah, I did. As if you were going to help. You can’t pry yourself from the TV.”
“Shut your beak, Junior. This is your dad. I put in more than my share of forging for this family. I deserve a few moments to kick up my claws and spread my wings. Besides the round-robin badminton finals are on. I love watching those birdies fly. And then there’s the next episode of Birds in Paradise!”
“Whatever.”
“Say, you’re up earlier than usual. What gives?”
“After all the hopping around for sticks and strings yesterday, I got hungrier than a Philadelphia eagle this morning and flew out to see if anything available in the neighborhood.”
“Find anything good?”
“Well, yes, I did; and it was a bit strange.”
“Strange? How so?”
“Well, I was circling near the university when I spotted something very unusual, a round worm moving along on a sidewalk way out in the open. It seemed to be on a mission, heading toward the park; and it was hauling ass!”
“Wait what? Hauling…? A worm?
“Yes, yes, a worm I couldn’t believe it. It was goin’ crazy fast, waving its tail like a , zigging and zagging, and doing that thing worms do”
“You mean scrunching up their abbs and then extending?”
“Hell, yes, like a slinky doing a hundred-meter dash. I’ve never seen one move so fast.”
“Well, heck, did you get him?”
“Of course, I did. What do you think? And I’m glad I got to see him first. He was so out in the open. Any old hooter could have dived in and snatched it up easily.”
“That’s my boy. Your mother is always on my case, yammering like a parrot, whenever she thinks you’re not eating right.”
“You know dad, something else was a bit weird.”
“Yeah, what?”
“He was extremely tasteful.”
“That’s great. So…”
“I can’t put my claw on it; but, but the taste reminded my bird brainiac of something Grandpa Cawker once said to me about the old days.”
“Oh? Way back in his days with Crowlemagne?”
“Seriously, Dad. Grandpa told me that what they used to eat had sort of homy, wholesome, backwoods tastes and textures that can’t be matched nowadays in our polluted urban areas.”
“Yes, Grandpa’s right. Once he took me for a quick flight to the woods beyond Orinda. I remember we feasted on some worms and grubs near the reservoir. That was some treat.”
“Well, what I had this morning was absolutely scrumptious; and I’m just glad I got up early. And as Grandpa always said, ‘The early crow catches the worm.’”
Amid life’s game, our fate in its mitts, We play slots looking for lucky hits. With a spin and a cheer, Pay off would be so dear. To win big, hope fancies no limits!
Nearby in a place of legend told, There lives a bold and mighty soul, A man gifted with strength untamed, Hal Bain, esquire, his storied name. From lowly birth he rose with grace, Defying odds, at his own pace, Just his smirk makes dentists cower; He handles hurt with special power.
Fearless hero, a hale, nice guy, His prowess known, both far and nigh, Fending off needles gives him thrill No such foe withstands his sheer will. But it’s not just strengths that define, Nor battles with med staff unkind, For he enjoys a spirit rare, Contempt for pain, he does declare.
Filled with passion, forged by trials, He laughs at pain’s attempts and wiles, Suffering to him, mere illusion, He faces it with staunch conviction. We wonder—no meds, not a thing— How this good friend defies pain’s sting, But deep within his heart he knows, True strength is not to care for woes.
With each pin prick, his heart grows grand, Breaking free from pain’s cruel hand, For he believes that self-made chains Constrain one’s soul, hold back the gains. Through a fresh way, he breaks pain’s reign, Moving thoughts to a far-off plain. Such an action is bold indeed, But he vouches it does succeed.
So, can we learn from our pal’s’ tale To rise above and not to wail, And cast away pain with disdain? A sure answer I can only feign.
College basketball legend Bob Knight passed away this past week. His impact on the sport is undeniable, both good and bad. For more than a decade, he and his teams were quite a force in college sports locally, nationally, and even internationally. The news brought up a few Knight-related memories:
1. On the evening of the 1976 national championship, my newly minted wife and I decided to go over to the downtown Bloomington bars to join in the big celebration. We felt that parking would be hard to find if everyone came out, so we found a spot in the campus main library lot, approximately four blocks from the center of town.
There was quite a fete. The whole campus and town populations it seemed had turned out. Beer and spirits were flying liberally about, poured down gullets, on heads, on shoulders, on pavement, and so on. Naked streakers proliferated mixing and dancing maniacally with students and faculty on the streets amidst dozens of stalled, honking and flashing cars and pickups.
