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The End (Terrible Poetry Contest)

May 1, 2020

Today marks the end of Chelsea’s Terrible Poetry Contest.

The End

The Terrible Poetry Contest is done.
And now life has no fun.

No, I’m only joking,
although my voice is kind of choking.

And even though this news has left me feeling a little blue,
I’m a better Terrible Poet because of you.

I hope everything with you is OK,
and that you just need to step away.

Thank you, Chelsea Ann.
From, Michael Fishman

(Seriously, thank you for hosting the Terrible Poetry Contest for the last 18 months. It was a lot of fun and there were more weeks than not when the contest gave me a reason to sit down and think and write something. I can’t speak for the other wonderfully terrible Terrible Poets, but I think if you should ever decide to start things up again, we’ll be here!)

When She Was Around (Terrible Poetry Contest)

April 22, 2020

This week Chelsea directs us to write some terrible poetry that is, “A humorous end to a useful object. Irony is encouraged.”

(Disclaimer: there are a lot of things in the world that don’t follow the thought that we should avoid certain actions and language that others might find offensive. I agree with the thought that our words are important and that we should speak (and think) to others as we’d want to be spoken to; this terrible poem does not subscribe to that belief.)

When She Was Around

When she was around she did lots of useful stuff, sometimes did it in the buff.

Did some cooking and some cleaning;
I never did totally get her meaning.
Thoughts were dull and sort of unstudied.
Conversations were often somewhat muddied.

I probably shouldn’t have said anything because she was nice to have around.

One day in June she said, “Goodbye”.
I smiled and grabbed the remote ‘cuz it was nearby
You woulda thought I’d have felt a little blue
but in fact I sort of felt brand new.

I was alone, read and listened to some P-Funk,
found it wasn’t so bad, who woulda thunk.

Scientific Discovery of the Day

April 21, 2020

No, it has nothing to do with COVID-19.

What I discovered today was that if Canada geese eat cattails then their poop will have white fluff, like the white fluff inside cattails, on it. I found that out this morning when I was out for a walk and stepping lightly around a checkerboard of some odd-looking goose poop and then a few yards further on reached the path that winds through a marsh with a goose buffet of yummy cattails.

You wouldn’t know it by talking to me today, but years ago, back in the early 80’s, I enjoyed camping. The more I camped the more I wondered if I could actually ever survive in the wilderness so I bought some wilderness survival books to see what it was all about and to find out what Rambo knew that I didn’t. The books  were interesting enough, and I only mention it because I learned in those books that cattails have many uses in wilderness survival for more than just food for Canada geese. You can use cattails for tinder (the starting a fire tinder, not the dating tinder) and you can make rope out of the cattail leaves and you can eat them in a bunch of different ways, including like corn on the cob. I also learned how to distill your urine using a solar still. Turns out that wilderness survival was more attractive in my imagination than in reality, so my skills were never put to the test. I’ve never distilled urine and I’ve never eaten cattails or used cattails for anything other than taking photos of them.

 

Neigbors Redux

April 20, 2020

A little over three weeks ago, on the day Minnesota went under a ‘stay at home’ order, after a nice walk around the block, I posted about my neighbors. All kinds of neighbors. Neighbors I never knew I had. Neighbors everywhere. Neighbors I was somewhat fascinated with. Three weeks later and I’m seeing more and more neighbors and to be honest, enough is enough. I have enough neighbors at this point. And considering there were a lot of neighbors three weeks ago, and since I haven’t seen any ‘For Sale’ signs, how can I have more neighbors now?

Where are they coming from and where are they living?

And if that’s not mysterious enough to make you watch your back on a neighborhood walk, dig this: Back then there was a girl who rode a hoverboard and wore a cape and had an old black lab with a grey muzzle and belly. I haven’t seen either of them for three weeks. I have no idea where they disappeared to.

And this: There was a quaint elderly couple I was seeing in the mornings. No sight of either of them in three weeks.

And this: There was a woman with a crooked shoulder or neck and who didn’t seem to be very happy the times I saw her but then who can be too happy if they’re in pain, right? No sight of her either.

They’re all gone.

Poof!

Where are they all going?

And who are the new neighbors I see who are replacing them?

I haven’t seen any unusual vegetation or delivery trucks so I’m ruling out pods. I’m ruling it out for the time being at least and I’m reserving the right to revisit that theory in another couple of weeks if the neighbors continue to disappear and grow.

