Plebeian Extravagance

For our 14th anniversary,

we ate 

at a swanky restaurant.

Though we were dressed up,

it was hard to disguise our rusting 

2007 Chrysler Town & Country

between the Mercedes and Wagoneers.

Sitting al fresco,

pretending not to know our minivan,

I thought of my grandpa

when I saw

rainbow trout

on the menu.

I mentioned my memories

of him fishing for such

to my wife,

and she wagered she knew

people who worked at the facility

that supplied the duck -

not paper pushers or upper management: 

pluckers.

Shout out to Maple Leaf Farms,

Kosciusko County, Indiana.

After ordering an appetizer

of tomato, mozzarella, and basil

as well as duck for her,

I requested the trout,

in honor of my grandpa,

wondering if he would be

impressed or embarrassed

at my $28 fish

compared to what he caught

and gutted and cooked and ate

for almost nothing

but time

in the mountains

and the kitchen

with family.

The strangers in the next table

ordered the $260 bottle of wine

I couldn’t pronounce.

I squeezed a second lemon wedge

into my refilled glass of water.

The single thickly cut tomato,

slabs of soft mozzarella,

and sprig of basil

nestled in seasoned olive oil

was composed mostly

of food he grew in his garden,

as were the beans,

roasted potatoes,

and half of an acorn squash

which accompanied my trout,

relieved of its innards and bones

but not its head,

its unblinking eye peering knowingly past my button-up.

It was the simplicity that struck me

but also the quality,

as if it had come from

my grandpa’s garden and pole.

“This chocolate cake is

almost like my mom’s

microwave brownie pudding,”

she interjected,

“but the ice cream definitely doesn’t touch 

what my dad makes for birthdays.”

I concurred

as I wondered

at the $109 bill,

excluding tip for waiter and valet parker,

who, to his credit,

kept a straight face

as “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” played

from our tape deck.

The cost of temporarily

experiencing a taste of the state

of simplicity, it appears,

is high.

Higher than the cost of living it?

Thank goodness we had a gift card. 

There is Nothing Poetic

There is nothing poetic

about waiting until the kids are in bed

to replace a toilet’s wax ring.

The caulk I applied

a month ago

(after replacing the last wax ring)

is deteriorating

and has me worried that I did something wrong.

There is something comforting

about learning I actually had

installed the former wax ring correctly

but also frustrating

that I am redoing it.

There is something confusing

about thinking I knew why the caulk was cracking

only to realize the root problem

must be otherwise than I thought.

Thank goodness for my father & father-in-law

whom I can call for suggestions.

After yet another trip to the hardware store,

I hope I can resolve the problem

tomorrow.

I hope also that I can have 

something useful to say

when my son

or son-in-law

calls me

years from now,

10:30 at night 

mid-project.

That might be poetic.

 

My Burden is Light

My burden
is
Light.

I am the light of the world.

The light which is in all things,
which giveth life to all things,
which is the law by which
all things are governed.

The light that shineth in darkness,
and the darkness comprehendeth it not.

Take my yoke upon you.
Then are ye my disciples indeed:
Ye are
the light of the world.

A city that is set on a hill
cannot be hid.
Neither do men light a candle,
and put it under a bushel,
but on a candlestick

to give light to them that sit in darkness
and in the shadow of death,
to guide their feet
in the way of peace.

My word
is a lamp unto the feet,
and a light unto thy path.

All ye that kindle a fire,
that compass yourselves about with sparks,
that set yourselves up for a light unto the world
that ye may get gain and praise of the world
but seek not the welfare of Zion, 
walk in the light of your fire,
and in the sparks that ye have kindled -
this shall ye have of mine hand:
ye shall lie down in sorrow.

I Am
the true light
that is in you,
and you are in me;
otherwise ye could not abound.

Therefore, cease from all your
light speeches,
from all your lustful desires,
from your pride and
light-mindedness.

If your eye be single to my glory,
your whole bodies shall be filled with light,
and there shall be no darkness in you;
and that body which is filled with light
comprehendeth all things.

