Saturday, April 20, 2013

Well, that was a crap-assed week, wasn't it?

I had a day off work on 04/15/13. I spent the morning getting my taxes done at a local business. The guy who did my taxes drove to work on a scooter so I am calling him Scooter Boy. Scooter Boy is literally half my age and not really a "boy" in any sense except that he seemed really young to me.
(46 divided by 2=23)
Wow. I have finally hit the age where folks who are half my age are full fledged adults.

Anyway, I came home, turned on the Ellen show, went into the kitchen to make coffee and came back to see the Boston Marathon bomb coverage. What can I say that hasn't already been said? It sucked. Of course it did. It sucks no matter where it happens and no matter who it happens to, but to bomb bystanders and runners at the 26 mile marker which was dedicated to the Newtown 26 seems particularly malevolent.

Then, we see the pictures of the suspects. Boys. The week ends with the 19 year old bomber boy hiding in a boat while MASSIVE and OVER THE TOP news coverage watches. 19. He is younger than Scooter Boy who did my taxes. How does one kid take the path that ends in being a bomber and the other kid take the path that ends in riding his scooter to work on April 15?
I suspect the paths are closer together than we think and that is the challenge. How do we as humans nudge our young people away from evil choices towards productive, benevolent choices?

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Forgetfulness - Billy Collins


The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart. 

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Fwd: The Shed

This is the shed in my backyard in desperate need of fixing. How long would you guess that to be? I said 5 feet (front to back). I was wrong.