Once we had our fill of the crazed festivities, we turned back towards our car to return home. As we approached, we unhappily discovered that the party had spilled over to the lot. Drunken students were racing and leaping about among the parked vehicles, AND on top. Some were jumping up and down on and crossing over to the hoods, including ours!
Fortunately, this had a happy ending. A friend of a neighbor who worked in a body shop worked out the depressed hood for little charge – a kindness in response to our victory celebration plight.
Welcome to Hoosier Basketball!
2. We were attending the Cream & Crimson Scrimmage, to which faculty and staff are invited to watch the last full-court practice before the start of the 1981-1982 season. My wife, daughter, and I sat on an aisle one row up from the court, on the opposite side from the team bench and coaches. We were closer to one basket, but still had a great view. In March, IU had won its second national championship in Coach Knight’s tenure, and there was naturally great anticipation and much attention being paid by the devoted audience to the prospects for the new season. For the scrimmage, the players were as usual divided into two squads – one sporting Cream-colored jerseys and the other Crimson – the school’s colors. The squads were putting on a good show, not letting up steam. Of course, they were being prodded on by the master himself, the revered Coach Knight, who fully orchestrated the performance, continually barking out commands from the opposite side of the court.
Although it was not a regular season contest, the scene looked and sounded real. It was very noisy, both from the cheers of the crowd and from the action on the court. As the squads thundered toward our direction, there was a sonic boom created by the pounding of feet and the screeching of shoes. The collective sounds roared and oscillated like ocean waves. The din would subsequently subside as the players reversed and drove themselves back down the court. My barely one-year-old daughter was caught up in all the commotion, seemingly entranced by the rhythmic tide. She would stand up as high as she could on my lap whenever the squads approached our area and then let out a small roar of her own. This pattern continued for several minutes.
I sat there fixed, eyes focused on the flow, observing and examining how the players maneuvered for each attack on the basket, or how then raced back into position on defense. Over time as the action continued intensely on court, I started to sense something odd. I briefly spied a small blur in the distance. At first, I paid only passing notice. Next, I detected some movement on the upper periphery of my vision. A figure or sorts began moving slowly towards the left; then picked up pace. Again, I did not make much of it and continued to turn most of my attention to the action on court. But the blur or figure kept getting larger and larger as it continued to the left. But then I lost track, pulled back by a great layup. But there was something that I found strange, no more barking from Coach Knight AND he was no longer standing on the opposite side. Did I miss something?
Suddenly a large looming person appeared out of nowhere. He thundered out, “Get that kid out of here!”
It was Coach Knight towering above us in our seats.
“What what did you say?” I asked, stunned by moment. “What’s going on, Coach?” I tried to laugh, or giggle, or something, but could barely get anything out.
“I want that kid out of here,” he shouted again.
I was blown away. Incredulous. My wife sat dumb-founded.
“What had we, our daughter done to merit this treatment?” I thought.
We were not given much time to think or react. A coaching assistant who had accompanied Knight into the stands said, “Sorry, you’ll have to leave.”
“But why?”
“Coach says you’re disturbing our practice and have to leave.”
We reluctantly packed up, grabbed my daughter, and exited. It made little sense. Surely, he and the team encounter great volumes of noise and disruption during a game; and we were on the opposite side of the court. I wonder to this day how one small infant could so profoundly disturb the great Coach Knight.
Of course, my daughter has no memory of this incident, and it did not at all affect her love of playing basketball.
3. One afternoon, my wife and I were playing tennis on the university’s varsity courts when were joined in the next court by Coach Knight and another person. Seeing who it was, we did not bother to stop our play, We still held a grudge from the time he had kicked us out of the stadium six years earlier because our year-old daughter’s impassioned yells were apparently too much for the coach’s ears.
As continued our play, we began to hear the Coach raise his voice in discussion with his partner. We couldn’t discern what he was talking about, but soon several of their balls started ending up on our court. This is very normal for action on adjacent courts, so we had no issue about hitting their balls back whenever there’s the need. However, the heated talk turned to yelling, louder and louder; and the stray balls, particularly those off the coach’s racket, grew more and more frequent.