That which is of God
is light;
and he that receiveth light,
and continueth in God,
receiveth more light,
for light cleaveth unto light,
and that light
groweth brighter and brighter
until the perfect day.

Learning to be Happy

Share a "haikaption" (haiku caption) in the comments for this pic if you feel so moved!

My attempts are here.

(reminder: haiku is 5, 7, 5 syllables)

 

The Clothesline

A childhood friend shared with me he'd bought roof-top solar panels.

My wife informed me that we'd bought a clothesline.

"They won't pay for themselves until someone else owns the house,"

he told me,

"but that's okay - it's the principle that matters."

"With 3 kids and 1 in cloth diapers,"

my wife told me,

"it'll more than pay for itself soon,

so we can put more down on the house's principal

and focus on other financial matters."

When I briefed my friend on how we were also using solar power,

he admitted his solar-panel-o-meter shifted 

from showing a surplus 

to relying on the grid

whenever he ran the dryer.

"With 2 kids in sports and 1 in Pampers,"

he shrugged,

"it's just too much work to dry all their clothes on a line."

I nodded knowingly.

I'm glad that the people I know

keep me apprised

of so many meanings of

and methods for

"going green,"

though I am reminded

by some of them

of a Rube Goldberg Machine

as I picture the manufacture

and installation of solar panels

to absorb the sun's energy

and convert it to electricity

in order to run a dryer

while the Amish

go direct from sun to clothes.

Perhaps it's us

who are amiss,

and they are

ahead of our time. 

Of course, the panels power

more than the dryer,

but will they end up

in the same place

as the Pampers?

And is that better or worse

than the coal burning somewhere

to power my washer?

These debates, pro- and con-,

about renewable energy

leave me feeling

hung out to dry,

particularly when both sides 

become more entrenched in their positions than 

the engine oil stain that won't come out of my high school drama sweatshirt,

and especially when my clothesline

wasn't accompanied by a government subsidy.

But 

as I watch my underwear

wafting in the wind with the cloth diapers,

waving at my neighbors walking by,

I feel my worries, 

with the water,

evaporate

into clouds

that I guess

will block the sun for both

the panels

and the clothesline,

as we all get swept along

together

with the Tide.

Orange Crush

I think I’m patient.

53 minutes after

my pizza is due,

I know I am not.

The best I can do is chat

with fellow suff’rers:

older door dash chap,

mom and her seven-year-old,

mother of teen boys.

Complaining binds us;

a mutual enemy

forges fast allies. 

I’m hot and ready.

I'm supremely frustrated.

Extra most madddest.

Others come and go.

I begin to conspire

with my gollum self

about my precious

ring of powerf’lly scented

dough, sauce, cheese, toppings.

We plot and script out

the politest way to ask

to whine to someone,

to wheedle our way

to two free pizza coupons

or something greater.

The grandma cashier

who should be retired and

playing with grandkids

- she who I despise

as the company’s face but

mostly pity - comes.

Apologizes.

Offers a free 2-liter.

I choose Orange Crush

and gush gratitude

for being seen, understood

before I went and

embarrassed myself

with a public display of

hangry aggression.

Am I spineless then?

Not standing up for myself?

Confrontation shy?

Accepting this cold

soda pop as recompense

for an hour of life?

Gollum shrieks out, “Take

action, Precious… revenge! Give

a taste of your pain!”

I take the pizzas and give a wave. 

I’ve got my spine. I’ve

got my self-restraint. And I’ve

got my Orange Crush.

The Walmart Hearse

On a late night Skittles run,
I saw it
like a royal uber from the inner circle of the rainbow bridge:
a purple hearse in the Walmart parking lot,
as if Grimace and the Ghostbusters ganged up
to treat someone to the coolest last ride ever.

I wondered...
What did the drivers forget that spurred this errand -
Flowers?
Black Balloons?
Funeral Potatoes?
Surely they would know Walmart's coffins are only available online.

