A Chic & Immodest Proposal

Things to bring to the party:
Gaily wrapped box filled with presumptions of propriety
Sense of humor
Grain of salt

Things to leave at the door:
Said gaily wrapped box
Mental ossification
Lavish gifts for the doorman

Food For Thought: An Immodest Proposal

It is a heart-rending sight indeed, the emaciated frame of the average super-model. (Is that an oxymoron?) Surely our civilized society in this 21st century can no longer ignore this tragedy. We can handle the pictures of third world orphans with bloated bellies. Those kids are a world away, and besides, their families probably aren’t making the best use of their resources. And globally there are far too many of these starving waifs for the few of us to make a significant difference in their lives.

But super-models, that’s another story. These girls we admire, if not for their contribution to mankind, at least for the beauty and glamour they add to the runways, catwalks, TV commercials and magazine ads. But these girls need help, and it’s a small enough group that we really can make a difference in their lives. And if we can, I believe we must. We can no longer allow them to go through life looking so undernourished, so ridiculously cool, so much more beautiful than we are. They must be helped, even if they are unwilling to eat.

And just in time, help is at hand. A new report by STASH (Start Thinking And Stop Hunger) suggests a solution that may seem to be too good to be true. Dr. Nathaniel Franks has developed a method to metamorphose the energy from brain activity into bodily nutrition. Deceptively simple, it is however something that was impossible before the latest advances in computer technology. This cutting-edge innovation allows complex programming to be put on a chip the size of an ink dot. Dr. Franks explains, "This program is loaded in the tip of a needle and inserted acupuncture-style into the scalp of the patient. The programming then trains the body to recognize energy waves from the brain as food, and to obtain nutrition directly from brain activity."

The benefits of this process should be immediate and obvious. With a worldwide shortage of food, and increased concerns about the safety even of organic food, we now have a viable alternative. The initial cost of this procedure of course is significant, and probably only available to a few elite such as our target group, the super-models. But as the process is refined, experts expect the cost to come down to a level where the ordinary Jane Doe can afford it. What is unclear is whether it will ever be cost-effective to use with the millions of poor starving orphans around the world.

So far only one dissenting opinion has been raised. It is the voice of English hunger activist, Lord D. Evan Grizzles. He advances a valid concern, that being the lack of brain activity in certain groups of people, and whether those people will receive proper nourishment. "Would it be a case of smart people being well fed, and stupid people remaining undernourished?" he asks. "Or might we have cases of people whose daily life just doesn’t require any thinking unwittingly starving themselves? These are serious issues and cannot be ignored in a rush to embrace potentially flawed technology."

So that brings us full circle, to the deeply troubling issue at hand; will this or will it not help the plight of the emaciated, possibly oxymoronic, average super-model? Yes, it would have the potential for nutrition without the annoying caloric side effects. But if one were to listen to the concerns of Lord Grizzles, you would really have to worry about the survival of this elite group, given the low level of brain activity in their average workday.

The third view is this: The potential negative raised by our esteemed English colleague may in fact be a blessing in disguise. What we have here is a solution with a compounding effectiveness, first in easing world hunger, and then serving to decrease the pervasive lack of thought that many people seem to give to their daily activities. As a facet of natural selection, this lack of nourishment to people with low levels of brain activity will effectively minimize their numbers. This will have the extended effect of leaving more traditional nourishment (food) for the rest of us. If this is taken to a global level, it is very possible to believe that the demand for natural food will decrease to the point that we will have enough excess to consider exporting to starving orphans and other needy groups.

And the super-models? Well, I guess the surviving ones would no longer be average, moronic, or oxymoronic.

Props to Natalie G, a tip of the hat to Jonathan Swift, and a what-up to Charles Darwin.

Rob's Workshed

I have dusty memories of watching Grandpa work in his little shop. I remember the big wooden workbench with the hand cranked vise on the one end. He had the hand driven auger, one of the old wooden block planes, and a wood handled hammer and chisels. What I don't remember is this:

This is Rob VanNatta's interpretation of a workshed. It looks nothing like I remember my Grandpa's. And yet it looks exactly as I remember it. The light streaming through the window, the dust in the air. The old bench cluttered with tools.

And that I think is the artist's genius. He evokes things you can't see. He puts it there without putting it there. And it's what I aim for as a writer. I want the reader to see things I leave out, to read between the lines, I guess.

It's one of my mantras as a writer; A picture is worth a thousand words. A word creates a thousand pictures.

Rob's painting for example. I could write a thousand words trying to describe the style and composition, the colors and lighting, the mood and other stuff you can't even put into words in a painting like that.

But every person that reads the word 'Grandpa' sees a score of mental images that represent Grandpa to them. A different set of pictures for every reader. If writing makes those pictures come to life, it works. If a painting stirs up all the words you can't quite say, it works.

I borrowed this from Rob because I like his work, it makes me think. And because he's just cool. I think you would probably like it too. Check it out at his site.

Tired Mish-Mash

A Tired Mish-mash is what you get when you spend half an hour in a tire store with nothing but a pen and legal pad.