In the past, I had seen Knight play tennis. He was a decent player, so I didn’t understand the lack of control. His opponent did not seem to be extraordinarily formidable. I paused and approached my wife to whisper a question.
“What’s going on with Knight?”
“Who cares. He’s a jerk and probably a sore loser.”
“Perhaps, but it still seems odd. He has some bee in his bonnet.”
Soon we wrapped up our play. As we exited, Knight continued fuming on court.
The next day, we got the answer. It was reported in Herald-Times, Bloomington’s local paper, that Knight had been approached by one of the paper’s reporters on a downtown street. As the reporter was trying to pose a question, Knight had allegedly pushed the hapless fellow back through a hedgerow. Well, what can you say?
******
Dear Hoosierland,
I must remind you that according to our contract if you had wanted to continue to have championships in Indiana, you needed to provide Ken’s family the necessary financial support. They held up their end of the bargain through their major family events: 1) When they got hitched in 1976, Indiana went undefeated and won its first championship right after they had arrived on campus. 2) In 1981, when their daughter was born, Indiana achieved its second national championship. 3) In the year that their son was born, Indiana again attained the championship; however, you subsequently stopped giving them financial aid support. A contract is a contract. With no more support, they of course consequently stopped producing offspring – resulting, as you very well know, in no further championships for you (even for the major pro sports), even if you cried about it.
BTW: As a signing bonus, I did throw in Mike Pence. Oh, he just dropped out, you say. Well, tant pis!
I daydreamed I was on trial, accused My espresso gone cold, and so abused. “Oh woe,” I exclaimed, “What can I do?” Someone then said, “I’ve the one for you: He can make Perry Mason green with envy; Stir jurors and witnesses into frenzy. As to judges, he’s wise to predilection, ‘Cause they always sweat about re-election. Of his rep, biggest frog in the pond, Opposing teams are not very fond. A Tiger eyeballing any inconsistency, He sniffs out obfuscation and insincerity. Not bursting out from the gate with guns blazing, He evolves organically with pacing, Showing at first restraint and patience, Then exuding swagger and confidence. He digs his claws deep into motivation, Then charts an opponent’s slow degradation. Deftly nudging prey into a canyon, No half measures are his only canon.” “But the bottom line is, I must demand, For my lapse should I get a helping hand? To fess up would appear common sense, But I can’t lose my Grinder’s license.” “Yes, he can salvage any reprobate If you can afford double market rate: Coin of the realm, beans or grounds all accepted, Absolutely no maximum rejected.” Gradually the scent of coffee arose, Managing to tickle and tease my big nose; I suddenly woke from the short spell, And yelled out loud, “I’d better call Hal!”
If you find yourself in the shower naked in the frothy mist, peering vaguely through the worn plastic curtain, you are not king of the moment, especially with a stolen towel. Raise neither your voice nor curl your toes in the suds, instead scrub remarks from your lips and beg her for forgiveness or she’ll leave you to your demise.
It was a bright Saturday morning in March 2021 when Aaron leaned out the window of his apartment on San Francisco’s Twin Peaks. The city was eerily quiet, an emptiness he had never known. The streets that were usually bustling with tourists, street vendors, and locals all trying to squeeze in a little extra fun before the weekend had been silenced by the pandemic. California—his adopted state—had become a strange version of its usual self.
He sighed heavily, brushing his messy brown hair out of his face. On the surface, it seemed like he should have been the happiest person in the world. California, with its year-round sunshine, its relaxed lifestyle, and its endless outdoor amenities, had long been considered the ideal place to weather a crisis. Despite COVID, the Blue state had one of the lowest rates of mortality in the country, and the weather was perfect for socially-distanced hikes or bike rides. People seemed to be doing fine—maybe even thriving—given the circumstances. But Aaron was not having it. He felt… trapped.
From the safety of his well-situated apartment, which overlooked the downtown skyline and the distant Pacific Ocean, he could see families on bike rides, joggers with headphones in their ears, and couples strolling through parks while maintaining that necessary six feet of separation. The streets were cleaner, the air was fresher, and the clouds in the sky seemed fluffier. People were finding peace in nature, embracing outdoor workouts, and connecting with themselves in ways they never had before. In many ways, California was the perfect place to be during a pandemic.
