Wednesday, October 29, 2014

So, about my gaydar

Today's writing prompt, on a writing site I've recently joined, First 50 Words – Prompts for Writing Practice , was "so, about my gaydar." I did a double take, more than once, to make sure I was reading correctly.  I thought it might be a misspelling or a foreign phrase, but in the end I was left with the inevitable choice to go to Google and search out this "neologism," that was totally unrecognized by this self proclaimed wordsmith.
Sure enough, there was the word and its definition: gaydar

A sense that allows for someone to detect homosexuality in another.

Reflecting on this, to me, new word and definition, I determined immediately that I have zero gaydar, while my wife on the other hand has the uncanny ability to spot gay people within a few minutes of meeting them.

Not that it matters one iota to either of us whether an acquaintance is gay or straight.  I guess I just don't look for clues as to anyone's sexual orientation.  I'm a live and let live sort of guy.  Unless of course you are a mean-assed, rude, impolite asshole, then I'll just not like you, period.


Monday, October 27, 2014

Mag 243 "socks"

Jammed into toasty socks;
Bowled over by espressoroma,
We arrange ourselves on
the cold tile floor--
And wonder;
"What's it all about Alfie,"
Should we just get juiced,
Milk it for all it's worth,
Or just go back to bed?

Thursday, October 23, 2014

A prompt from, First 50 Words.

Bratislava Bronze PaparazzoCC BY-SA 3.0
Famous for my athletic ability?
Not even known, my treading on the boards.
There are no leering, snapping paparazzi
Around the corner in clamoring hoards.
They do not recognize my fame
Amidst the crowd, or on the street.
I'm only a spectator at the game,
Blending in, like a dandelion at their feet.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014


Autumn's a Smorgasbord for the senses;
sights, sounds, smells and tastes---
the smell of dry leaves as they crunch and crackle underfoot or
when burrowing into a freshly raked leaf pile.
the aroma of burning leaves....

orange, red and yellows,
pumpkins, apples,
pie, and cider
fire in the fire place
and turkey in the oven.
Brisk and bracing,
Wind and rain.

Monday, October 20, 2014

My Favorite Writer

He wasn’t prolific, not even published.  My favorite writer was a prolific reader, and instilled in me, at an early age, a love of books and for reading.  Write?  He did write; poetry, ditties, limericks and letters, Letters to friends and relatives, but mostly, Letters to the Editor. Once he even wrote a letter to E. B. White, to which he received a response. My dad had a voluminous vocabulary and an erudite style of writing.  When asked, “what does such and such a word mean?”  His standard response was, “look it up in the dictionary.”  Essentially he introduced me to the internet before it existed.  He browsed the World Book encyclopedia for fun.

One of the few things we did together, as father and son, was a weekly trip to the library.  Specific books or authors were not recommended; he directed me to age related genres.  And so at an early age I devoured the Little Golden books, soon moving up to Edgar Rice Burroughs, Daniel Defoe, and Mark Twain.    We didn’t have a television until I was twelve, so stories by Sir Walter Scott, Herman Melville piqued my imagination and provided fodder for outdoor’s play.

During my 7 decades as a reader, each age brought new authors and genres to my table; each one a favorite for the time and to stay on the list of favorites to the present day.  I read Charles Dickens’s “A Christmas Story” every year around that time.  On Veteran’s Day I reread Crane’s “Red Badge of Courage.”  Poets too garnered my following and enjoyment: Robert Frost, James Whitcomb Riley, and Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha.  High school introduced me to Shakespeare’s plays and poetry; sonnets in particular.

The list goes on and on, but in the end, if I must choose a favorite it will have to be my father.  Not for what he wrote but what he taught.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Cyberspace and the Internet.

Cyberspace and Internet

Cyberspace continues to impress me.  Life for a procrastinator is simplified when they have access to a device that allows them to travel in cyberspace; laptop, computer, smartphone, iPad, and Kindle/fire, Oh, and Amazon Prime's two day free shipping.

Yesterday we set out early, for a road trip, to spend my wife's birthday weekend with our youngest and his family, whose five year old is also celebrating her birthday this weekend.  About half way there we stop at a "Bob Evan's" for breakfast.  While waiting for our orders, we both pull out our android smart phones. While checking my email, I open one from FTD with a reminder; today is Diane's birthday, and a click on: shop now. I started the process of ordering some flowers on my phone, but stopped when breakfast arrived.

Later, after we arrived at our destination, I opened my iPad and continued the process of ordering a flower arrangement.  I'm still in awe that one can enter the ether and order something, in this case, flowers and have them delivered the same day.  The transaction was completed by 9 a.M..

At three thirty I receive an email saying that the flowers had been delivered.  However there were no flowers in evidence.  The email provided an phone number to call and doing so I discussed my delema with representative Melanie.  She put me on hold for a couple minutes while she called the florist charged with delivering said order.  She came back on and said that the email confirming delivery was sent when the flowers were placed in the delivery vehicle, and that they would be delivered as promised.  Two hours later, voila, the flowers were delivered.

Monday, October 13, 2014


The past is always with us;
Yesterday, of course, and more,
Lurking in the background
Stamping firm our genes.
Think of ancestral traits;
Physiognomy, our gait
Represents a past forgotten,
Mirrored images of  days gone by.
Self examination
Reveals them to us.
We are but reflections....
My children are me, as
I am my father, ad infinitum.

Magpie Tales #241
Self-portrait, Vivian Maier