Also... 
If I were to die today, what color of hearse would I choose?
Were the drivers simply dead on their feet?
Were the checkout lanes really that slow?

Is this shrine to consumerism the location where someone wished to be buried
in their fleece 😀💖😎 pajama bottoms, too-tight tank top, and tie-dyed crocs,
somewhere between the Cheetos and $5 dvd bin 
just in case the Egyptian pharaohs were right about the afterlife
and you ought to stock up on essentials you may need in the Great Value beyond?

And, am I choosing a similar cemetery as I enter, exhausted, 
in my orange running shorts, Star Wars t-shirt, and grass-stained work shoes,
feeling my will to live wane as I wait in line,
expiring faster than the bologna slovenly restocked by some exanimate shopper 
behind the Equate foot cream?

It kills me how they open the lane to my left 
just as I place my items on the belt after waiting twenty minutes. 

#SaveMoneyLiveBetter

Ode to McDonald's Water

Few things can capture
the flavor of childhood
like McDonalds water -

that ubiquitous clear liquid
with a tinge of Hi-C bliss
at so many fairs and tournaments,
parties and meals.

You pick it up
in that cute little
McDonald's cup
you never see
at the restaurant
and gulp it down
in a swallow or two
and go back for more
til you drown.

I wonder how they make it:
Does some first-week employee
get the task of holding the water cooler
below that red-headed step child
of soda machine buttons:
the awkward white square lever
labeled "water"
though it's always more than just that
as Hi-C particulates simultaneously descend
through the shared nozzle?

Or do they put in water from any old spigot
and intentionally splash in a dash of the C,
that aqueous equivalent of their special sauce?

This afternoon, as I quaff again this quaint elixir,
I contemplate how I am transported
so effectively through time and space
to reunite with my younger self
and hypothesize this trifecta to credit:

One: The clear necessity of life flowing through the soda fountain of youth,

Two: The orange Hi-C, gold-ish as if from the philosopher's stone,

Three: The paperboard cup, which - if it had been presented to him as an option - surely would've been chosen by Indiana Jones as the humblest cup and thus equivalent to the Holy Grail.

Surely these are why I am transported
both to the past of my younger self
and to the future
when I will bestow this same potion
on my children and their awaiting friends
at some community soccer event
where we'll all be winners
because though we came in as 60% H₂0,
we'll leave 60% McHiC₂0.

The Pillow Sings a Siren Song

It's
odd I see
the pillow as a
white-capped wave
containing
one mermaid
singing a siren song
each morning
tempting me to stay in bed.

It's the
oddest sea
to be sailing on -
these nightly visions
with the only sail
my thin bedsheet,
catching all my drool
as I dumbly gaze out
at Circe's dreamlike world.

It's an
audit - see
how this daily test
investigates the solvency
of my will,
inspecting my obeisance

to each day's taxing
list of to-dos.

In this
ode I see us
as the crew,
hastily and vainly
stuffing feathers in our ears
as if to block the pillow's siren song,
only to find its sound
is coming from within.

Synchronicity

It's finally happened.

You know how you listen to
Paul Simon's "Crazy Love, Vol II"
as you drive in the rain
then turn on the wipers
and for a few moments,
their rhythms align,
and you tap your foot,
tentatively pleased,
wondering when the other shoe will have to drop
as their beats invariably separate
in one of life's predictable disappointments?

Well, that separation never came.

It was like being in a scene
from Sesame Street
when inanimate objects sprout mouths
and sing along with you,
and the whole world is in impossible sync -
one concerted rhythm of light waves
illuminating through the splotchy clouds.

Or,
at least,
that's what it felt like
for a moment.

After Her Bath Time

She stank.
That's why I gave her a bath.
But after it was over,
I discovered the reason should've been
because I needed a laugh.

No sooner had her 2.5-year-old glistening self
emerged from the bubbly tub
than she started to giggle,
in stark contrast to the moans she emitted
upon hearing the news that she was about to be sans sauna.