But Aaron, who had spent his life complaining about the crowded traffic, the high cost of living, and the inherent superficiality of the Woke city, couldn’t see it that way. All he could think about was how everything had changed—how everything was now different in a way that felt oppressive, even in a state as beautiful as California.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed his phone to scroll through social media. Everywhere he looked, people seemed to be posting about how grateful they were for the “extra time” spent in nature, how they were rediscovering local hiking trails, and how they were cooking wholesome meals at home.
“Must be nice,” he mumbled, typing out a quick comment under a friend’s post. “Some of us are stuck in our apartments, staring at the same four walls for days.”
Aaron knew his comment was a bit exaggerated. It wasn’t like his apartment was a prison—it had a huge open floor plan, a gourmet kitchen, and more amenities than most people could ever dream of. He even had a balcony where he could sit in the mornings and sip coffee while watching the sunrise. But the novelty of it all had worn off, and now he was left feeling restless, isolated, and yearning for the kind of excitement that San Francisco used to offer—the constant swirl of social events, world-class dinners with friends, spontaneous weekend trips, and endless possibilities.
And then there was the whole “stuck in California” issue. He’d joked with friends before the pandemic about wanting to escape the state. The taxes, the crowds, the feeling of being surrounded by people who all seemed to care more about their tech or influencer status than anything else—it had all started to feel suffocating. He’d longed for a quieter, simpler life somewhere like Montana or the Pacific Northwest.
But now, as states like New York and Texas saw an increase in cases, as some places were struggling to keep up with health systems and resources, Aaron felt strangely envious of his friends who had fled to small towns or rural areas where life seemed unaffected. He thought about the fact that he was lucky enough to be in a place with such a high vaccination rate and a mild climate. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being forced to stay in paradise, and it drove him mad.
He complained about the fact that his weekend trips to Napa Valley had been canceled, that his annual surf trip to Malibu was off the table, and that his usual Sunday brunch gatherings were reduced to Zoom calls. He found himself scrolling through photos of friends on beaches in Florida or in secluded cabins up in the mountains—places that weren’t so closely regulated, where people could escape the confines of the shutdown.
But no matter how much he griped about being “stuck in California,” the reality of the situation was that he was among the safest in the country. Despite his irritation, his apartment had become a sanctuary. The weather was ideal for socially distanced walks along the Great Highway and beaches, and despite the pandemic, many of his favorite local restaurants offered takeout with curbside pickup. He could even enjoy the peace and quiet of a nearly empty Golden Gate Park, the hiking trails winding around Mt. Tamalpais offering respite from the chaos of the city.
The more Aaron thought about it, the more ridiculous his complaints seemed. Despite the mask, and actually because of the masks, he was living in one of the most health-conscious and safest regions of the country—he could walk outside in the open air with hardly any fear. People were embracing the outdoors, exploring parts of California they had never bothered to visit before. And while the entire world was struggling to find balance in the face of uncertainty, California offered an endless supply of nature, culture, and things to do.
One afternoon, as he found himself once again looking out over the city, he saw something that made him pause: a group of friends gathered on the lawn in front of the De Young Museum. They were all maintaining distance, yes, but there they were, smiling, chatting, and enjoying the beauty of the day. No one was complaining about the restrictions. Everyone seemed to have found a way to adapt.
Aaron sat down on his balcony, took a deep breath, and looked at the hills in the distance. For the first time since his establishment here, he didn’t feel resentful of California. He was stuck here, yes, but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing after all.
Maybe it was time to start enjoying the paradise he had been so eager to escape.
It was a regular Monday morning at the American School of Antananarivo. The sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the classroom as Mr. K handed out a new assignment. The class was buzzing with excitement, ready for the challenge of the day. But an incident that had occurred at the end of the previous week had set the topic of the first class session.
“Alright, class,” Mr. K began, his glasses perched at the end of his nose, “today we are going to discuss something I call a Classmate’s Dilemma. It’s a tricky problem, but I know you can handle it.”
Everyone looked at each other with puzzled expressions. “What’s a Classmate’s Dilemma?” asked Sacha, the class clown, always ready with a joke.
“Good question, Sacha,” Mr. K smiled. “Let me explain with a story.”
The students leaned in as he began.
“Imagine two friends, Alex and Dan, who were caught for something they didn’t even do—just a mix-up, really. But the teachers thought they had sneaked cookies from the lunchroom, and they were put in separate rooms to figure out what happened. They could either confess or stay silent.