Maybe I was right to be a little suspicious of Mr. White Van. This is the neighbor with the large white van that has no side windows and who always has his van backed up to his open garage in the mornings with the motor running and the headlights on. Despite seeing him and his van a bunch of times now, it’s impossible to see what he’s loading or unloading. Three weeks ago I speculated that maybe he was unloading the bodies he’d collected overnight for whatever grim experiments he’s conducting in his basement. (Seriously, sounds goofy, I know, but you see that sort of thing all the time in movies and on TV shows so why not just down the block in suburban Minneapolis?) As the weeks passed and I kept seeing him at the same time in the morning, I decided that he was a contractor who supplied a line of vending machines around the cities and what he was loading in the morning were cases of chips and candy and the reason he was backed up so close to his garage was to A) save himself some walking, and B) not let anyone else see that he had 20 cases of Butterfinger candy bars stashed along with shelves of uber-tasty Whoppers malted milk balls and a passel of potato chips so they wouldn’t want to become his friend and eat him out of house and garage. But that was then and in these rapidly changing times I’m back to thinking about the grim experiments.

Experiments that are possibly being performed on a young girl and her dog, a quaint elderly couple and a woman with a crooked shoulder. And worse: experiments that could possibly involve the creation of new “neighbors” to walk the streets. And as I’m writing this on Monday April 20th at 2:25 pm and looking out my window, I just saw another “new neighbor” walk down the street. This guy was wearing jeans and a blue stocking cap and a bright orange vest like people wear when they go hunting. What’s he hunting? I can’t tell you what his face looked like because I closed my blind so he can’t see me see him. Until I know what, or whom, I’m dealing with I have to assume that they have superb (read: other-worldly) vision.

And if this isn’t enough, when I went for a walk earlier this afternoon I saw a baby garter snake. Isn’t there some mythology out there that tells us that snakes accompany bad things? And then there’s Yig the snake god.

Distressing times indeed.

 

Sick House (Terrible Poetry)

April 15, 2020

For this week’s Terrible Poetry Contest Chelsea asks for “a parody of a popular song on the theme of COVID-19” (maybe a little inadvertent terrible poetry on Chelsea’s part there with “theme” and “19”? Anyway . . .)

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Sick House
(To The Commodores’ Brick House)

<<Funky bass and drum groove. You know the kind: the one that makes you get up and dance with the window shades open because you don’t care who sees you doing your thing, even if you haven’t worn anything but underwear for the last month.>>

Mmm, mmm, mmm…

Oh, it’s a sick house.
He’s just wearing underwear and letting it all hang out.
Ah, it’s a sick house.
Coronavirus, means he can’t go hustle about.

Oh, it’s a sick house.
Those funky symptoms makes her have to quarantine
Yeah, it’s a sick house
Makes her stop and think about her hygiene.

They know they got everything
that a couple needs to ride this thing out.
Toilet paper, wipes and bleach
and 36 pounds of frozen lake trout.

Cause it’s a sick house.
They make a porridge with broth and crushed black beans
in their sick house
cuz they read it cures COVID-19

Oh, it’s a sick house.
Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous breakdown.

Need a mask
and some gloves
and a gown now

Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous breakdown.

Need Purell
Need some bleach
Need Lysol
Gonna bawl now.

Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous break
Nervous breakdown.

 

 

 

Random Thoughts #36: What’s the Time?

April 14, 2020

I’m not sure that I’ve ever blogged later than 6:00 PM on any day.

The inevitable questions that always get asked

April 14, 2020

It always happens. You tell someone you eat a plant-based diet and they inevitably ask, “But how do you get your protein?” Tell them you enjoy the Grateful Dead and they’ll say, “Oh… I never got into them; I didn’t do drugs.” Apply for a job and you get asked, “What are your weaknesses?” Reveal you’re an introvert and it’s something like, “But don’t you get lonely?”

Reality: It’s easier to get protein on a plant-based diet than it is on other diets. I don’t do drugs either and it’s not a requisite for enjoying the band’s music or their non-drug influence. Everyone has weaknesses and that’s a stupid interview question that doesn’t reveal anything meaningful. Introversion doesn’t equal loneliness.

I bring this up because I had to go to a Microsoft Teams meeting this morning and I got there a few minutes early and one of my work colleagues was also there early and we’re engaging in the typical inane chat that no one really cares about and then we move on to staying at home and working from home and he says, “All this must be easy for you.”

“What’s easy for me?” I said.

“Working from home and not going out.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re an introvert. You’re used to it. I’m crawling the walls here to get out.”

So what do you do? We’re on camera so I can’t stick out my tongue or make a face like I might think to do if he wasn’t looking at me, and I’m not crazy about arguing with anyone about something so meaningless, and now there are two more people in the meeting. I smiled in my usual half-smile sort of way and said that being an introvert doesn’t mean a person doesn’t necessarily like being isolated. “Oh, okay,” he says in that tone of voice that might lead one to believe he doesn’t believe what you just said.

I like to think of this guy – or maybe anyone who thinks they understand introverts because they’ve pigeonholed us into some easy-to-understand figure of a pale, scared, non-communicating, negative-leaning, retreating, shrinking violet – as driving down my block and slowing way, way, way down when he passes my house so he can roll down his window and lean his head out and try and look past the blinds to see what I’m doing in there all by myself. And maybe wondering to himself, ‘What’s he building in there?’ I know the thought would drive him crazy.

“What’s that tune he’s always whistling?”

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