Cutting Up

Current car commercials 

complain of cookie cutters.

“Munching motorists

Might miss me,”

my gingerbread man mutters

Something sweet still sends

Sugary shudders

So many must mutter

“Keep em coming, cookie cutter.”

Me And Walt

I’m working through whitman’s song of myself

More than once I have sat reading all that I could

On  and on as it flew ‘til I finally stood

Trying to hold it all, at one time in my mind,

Not as walt did, I tried not to leave it behind

But it washes on through, and so, becomes me.
Is that what he wanted us all to behold?

Or is it that self seldom seen with the eye

Hmm, I wonder 'bout whitman as the days unfold,

Not alone, of course, but with me, myself and I. 

Solar Tribute

At sunset (and at dawn perhaps,

I really would not know),

The clouds, their rules are know to lapse

They get to choose their colors, though

What they were when it begins you see

Must limit some just what their choices be.

The white clouds turn to yellow and pink,

Or some shade of gold, but always bright.

Dark clouds sometimes look like crimson ink

Or purple veins which underpin that light.

In any case the clouds they do transform

Their daytime roles displaying wind or storm.

Instead they bear glorious witness to the sun

The source of life, ‘round which the earth does run. 

Dis-Solving Problems

Ever have one of those days?  You know, you wake up with several crises looming and a list of steps you expect will address each of them?  To deal with the first, look up the tracking  number on that letter you sent and you'll know they are taking care of it.  For the second, call the service center line, wait your turn and they will clear up the confusion.  And the third, all you need to do is track down that original email with the information you seem to have lost.

Well, today, I tracked the letter to confirm it was delivered, called the service center and asked the question, and found the email I received with the original information.

The results--the letter was signed for by the wrong person, who held it for three days before handing it to the addressee.  When I asked my question at the service center, after putting me on hold three times, she took my number, promised to call back and didn't.  The email had an attachment, just not the one I was looking for.  Oh for three.

Tomorrow, I will have answers from all three.    

Dogs and Their People

Recently, I moved from one doggy community, to one even more profoundly so.  I mean mine had been a vacationers’ paradise, but with a twist that took a while for me to notice.   Many who travel to this part of the world (Hilton Head Island, SC) do so because their dogs are also welcome here.  On countless mornings, strangers walking the beaches in the morning hours (before 10 AM and after 5 PM) meet and greet with the help of their dogs. 

In the off-season (between Labor Day of one year and Memorial Day of the next), dogs are welcome on the beach all day long.  It is almost as common here for people to bring their dogs to restaurants as it seemed in Europe when I visited there.  Everyone is looking for a restaurant with outdoor seating, which implies to many that pets will be permitted.  But the clincher is when you see water bowls conveniently located around the eatery.  Dogs are welcome, and their people, too.

But now, I see people taking dogs for walks in strollers, and in golf carts.  One good thing I have observed is about the golf carts, they stopped and walked their dogs—actually leaving the cart.  Have I seen anyone take their dogs out of their strollers?  Not that I can recall.  People, do you remember what you are walking your dog for?

Today I watched three people who appeared to be walking their dog together.  It was a man with two girlfriends

Don’t get the wrong idea here; he and the dog shared a leash, that’s true. 

But being behind him meant nothing at all to the other two.

As was easy to see, the girlfriends paid him no mind.

They were talking and walking many paces behind.

I think they were friends, though they could have been neighbors

But clearly just one of them carried the fruits of their labors,

I’m sure one was getting the straightest of poop,

I just couldn’t tell which had provided the scoop,

Two bags she did carry, with what had been scooped,

Each with a fresh load that the dog had just pooped.

During the walk filled with startings and stoppings

The man with the leash wasn’t leading at all,

Nor were the two girlfriends, who carried the droppings,

Of that hound, their real leader, the king standing tall.

(It happens sometimes, I just break out in rhyme
I’ll soon be over it, just a matter of time)

I Should Be Kicking Myself

I'm here to tell you I've taken up boxing. My own  pair of boxing gloves will be here next week.  I've been using a pair of borrowed gloves for my first two sessions.  If you knew how old I am, you'd probably be as shocked as I am.  And another thing, I'm doing this on the recommendation of my daughter.  She has read the research and says this is good for people like me.  But it's true. Twice a week I go to the gym and work on learning how to throw a variety of punches, in a series of combinations.