When we got in her room,
she commenced a weak whimper
pleading, "no woof jammeez"
(which, being interpreted, means 

"do not place upon my body 

the gray and red plaid pajamas 

with the Scotty dog emblazoned 

over the stomach region").

In the stead of the canine footy jammies, 

she quickly suggested 

(shrugging her shoulders and eyebrows nonchalantly 

in a rapid transition of tone from the moment before) 

"'Go' jammeez." 

("Go" referring to the song "Let it Go" 

and by extension the sister princesses Anna and Elsa 

from a film whose title must not be named).

Fortunately for all parties involved 

(and anyone withing scream-shot 

going for their nightly neighborhood jaunt), 

some long-sleeve pink princess jammies 

were procured from the top dresser drawer, 

at which she emitted the most triumphant maniacal bellow 

I've ever heard from female toddler lungs - or, really, anyone's.

Before donning said jammies, though, 

she had to get lotioned up, 

which occasioned its own series of screams 

(odd, since a number of people pay for such

moistening and rubbing).

After lotioning and diapering, but before clothing,  

we had to have the obligatory, ritual tickle session, 

which produced a range of laughters in 15 seconds 

that far outstrips the possibilities presented 

in Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dykes' nigh encyclopedic recitation 

of the modus laugherandi.

Now in a good mood, she readily consented

to having her jammies on,

but when I tried to add some blue socks to the ensemble

to warm her feet, she freaked!

"Pink Socks! PINK!!!" she shrieked!

At which I sprang to the drawer once more

to find the footwear that would calm the beast

and force the horror that had reared its ugly head

back to its lair. 

She's clean now. 

And asleep. 

And not stinky. 

And I can't help but reflect on how

her mercuriality never ceases to amaze me.

I wonder how we'll survive till she's 13

and then beyond.

To Get this Girl to Fall Asleep

To get this girl to fall asleep -

this toddler always anxious for adventure -

I have to enter the dream-world with her.

Mostly, I lay down by her side

and intentionally breathe slowly,

pretending to be asleep
to lull her there herself
(though sometimes I get caught in my own snare).

But if I never nod off 

then slowly stand to sneak away,

she detects me

and cries.

I think it's not so much that her physical self

senses my departure

but more that her dream self

knows she never saw me.

So I must lay down again,
and this time, so she can rest assured,
she hooks my head with her arm
and presses her nose up against mine
till the tempting tendrils of sleep

creep around me, pinning me with her,

allowing my mind to enter her dream.

We must play some dream-game together
long enough for her to then drift away
on her own independent spree,
leaving me,
if I have the will,
to stand and shuffle to my own bed,
knowing that,
at approximately 2:36 am,
I will be back
at her beck and wail
to get some dream-ball
off some dream-shelf,
hoping that her leg - now on her pillow -
doesn't mistakenly punt my face.

Brushing My Teeth

As romantic or existential as it would be,
and as I imagine myself to be,
I don't often gaze up at stars.

I don't wonder or wish upon them,
any of them,
as Jiminy Cricket has advised us.

No.

But I do do something I contest is akin:

Many nights, as I impatiently wait
for the two-minute sentence from my dentist
to end,
I exit the bathroom,
electric toothbrush in mouth,
and meander to the living room
to survey through the picture window
my dominion
and the neighboring fiefdoms
all in silent nocturnal alliance -
not wishing upon them, per se,
but hoping good things will maintain.

And as I lean on the couch
reaching for my molars,
I reflect on how I'm also not taking
Alanis Morissette's advice,

and I wonder if anyone actually does.
Wouldn't that be ironic.
Don't you think?

(Or would it?)

Sensing the second minute is at an end
and hoping to avoid that frothy, foamy, rabid mouth of bubbles,
I hasten back to the sink and think
perhaps I ought to follow
Michael Jackson's example
in the remaining time.

But the toothbrush finally sings its dilatory ditty,
and I realize I can't face myself,
discovering I've forgotten,
for the 37th day in a row,
to floss
(preferring to floss before, not after, I brush).