“If Alex stayed quiet and Dan confessed, Alex would get in big trouble—two weeks of recess detention. But Dan would get off with just one day of detention, for telling the truth. If both stayed quiet, they would each get one day of detention, because the teachers couldn’t prove much. But if both confessed, they’d each get a week of detention, for admitting to taking the cookies.
“Each person had to decide without knowing what the other would do.
“Now, here’s the trick: If both of them thought the other would confess and tried to avoid getting the worst punishment, they’d both end up worse off. But if they trusted each other and stayed silent, they’d get off lightly.”
Mr. K paused and looked around the room. “Now, I want you to think about this. You’re Alex, and your best friend, Dan, is in the other room. What would you do? Would you trust them, or would you confess?”
After hearing the story, the students were divided. Mr. K handed out slips of paper with the instructions: “Choose whether to confess or stay silent. Write your choice, and then we’ll see what happens.”
The room filled with whispers as the students debated. Some, like Sacha, said they’d confess right away to avoid the worst punishment.
“I’m not going to risk a whole week of detention. If Dan confesses, I’m doomed,” Sacha said.
But others, like Alicia and Dedek, thought maybe they should trust their friend. “I think Dan would stay quiet, so I’ll stay quiet too. That way, we both get off easy,” Alicia said.
“Yeah,” Dedek agreed. “But if Dan confesses, I’m in trouble, so maybe I should confess first?”
They couldn’t decide, and as the bell rang for recess, the students had to make their choices. Each wrote down their answers on their slips of paper, folded them up, and handed them to Mr. K.
Mr. K read the results aloud after recess. There were mixed answers. Some students had confessed, while others had stayed silent.
“Let’s see,” Mr. K said, “Sacha and Alicia both confessed. So, they each get a week of detention.”
The class gasped. They couldn’t believe it.
“But, Dedek and Ava stayed silent,” Mr. K continued. “So they only get one day of detention each. That’s much better!”
A few students were surprised that trusting each other worked out better. Some looked at each other, realizing that maybe, just maybe, they could have avoided the trouble if they had trusted their friends more.
In the end, Mr. K explained the lesson. “In a situation like this, sometimes it’s better to trust people and work together. But it’s always hard to know what someone else will do. That’s the problem or dilemma.”
As the bell rang and everyone packed up to go home, the students couldn’t stop talking about the game. Sacha shrugged. “Well, I learned something. Trusting people is tough, but it might be worth it next time.”
Alicia smiled at Dedek. “Next time, we’ll stay quiet together, right?”
“Deal,” Dedek agreed.
And so, the fourth graders learned a lesson about trust, choices, and the tricky nature of decisions—though they probably wouldn’t be sneaking cookies again anytime soon.
What forged you? What special event? Have you been shaped in adversity? The failures, losses? Setbacks, defeats? Is suffering a tool in this earthly school? Has the rug been pulled from under you? Done something Wrong in a past life? Is it all part of the web of things? Wonder why you are here? Or do you have the joy of surviving and relish the question: If you had the chance, would you do it all over again?
Phone that disc jockey on the radio waves not to play any more of those sappy tunes. Instead, let us drink under the bright moon and ignore them, savoring this moment as we lean against the railing and croon of times past and opportunities lost bellowing into the night soulful sagas embellished by the power of the brew.
One day as I was waiting for a job interview, I lapsed into a daydream — I dreamed I was a peanut. I was neither a very big peanut nor a handsome one. I was just a plain, ordinary, happy peanut, not well-off but comfortable in my own way. I was perfectly content to live out my life like any other peanut, waiting in the sun for the day the farmer would grab me up and send me off to be packed and sent to sit for months on some distant shelf. All I would do as I waited was sit down near to the earth and hum a simple tune to pass the time.
Things turned out quite differently for me, however. It so happened that some representatives from Panter’s Peanuts came by and overheard me humming. “Unbelievable!” one shouted, “A humming peanut!” They all dashed over to speak to me. “Where did you learn to hum?” they asked in unison.
I was just about to answer when I was interrupted. “Never mind. We’ll sign you up. Why this is the greatest thing since singing oranges!” (I suddenly remembered the television commercials with the singing sun-kissed orange who skyrocketed to fame from obscurity and had recently gone beyond that and turned to religion crusading against fresh grapefruits.)