I'm practicing keeping my hands up, fighting my height, returning to my own stance after each foray. Oh, did I mention it is technically mixed martial arts that I'm learning?  I mean, when you're learning to fight, why limit yourself to just throwing five or six different punches, when there are five or six kicks you can use?  I'm sure it will be just as easy to learn multiple martial arts at the same time as it is to simply focus on just boxing.

There are a few initial hurdles, I have to admit. Take for example the first I encountered, when my instructor had to show me how to put on my borrowed boxing gloves. Sure, you're probably chuckling at that one,  but try it some time.  You pull on the first one easily enough. You pull it on and wrap the strap around your wrist using the super easy Velcro fastener. Yes, you may not remember, but you used to have to lace up and tie the gloves like shoes. Now, where was I?  Oh, yeah, I had just put on the first glove.  Now, picture this, I reach for the other glove, but I can't really grip it with my gloved hand.  You see, my fingers are immobile inside this large leather-encased cushion about three inches thick. Oh, and my thumb is turned inward and enclosed in a cushion of its own.  Pulling it on is a struggle, but I can manage it.  It's on at least, now how do I grab that strap I need to pull around my wrist to tighten it up enough so it will keep the glove firmly on my hand while I am punching?  Not so easy, but my instructor shows me a trick and it's done.

Next, my instructor says, "Hit me."  I don't move. He says it again. "Hit me."  I still don't make a move.  He gives me a quizzical look.  "I don't hit guys like you."  He's five inches taller, outweighs me by forty pounds ( I can't say for sure, but I'd guess it's mostly muscle).  He laughs and says,  "Probably not."

I could go on and on about initial hurdles in this project.  But let me just give you one more.  At the end of my 2nd session, John says, "I'll set the timer for one minute, and you hit this bag any way you can." While I wait, I'm thinking, "I start with a jab, then...."   The bell rings and I'm all over it.  I'm punching, using combinations--short ones, my memory of what he's just shown me is not all that detailed.  But it goes on, and on, and on, and on...   Finally, the bell rings.  And I can barely breathe!  and I'm fighting an inanimate object that can't swing back.  How do they do it?

Then, John asks, "How come you weren't kicking?"  

Another Prince and the Pea Moment, or It Never Hurts To Demonstrate a Little Sensitivity Once in a While

Recently, I felt a little drowsy while reading a book on a Sunday afternoon, so I decided to try a little something I have heard stories about from time to time, but never had the time to try--a nap.  So I laid down on a bed, on my side, not my back, of course, because I have been told that other people from time to time who sleep on their backs tend to snore.  Anyway, I felt a little twinge of a lump of something at about the height of the bottom of my pants pocket.  My first thought was to roll over onto my opposite side, but I remembered I carry my wallet in my side pocket instead of my back pocket, having given up the habit of carrying it in my back pocket after reading some airline travel magazine article about probably one of the top ten spots where one had to watch out for pickpockets, that is (I am not making this up) while touring the Vatican in Rome.  The advice offered there was to stop carrying one's wallet in a back pocket, as that made one "easy pickings" for any pickpocket.  The preferred alternative is to carry it in your side pocket, preferably with your hand casually stuck in the pocket as well.  I thought this was a much better strategy than the one adopted by my spouse's father in his later years.  He would wrap several rubber bands around his wallet, making it harder for a pickpocket (or--remember this--anyone else) to slip it out of of that pocket.  Consequently, he spent an inordinate amount to his time when the bill came for dinner trying to tug out his wallet and remove the several rubber bands to get at his money or credit card, thereby avoiding any risk of picking up the check for a meal.

So I decided not to flip over on my other side, but instead to remove whatever small object was in the pocket on the side on which I was lying.  It was probably just a peanut, or an M&M candy, or an M&M candy-covered peanut.  Ah, but as I emptied said pocket, I found two pair of flip-up, clip-on sunglasses, a key fob for an automobile with a key ring and post office box key, $1.63 in change and an Apple iPhone 6s...  Now, I'm left wondering about those people who, every once in a great while, observe that I may not be the most sensitive person around, perhaps even a little insensitive or was it non-sensitive, or full of nonsense?  Hmmm,....   I talked to my friend H. C. Anderson, and he said not to worry, although it might have given him an idea for a story.