I got tired at Mylittleburg Tire Emporium. Well to be precise, my son’s Jeep Cherokee got tired there. All four of them. And I have the credit card bill to prove it. Ouch. Until I realize, I got four rubber tires that I expect to make millions of revolutions over anything and everything that happens to be on the road. Rain, snow, ice, dead animals, car parts, canyons and occasionally, dry pavement. Hmm…maybe not such a bad deal.

Eight tire shop firsts:

• Mario Andretti’s autograph on the wall. In Sharpie. What’ll they do when they need to repaint?
  
• Cappuccino machine. Okay, fake powdery concoction, but hey, it’s sweet.
  
• Brightly colored, shiny clean waiting area. Comfortable chairs.
  
• Big screen plasma TV. With Headline News. No sports, no fishing.
  
• Popcorn machine. The cool carnival kind.
  
• Electric fireplace. On a chilly morning, anything that looks warm is inviting.
  
• Toy table for kids. Guess climbing on the stacks of tires was not an option.
  
• House Beautiful magazine. Or something like that. A whole magazine stand just for the chicks. Sorry, I mean for the lady customers.

Random Santa story from a previous visit:

I’m buying tires the week before Christmas, and the salesman has a genuine Santa beard and Santa smile, wearing a Santa hat. So I have to ask, "Wouldn’t Santa be giving away tires?"

"Oh yes," he assured me. "On Christmas Day he would. Course we’re closed on Christmas." Dang.

Oh well, you know what they say - What goes around will eventually go bald or flat. Isn’t that what they say?

Told you it’s a mish-mash.

God Had a Bad Day

Two things struck me as I studied the face before me. First, God has bad days. He certainly did when he made this mug. The one eyebrow sagged. The left ear was lower, its lobe looking like it was melting and almost dripping. The nose was askew, and the high cheekbones served only to emphasize the pock marked skin. The towering forehead looked like a rough mountainside, with enough ledges for a beginner mountain climber to scale. The jutting chin pointed, but not straight ahead. There were no lips. No, God was not having a good day when He made that face.

The second thing that struck me was actually two separate things. A: when I go to the bathroom at 3:45 in the morning, I should not turn on the four 100 watt bulbs above the mirror, and B: one should never arrange a bathroom so that you're looking in the mirror while...um...sitting on the commode. Those two things combine to depress a man, especially one with an already shaky self-image.

I wandered back to bed, huddled under the covers, and watched reruns in my head. Okay, the thing at WalMart was not my fault. I'm pretty sure the cashier did not have to see my ID to sell me beer. I’m not that far into my thirties, but the face I just studied in the mirror is engraved with a few extra, shall we say, lifestyle years. I look old enough.

And the 'manager', all zit-faced 135 pounds of him, should not have taken that tone with me. All I did was fake a move at him and he stumbled back and dropped the six pack I was trying to buy. It really was funny when the bottles and all the Red Stripe did a shock and awe move on the shiny tile floor at register 17. Yes, I laughed at him, but calling the security guard really was over-reaction on his part. I had never been thrown out of a WalMart before.

Too annoyed to sleep now, I rolled over, sat up in bed and picked up the bottle next to the TV remote. Studying the soggy label, I remembered the gentleman’s first words to me a few hours earlier.

“It was Red Stripe, wasn’t it?” I was still sitting on the sidewalk where I had landed when I heard his voice. I suppose I was too dazed to answer, because he just sat down next to me and put the six-pack between us. “I don’t think an over-zealous manager should get between a grown man and a good beer, do you?”

Now, that voice sounded familiar, and I turned to look at him. I'm sure my jaw dropped. His big smile was just as bright here with a faded Browns shirt and an old camo hat as when he wore his $1000 suits and $100 ties. Yes indeed, he looked even nicer in person than on TV. I looked around to see if anybody was watching. He was still smiling. “I’d open a couple for us, but I suppose that would be illegal here in public. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take one home, and leave you with a five-pack. Tonight we’ll share a drink, just not together. Deal?”

"Um, yeah, sure. Thanks man. I mean, thank you, sir." I took one from the pack and we clinked our bottles to seal the deal. He slapped me on the shoulder and walked off, bottle raised in salute.

Now four and a half hours later, I sat on the edge of my bed, finishing off the last bottle. And two things struck me. One, it's good to know there's a God, even if He did have an off day. And two, if the pastor of the city’s largest snooty church sits on the sidewalk and shares your beer, maybe he has something worthwhile to say.

Despite my best efforts, tiny bits of fact invaded this work of fiction. And no beer was consumed in the writing of this story.

Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night. No really, it was. Small farm animals were blowing across the highway as I raced madly from the Village Square coffee bar to the Hip Old Folks Chillin' Out Home. I had a blueberry smoothie for Mom. It was melting more with each passing mile. As I came flying around a curve I saw the most unexpected sight. Well, besides flying farm animals, that is.