Well, I, too, was catapulted into a career. Before I could realize it, I was packed up and heading straight for Honeywood. There I met one of those big-time managers who was to become my very own. I was shaking in my shell. As I came into his presence, I overheard him talking to one of his colleagues; “It’s simply sensational. A stroke of luck. One in a billion, nay in a trillion! The nation’ll love him. He’ll hum his way into the hearts of millions of peanut butter lovers everywhere.”
I was overwhelmed. They were talking about me. We were introduced. “Don’t be nervous, kid,” he said, “We’re your friends. Bet your ma and pa are proud of you. Heh! Heh! At least they will be when we make a star out of you. We’re impressed, nay blown out!”
After reflecting upon the fact that I never had time to call home, I timidly asked what made me so special. “Why, kid, don’t be modest. Modesty’s a bad word in our business. Why you are the only hummin’ peanut in the whole, wide world, including Georgia!” Pantin’ Peanuts been lookin’ hard an’ long for a gimmick, erh, I mean a new sensational, creative promotion to help drive their already burgeoning business up over the hill.”
“But sir, I only hum a few simple tunes, nothing fancy. I’m no Almond brother; and besides, look at me, I’m no Clint Chestnut either.”
“No that’s true, but, oh, that’s all right, kid. We’ve got a great backup band and the makeup men can perform miracles… Let’s get started.”
And off we went. First came the taping sessions and studio performances. Soon came the real thing. There were no more rehearsals. The pace was fast and furious. But the manager was right. It was a success. I became a star overnight. The fan mail went from one letter (a letter from my mom wishing me luck) to thousands. I had to hire three secretaries. The company’s stocks on Walnut Street soared up and up. There was a ticker tape parade in the Big Apple. I launched the first peanut-shaped submarine. Filbert University awarded me an honorary doctorate degree. I even gave a private performance at 1600 Pistachio Avenue.
I used to read a lot of dime novels, you know, the Hazelnut-Acorn novels, about rising from rags to riches and never believed a word. Here I was flyyyyying!!! A real living legend. I was the celebrity. Agents and. fans kept trying to crash down the gates of my villa. They were vying with one another to get an interview, a look, or a chance to rummage through my garbage cans for God knows what.
And the parties, Jumpin’ Joe Nutmeg, they were indeed produced in Honeywood! Creamy Cashews all screamed their darling little hearts out as I crooned a few bars. Every day I was drinking hickory sours out of peanut shells. Every night I had collected so many keys tossed by female admirers I couldn’t find my own. And I didn’t care either. It seemed I had reached so high that I couldn’t get any higher. Incredible!
But then my manager tapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, “Look, kid, I’ve got the best idea in the whole world. The killer! Remember ol’ Elvis Pretzel. He was a great and popular star when he was young, but the poor kid got a bit pudgy, livin’ so high like he did. He started to take to drugs, bad trips and all that. The sales of his records began droppin’ off. Well, then he croaked, you know, that poor kid. But the amazin’ thing was the sales of his records, souvenirs, memorial tombstones, all that stuff went through the roof. Amazin’ isn’t it. Well, I’ve got this great idea…”
I didn’t stop to hear the rest. I turned and ran and ran and …only to be grabbed by a couple of big hairy coconuts. Before I knew it, I was strapped down in the jaws of a giant nutcracker and those jaws were a closin’!…
The receptionist’s call suddenly woke me: “Sir, Mr. Smith is ready to see you now.” I was in a cold sweat. I stood up and faced the exit. As I passed the receptionist, I handed her a note to give to Mr. Smith. It read “Sorry Charlie,” and I continued on my way.