So, I turn off the light
and go to bed,
telling myself that perhaps tomorrow
I will follow the wishes
of these stars.

Well,
at least some of them.

Ctrl+X

I'm surprised at how often people copy
and paste

and then go back to delete what they copied

rather than just

cutting it
(thus copying and deleting it at the same time)

and then pasting it

to save time.

Is there some technology-trust issue here,
knowing that if the robots will eventually rebel
(as is so aptly depicted in so many tales),
surely they must be out to get our
resumes, recipes, essays, and emails
in a humble prelude to world domination?

Or perhaps this practice is proof that
the infant's confusion about object permanence
persists even in adolescents
(digital natives though they be)
and on to bewildered adults
squinting askance at keys and screen?

Or is it the afterlife we're concerned about?
Unsure about our continuation
in a different part of this cosmically documented story
after our ultimate deletion,
we sloppily copy and paste ourselves on as many
photo albums, headstones, lives,
label-makered miscellany,
(and even libraries or LLCs)
as possible before being
cut
unprepared,
just to make sure we're not accidentally lost forever
if somehow
the code or the keys fail
and we're left half-beamed-up,
a pleiotaxy of pixels
floating forever betwixt our home planet
and some eternal Enterprise,
Scotty lamenting
"I cannae change the laws of physics!"
as he hits, over and over,
Ctrl+Z.

The Child Consent Form

Now,
we post pictures of our kids
on social media
in awkward moments and weird poses
narrating their eccentricities
without acquiring any sort of
child consent form
or including an eventual avenue
for them to erase forever
whatever content they don't approve of.

Perhaps,
karma thus dictates
that one day when we are drooling all over ourselves
and have larger diapers of our own to be changed,
recompense will come
as they post videos of us rambling on about
Ace of Base,
Super Nintendo,

or pogs,

our faces dumbstruck in just as much awe and confusion
about the technology in their hands
as they had about the ones in ours.

Though I guess it's more likely
the camera will be in their eyes,
and the memory storage behind the ear lobe,
the microphone on a cheek -
giving a whole new meaning to
Facebook.

The Secret Weapon

There's a secret weapon
I keep stored in a special
playlist.

The launch code is 4 patterned numbers
followed by accessing a few colored icons.

When it takes off
through the headphone's wires
and bounces on my ear drums,
it's as
Popeye's spinach
or
Hulk's anger,
giving me the strength
to push through almost any task,
even grading 163 research papers
or
draining two flooded email inboxes.

The enemy in this not-so-cold arms race
gets a leg up,
though,
whenever my boredom and distractedness
form alliances
with the internet or bits of string
to make one frighteningly formidable foe.

The only flaw in this daily face-off
emerges when I become
so enamored by the riffs and lyrics
of every Weezer album*
played in discographical order
that I drift
into a fascination that plummets
my work ethic down via the vehicle
that was supposed to lift it up.

A strange love** this is
in which my unbridled love
for an otherwise savior
destroys me.

*To experience a smattering of Weezer's deliciousness, check out these and other tunes:

**To experience a bit of this reference to the 1964 film "Dr. Strangelove," check out this clip of the major riding the bomb in an attempt to save the world, ultimately leading to mass destruction. (I'd also highly recommend the entire movie.)

The Star Wars Bed-time Story

Since middle school,

whenever I've had trouble sleeping,

I've watched Star Wars.

Not that it's boring -

quite the contrary.

I've attentively viewed it

countless times - 

memorizing every line,

investigating every character,

researching every ship.

It's to the point now

where Star Wars is less of a movie

and more of a familiar bedtime story

that Uncle George tells me

whenever I have trouble sleeping.

I get so absorbed in the story so quickly,

forgetting my sickness or worries,

that I'm down for the count

before Darth Vader's been able 

to lift, strangle, and toss

Captain Antilles to the floor

of the Tantive IV, Leia's Corellian Corvette.