Tail lights. Miles and miles of taillights as far as the eye could see. I pulled out my night vision binoculars, climbed up on the roof of the truck, and peered into the distance. Alas. As best I could determine, a sheep had apparently been bouncing along on gusts of wind, when it collided with a buggy, knocking the horse right out of the harness and taking its place. It looked like the horse had done a reverse 1-1/2 somersault tuck and landed on the roof of a passing RV. I believe the RV driver then panicked, hit the brakes, and skidded sideways in the highway. This caused a chain reaction collision of six silver minivans neatly crunched together, DVD monitors still glowing blue with the same Sponge Bob video. At least that's what it looked like. But the sheep had calmly trotted off, buggy in tow.

Since this was obviously taking awhile to clean up, traffic was looking for alternative routes. Some took the country road left. Others took the country road right. Me, I followed the muddy sedan in front of me down the shoulder of the highway to the country road. Or so I thought. We turned into a muddy gravel lane, only to find it leading to the little harness shop next to the country road. Too late I realized my mistake. I stopped, tried to back out, and saw another two cars directly behind me, everybody following muddy sedan guy down the wrong lane. So like a game of Lemming Madness, we wound down the rutted lane, into the gravel parking lot, circled around and went back out. A quick right, and another quick right, and we finally found ourselves actually on the country road. Yeehaw!

Many scenic miles later, (except it was dark so I saw no scenery but fences, ditches and mailboxes,) I reclaimed the highway, and found my way to Hip Old Folks Chillin' Out Home. Melted remnants of smoothie in hand, I found my Mom, we shared the smoothie and a rich but lukewarm cup of coffee. She was so grateful she gave me a piece of chocolate.

As I exited the parking lot, I was pretty sure I saw, disappearing down the hill, a round wooly form leading a buggy with a snoring old man drooling in his beard. But I may have been wrong. It was, after all, dark and stormy.

This story contains 100% facts, 5% of which are all-natural, unprocessed facts. The other 95% of the facts contain up to 99% additives, preservatives, fillers, and falsehoods.

No sheep were harmed in the writing of this story. The horse's ego however, was severely bruised. Complete recovery is expected.

The Legendary Halfwit

"Let's all write a story using the same title!" That sounded like a good idea in writers group. Heh. Then I tried to write. Lacking a story, and fresh off an exploration of blank verse, I felt adventurous enough to risk making a fool of myself. Here ya go:

The legendary halfwit was a man
who didn't seem to be quite all that smart.
And yet he had the world in hand at times
when it would not have seemed to be so wise
to tell the truth about the things you see
to those who want to close their eyes instead.

A world of make believe is fine, but not
if you forget just where the story ends
and life, real life begins. Do you? Do I?
Or are we of the crowd who turns a blind
eye to the portions of our life where we
would rather not be made to face the truth?

The halfwit was so called at times when all
the world seemed to say yes and he alone
stood tall and quiet. No. He would not do
what he could see was not in line with truth.
He stood alone - but not alone - for truth
remained with him - the halfwit they all knew.


But legend takes a time to grow, its not
a thing of season, nor a thing of time.
So years of staying true and true built slow
a man who knew he knew, and did not need
another man to tell him how to think,
or how to be, or how indeed to live.

And then the tide of time washed out the sands
from underneath the castles built by those
who loved the fairy tale, and did not see
the line between the story and true life.
The make believe that they believed would be
forever-after crumpled at their feet.

So now the legend taller stood, alone
among the fallen ruins of the ones
who loved a lie and ever shunned the truth.
His story didn't change at all, but seemed
the more to grow with every passing storm.
The halfwit long forgot, a legend still.

Sorta True Barista Tale

A couple of sixty-somethings, a husband and wife, amble into the Village Square coffee bar. The gleam in their eye speaks of adventure.

"Good afternoon, folks. What can I get for you?" The teenage barista greets them politely. They're old folk. What fun could this be?

"Oh look dear," she grabs hubby's hand. "They have ice cream." The lady's laugh lines crinkle, in a pattern started decades ago.

"Would you like an ice cream, darling?" It's a romantic weekend, and he's a gentleman. If she wants ice cream, she gets ice cream.

"That would be lovely. Let's look at the flavors." They stand arm in arm studying the eight flavors in the ice cream case. For a minute you can see the two teens in a soda shop from another life.

After three minutes of careful consideration the charming couple is ready to order. The gentleman takes the lead. "We'll have a medium butter pecan ice cream, please," he smiles at the young man who is patiently waiting to scoop.

But the bored young man has one more question. "Did you want that in a bowl, or in a cone, sir?"

The gentleman pauses, looks at his wife, and repeats, "Do I want it in a bowl, or do I want it in a cone?"

She smiles, and replies sweetly. "Well that depends, dear. Do you want me to spoon it, or do you want me to lick it?"

"I want you to lick it." He turns to the suddenly smiling young man. "We'll take it in a cone, please."

Snicker firmly in check, the young man scoops. Into a cone.

The gentleman and his lady stroll off, with ice cream and smiles on their lips, and laughter in their wake.