No, the ensuing hookup was not my first; but to handle it, I was not well rehearsed. I had arrived from the northern chills to attend university in the blazing Sonoran hills. And after weathering a swirling sandstorm, I finally settled into my new school’s dorm. Next, I determined to explore my new town, to relax and cool myself off after sundown. Venturing out, I heard a bystander hawk, “Hey, I just love the way you walk!” The compliment got me to turn around to learn where came that flattering sound. Had someone noticed my personal stride, which unwittingly attested my Chi-town pride? The alluring voice had directed my attention to a nubile youth of dark, creamy complexion, She was a bubbly, mysterious ebony sprite who sported a shear summer dress ever so tight. We quickly struck up a rather raucous caucus that carried on ardently to the mall of campus. Obviously, my whole attention she stole, our conversation ranging from silly to droll. She snickered and queried if I had ever been with anyone who wore her same type of skin. Dumbstruck, I responded that I truly had not; something I expressed wish to learn more about. “Well, would you like to touch my curly hair?” My answer to her was, “How do I dare?” “Go right ahead. It’s no big deal; I don’t mind if you want to give it a feel.” Thereupon, I reached out timidly to touch; she then offered her hand for me to clutch. My head and parts perceived a quick rush; Our close interaction had made me blush. We tittered about things we had in common, and about what in free time we did for fun. But when we raised that specific topic, her talk became more and more myopic. She coyly quizzed if I liked to get buzzed, just as everyone she proffered at the college does. Alas, before me sat an artful temptress, who by now had put my feelings under stress. When pressed, she revealed she was underage, and that for her social drinking was the rage. She waited evenings for a wide-eyed score who could buy her hooch at the liquor store. So, instead of an intriguing new friend, I sadly had encountered a dipso Siren. Ergo, I declined politely getting some beers, and begged leave as she shed crocodile tears.
Les Français, they say, have minds refined, But their thoughts have clouds, a stormy sign. With each remarque, they make a frown As if the sky is falling down.
They sip their vin, yet curse the glass, For joy’s fleeting, too swift to clasp. In cafés small, with heads held low, They sigh as if they always know—
Future’s dim, c’est la fin du monde, Nothing is right, it’ll all explode. And while Liberté sounds divine, But even freedom has its time.
Their poètes write of love’s cruel art, Of dreams that fade and hearts that part. Les rues de Paris grown with gloom, As shadows gather spelling doom.
Oh, to be les Français who arise To welcome the world with leery eyes, To speak in sighs, in rueful tones, And call chez eux a house of bones.
Yet in their glumness, there’s a grâce, A kind of beauté none can replace— For through their doubts, their endless strain, They teach us new ways to complain.
Les Français, dit-on, sont si raffinés, Mais leurs pensées sont embrumées, leur esprit est orageux. A chaque remarque, ils froncent les sourcils Comme si le ciel leur tombait dessus. Ils sirotent leur vin, mais maudissent le verre, Car la joie est fugace, trop rapide pour être serrée. Dans de petits cafés, la tête basse, Ils soupirent comme s’ils savaient toujours— L’avenir est sombre, c’est la fin du monde, Rien ne va, tout va exploser. Et si Liberté semble divine, Mais même la liberté a son heure. Leurs poètes écrivent sur l’art cruel de l’amour, Des rêves qui s’estompent et des cœurs qui se séparent. Les rues de Paris s’assombrissent, Alors que les ombres s’accumulent, annonçant le malheur. Oh, être les Français qui se lèvent Pour accueillir le monde avec des yeux méfiants, Pour parler en soupirs, d’un ton triste, Et appeler chez eux une maison d’ossements. Pourtant dans leur morosité, il y a une grâce, Une sorte de beauté que rien ne peut remplacer. Car à travers leurs doutes, leur tension sans fin, Ils nous enseignent de nouvelles façons de nous plaindre.
Workhorse in a tiny package, light yet solid, a hands-on tool for lecture, letter, or novel, along with espresso, croissant, and cool jazz, there’s no better way to spend Saturday morn.
Powered by human touch and muscle, I churn out human language, a comforting sonata with my clatter, conducive to the creative process.
Page after page fly through my platen with ease enabling what comes closest to his athletic prowess as well as the charm, and to be honest, the frustration of the unmistakable pangs of writer’s block.
In a zone, his fingers may dance on my keys getting into the flow on a Zen roll, but also making so many mistakes that my x arm will soon need Tommy John surgery.
Sixty-word-per-minute, 1000 words double-spaced, for days, weeks, months, and years, he thinks he’s Hemingway or Ernie Pyle.
Banged up, spilled upon, cursed Misfitted ink-ribbons, broken keys, if we could just switch roles, I know I could write better than he.