The volume doesn't need to be up

and I don't need to watch the screen;

I can see and hear it all in my mind,

keeping pace based on certain cues:

blasts, roars, John Williams' score.

And even after using this trick

for over 15 years

the efficacy hasn't faded, 

though if I have several rough nights in a row,

I'll go from A New Hope, to Empire, to Jedi.

I can't express how much this means

to have, when life gets too low and mean,

a ready and reliable dream

so universal and personal and
real

it convinces me I must be
asleep.

The Donut Lady

There's a new donut shop in town,

so we gave it a try

and loved it.

Great donuts,

kind service,

home-towny feel.

An additional bonus

keeps bringing me back:

Whenever it's my turn

to bring a treat for the English department,

I stop by to get a dozen,

and she always throws in

two or three extra.

Maybe the cost is already figured into the fee,

and maybe it's just a marketing ploy

in which I am not really getting

something for nothing,
but that's okay;
I understand that I am getting something for something - 

I'm getting treated well for loyalty,

not the fake kind that's

leveraged out of those "loyalty" cards,

but the loyalty that comes from

feeling loved

and then loving in return
without cards to stamp or scan to keep score.

Yes, I love this donut lady,

and I truly believe she loves me,

and not just because she gives me donuts,

and not, for her part,

just because I keep buying donuts,

but because we've decided

to treat each other with 

consistent kindness,

and what is love

if not the perpetual decisions

to do just that?

In that spirit,
with each visit
we renew our vows of
"Is that all for you today?"
"Yep - thanks"
under the neon sign of this bakery-chapel,
witnesses lined up behind me.
Then the cash register solemnizes the ceremony
and we exchange those doughy rings,
sprinkles like diamonds strewn across the glaze.
I internalize the eternal symbolism of this circle
one bite at a time
demonstrating my finite steps along our forever journey,
finishing off the last bite with consummate satisfaction.

NPR Filler Music

Where do these interludes
interspersed between such intellectual intercourse
come from?

Not the actual album songs they play
for some meaningful or ironic connection to a story;
I mean the random, untitled stuff.

Is there an official NPR music man
(mute - I imagine him,
letting everything out he can't say
in his music)
who conceives of all these artisanal arrangements
and then layers recordings of himself 
in his one-man-band studio?


Or is there an eponymous NPR band
of taciturn proto-über hipsters,
vowing silence for the art's sake,
with idiosyncratic clothing 
and 
carefully cultivated coiffures
typifying their auditory taste
for eclectic mixes of styles and instrumentation?

Can you imagine him
or them
going on tour:


the concert posters,
the confused yet enthused radio personality promoters,
the attendees?

The posh pits.

(For a taste of the music to which I'm referring, 
go to 4:24 at this link.)

The Amazon Wish List

source here

Clicks on the mouse and keyboard
are all it takes to populate
the Amazon wish list
and see those beauties arrive
at the doorstep on time
either at gift-receiving seasons
or
when the harvests of said times
are insufficient to satiate
the professional consumer within.

This ease and convenience prompts me to attempt
to populate my less selfish wish list
with a few more
intangibles.

I imagine searching for sellers
of some key items for my kids:
a strong work ethic,
a solid sense of family and identity,
a positive, helpful attitude,
an enduring testimony of and quest for truth.

And I wish I could see the
cost,
delivery date,
and product quality
of said items.

I try to calculate the cost
as I imagine clicking on my cart and checking out.

My payments are installments,
incomplete,
often overdue and in the wrong denomination,
the only common denominator
being a hearty yet ultimately lackluster
attempt on my part
to model such traits.

I see signs of pending delivery
but am still waiting for
the tell-tale brown truck,
the sharp, short crunch of that smug, smarmy box,
the slippery snap of the bubble wrap.

It's not as easy as rubbing a lamp or
looking longingly at Venus after sunset,
pretending, with Jiminy Cricket, that it's a star.

This must be an amazon I must trail blaze
on foot
not phalange.