Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Lit 101

Of late I've been on a poetry kick. Its a phase and I'm sure it will crash and burn very soon. I lean towards the odd stuff, like Bukowski.

"Some people never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must live," Charles Bukowski.

Another of his quotes, "An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way."

Hard to argue with the man.

His work isn't for everyone. If you're delicate, easily offended, or stricken with a puritan heart, it's probably best you stand back and leave his writings to others. On the other hand if you do appreciate a well turned phrase or enjoy good writing and want an inside look at a drunken genius's mind then by all means find his books. Much of his works were issued by small presses in limited editions and are worth thousands. Amazon has many listed on their Kindle pages.

"If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose." Charles Bukowski.

It's a sickness, my eclectic taste in literature. If you follow take care the path.


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

My Pleasure

It was recently my pleasure to assist a fella with his computer. He asked why the wife's printer failed when they'd instructed the desk top to spit a few pages from the internet.

"Simple," I said, "Load your floppy disc."

"Our what?"

"Your nine inch floppy. Isn't there a slot on the computer for your floppy?"

Him, "Oh yeah."  He plays golf, wears his sweaters wrapped over his shoulders with the arms crossed over his chest...that kind of fella.

He walked away all smiles.

I'm using the Bloomberg method of attaining heavenly glory....


Wednesday, April 16, 2014


And spell zombified anyway you'd like but it describes the last few days of my life, zombified, dead meat. May I ask as to your condition...

Our weather has turned. Its cool and breezy. High forties this morning, and yes the repairman fixed our a/c unit. Took him four hours and cost us one nice pretty penny. I flipped it in the dirt.

Business is very slow...I mean snake belly dust swallowing dead butt slow. Blame it on Uncle's tax grab.

Old man in here yesterday, "I swear, Stephen, if I'm given a terminal prognoses I'll pack my bags and drive to the District and find the headquarters of the Infernal Revenue and blow those sonsabitches to hell."

Me, "God bless you."

Excuse me while I try to refresh my coffers. I also will make every effort to respond to the comments you've so kindly left in response to my last few pitiful posts. If given peace and silence, and of course time, I will give my all to a longer written piece. Seems of late I live a very hectic life and this poor excuse of a blog is its reflection.

Until then.


Sunday, April 13, 2014

Sunday Ramble

Often when I sit to write the words fail me. I've much to say stuck away in storage but those ideas have yet to ripen, mature, thus useless. So, I listen, and wait. It'll nudge me when ready.

It's best if I just sit and listen..and record the sounds....

Mockingbirds, the steady tick of the tide clock, the old emerald windchimes dance on the breeze.

(Ping, fodder.)

The old emerald wind chimes sing as if tuned by a great pianist, notes lost to my musical ignorance. The emerald windchimes came to me long ago from a different life.

The chimes were removed from a small cardboard box and placed on a hook from the roof line of an old Victorian home built high above a cold rocky creek which fed Hammersley Inlet. From that night forward they have gentled the pathway into my dreams. Their metallic wind forced dance came and went with seasonal regularity, always there throughout the last forty years of my life.

Lost within its strings and tubes and its emerald paddle are the shadows of death, divorce, hardships and hope. Also recorded are the whispers of joy and smiles. Horrible sadness lurks within its depths, too.

Often I've repaired the emerald windchime. It hates hard savage winds. After proper repair her songs return as newly minted, and continues to record my life.

The day will arrive when I fade into the shadows of time. Upon my drift into darkness I hope a thoughtful soul continues to repair her dropped tubes and reties the odd broken string. Then to nudge her paddle and play one last tune to my memory.


It's time.  I need to slip on the boots and fire the mower and cut the grass and weeds, after I take a basket and clean the yard of pine cones and broken limbs and rake a bushel of oak leaves. The gutters also need attention. We have a bed of shrubs gone wild...should make for two hours of sweat. Bet I stir at least two wasp attacks.

I'll procrastinate until her return from church. If I'm lucky she'll ask to attend another Sunday movie which will give me all the excuse I'll need to avoid the awful chore. I've grown to hate yard work. Its tedious and returns little in value, other than a tidy lawn. If grass cuttings were gleaned as a food source I'd be far more willing to bust my butt. As it stands the waste is nothing more than compost material.

Speaking of which, it's high time I plant a bed of herbs. A few herbs love compost, other just plain old sand. My compost barrel, a contraption which requires I turn a handle and rotate the drum twice to three times weekly, works very well yet has stood silent and still for the last few years. It's paint has faded to dull green. Blame Obama. The result of a six day work week is a very sad forlorn garden.

Last week, since it's Spring, the love of my life stepped forth and cleaned a flower bed. She then discovered my stack of walkway bricks - a huge neatly organized pile of half-inch dark brown brick.  She took a wheel barrow and gave it a heavy load. Wheeled the ton of baked earth to the east side of our home and proceeded to border the bed with the brick. That evening she downed a bottle of Advil. Spring's a bitch.

But, every cloud has a silver lining. She'll forget the newly planted flower bed with its neatly arranged brown brick border. When she has fully forgotten, I'll step forward with my herbs. It'll make a fine garden.

Just you wait and see...


Friday, April 11, 2014

Ah, Just Sweat

Fact: We live in Florida, and our state is hot and humid. Air conditioning is required. If you don't believe me, try living here without it. Within a week mold will cover your walls. You'll find yourself shucking clothes the moment you walk inside the front door. Indoor pets have been known to commit suicide. The very air you breath is heavy with moisture. Step into your garage and within seconds your body glistens with beads of water. Plain and simple, it sucks.

We're on our forth day without this wonderful life saving system of Mr. Carrier. Our new five ton system was installed less than eight years ago. The compressor in our Carrier is supposed to be under warranty. As such we've had to wait until the local contractor received approval from Carrier with assurances they would indeed honor their warranty, otherwise we'd eat the bill for a new fan compressor. Our quoted estimate was a bit over two thousand dollars, not including labor, coolant, and of course, taxes. (Just received word, the part has been deemd worthy of warranty, thus saving us a few bucks.)

Here's the catch. The part is located in Orlando and if it arrives by 1500 today a fix might take place Monday. After 1500 the nice lady said possibly Tuesday. Here's the thing...the first hot humid air of the season (We're well into Summer here.) arrives, tomorrow. I shall practice the sweat drip dance and make extra ice for sweat (not sweet) tea.

Now where oh where did I hide my loin clothe.