For chocolate I never need excuse, But this proclivity once cooked my goose. Strolling with a new friend on vacation, We passed a shop replete with temptation. She brought up her passion for chocolat; I followed that I too had a soft spot. She dreamed of sitting in a creamy bain With the lush brown sauce pouring from a pan. Said that her birthday was fast approaching, A hint so clear I needed no coaching. Thus, I bought a fudge cake to celebrate And made sure we would not to be out late. Once back at the hotel after our meal, All encumbrances we soon did unpeel. When our activity raised up the heat, I then got up to retrieve the sweet treat. She motioned with appreciative eyes When my eagerness I could not disguise. After putting a digit in the topping, I grazed her rosy cheek with some frosting. Next there erupted an ear-splitting yell, Way louder than a banchee out of hell. The strum und drang caused such a disturbance; It brought a check by management service. Something that I did not anticipate Had served to seal my fate with that date. So unless you enjoy egg on your face, Make sure to have a consensus in place.
When I listened to le savant professor, When I sat in the lecture hall as he expounded on Descartes, Pascal, and Marx, When I heard elucidations of metaphysics, reductionism, and form, When the suppositions, tenets, and preuves were meted out, How soon I would drift off, grow tired et ennuyé, Till rising, then gliding softly from my back-aisle bench, I’d exit into the gray, misty Parisian air and souvent Find more wisdom seeping up from une demi-tasse de café.
Yesterday the morning came, a smile upon my face— Girl friend’s doorstep, with Yes tickets, Chris Squire’s driving bass. She just freed from a grounding, begged her father’s grace. But our plans we had to alter, being forced to race.
His limits imposed on us just told us where we were. Wary, leery, restless watchdog, showed us where we were. Lost in temper, rankling, fluster, our minds very far, Lost in losing circumstances, that’s just where we were.
Yesterday the ev’ning came, a frown upon my face— Prog Rock music, sampled glory, too short to gain pace, In a Plymouth car to suburbs, leaving concert place, If then someone asked my feelings, mine was just, If then someone saw my visage, mine was just… Mine was just red face, Mine was just red face, Mine was just red face.
Dad defying, firmly determined to shatter a norm, Sliding on up to straddle, her boldness, her defiance in gear.
Yesterday the late night came, big grin upon this face— The back alley, rousing glory, hot lover’s, hot lover’s embrace, On a rocket ship to heaven, lifting into space! If matched to Tom Jones’s ventures, mine was no… Mine was no disgrace, Mine was no disgrace, Mine was no disgrace.
Dénouement
Upon her return, her dad was fast asleep; Still due to her moods, our bond did not keep. So as a result, I hold slight regret That I could not hear more of Yes’s set.
Some quarter beyond the known cosmic scheme, Where new stars are born and galaxies gleam, One James T. Kirk sails through space, bold and free, On Starship Enterprise, his destiny. Through wormholes and nebulas, he charts course While voyaging through out the universe. Space to him is much more than void and black, It’s a test of courage, where risks never lack— A stage for discovery and wonder, Where Klingons battle and Vulcans ponder. “Engage!” His command resounds at the helm, To seek out new life, in the next strange realm. Joined by Spock, McCoy, Uhura, Sulu And of course Scottie and Chekov as crew, He boldly goes where none have gone before, Seeking civilizations to explore. For space is a mirror reflecting Kirk’s soul, A quest for meaning, where mysteries unfold. But should we give follow this Captain’s lead To future adventures where starships speed? In space’s embrace, will we find our place Or is it just fantasy, a fool’s race?
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, A tale of a reckless trip That started from a SoCal port Aboard a tiny ship.
The mate was a novice sailing mom, The skipper green but sure. Three passengers set sail that day For a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.
The voyage started nice enough, But their boat soon got caught. If not for the wave of a sibling’s bright coat, The Good Luck would be lost, the Good Luck would be lost.
The ship got stuck off the shore of a Santa Barbara beach With The Mrs. The Skipper too, Their daughter, my sister’s friend, Yours truly and Our hero with a windbreaker, Barely in sightful reach.
Now this is the tale of us stuck at sea; We were there for a long, long while. Though we tried to make best of it, None of us could smile.
The first mate and the Skipper, too, Would do their very best To make we others comfortable, In that knotted kelp forest.
No phone, no flares, no motor’s roar, No way to reach safety, Like Gilligan’s venture, As scary as it can be.
So, heed this tale of risk, my friend, To dodge a fateful scare. Before yourself set off to sea, Make sure that you prepare.
