I'm a blogger

"Hi, I'm A. Blogger, you?"
" really, You've been A. Tweeter how long?
"Me?  I was born in April, 2003. In all the following years I've had 5 incarnations."
"no, no, I only show one side of me to the public."
"Oh yes, I've been overshadowed, in recent years, by my id.  I call him FB (short for Facebook.)
"You don't have to tell me, I know how easily these alter-egos can take over, but I still struggle to bring the real me to the fore."
"I use an old therapy.  You may have heard of it; it's called writing prompts.  No, I think FB will always be with me, but A. Blogger is coming to the surface more and more these days."

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.

 

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?

A prompt from, First 50 Words.  http://first50.wordpress.com/

Bratislava Bronze PaparazzoCC BY-SA 3.0

 

 

Paparazzi.

 

 

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.

abscission

abscission

 

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.

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.

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.

Reflections

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

Brisk and Bracing

Brisk and bracing.

Yesterday morning, early, when I ventured outside to walk up to the garage to check out the putrid smell of something dead therein, as described by my wife and as yet not experienced by myself, I noted the briskness of the 45 F. air temp under the quilted cover of a November looking sky.  Noted because I was woefully under dressed in only pajama bottoms and sweater.

   The garage is heated to fifty degrees so I scurried up the hill and went in to investigate. 

The odor was there as soon as I entered.  My search was fruitless, so I surmised that a liberal spraying with Fabreeze would rectify the unpleasant odor greeting anyone entering the garage.  This proved to be less effective than I'd hoped.

   In my search I espied some objects that spurred me to get a few chores done; plant some more grass seed where the painters had spilled paint thinner, fertilize the holly for the winter, and empty the chemical toilet.  When I went to scatter the grass seed the area was covered with leaves. So back to the garage to get a rake.  I raked the leaves in to a pile and made a half dozen trips carrying them to the compost pile.  Now, scatter the seed.  Next, stop briefly in the house to empty the chemical toilet, remember that the dehumidifiers in the cellar need to be emptied and proceed to do that.  During this brief inside interlude, which was barely long enough to thaw my frost bitten hands, my wife suggested that I should drain the garden hose and stow the hose in the garage; since a killing frost will surely visit us any day now. Donning gloves, I return to the yard: fertilize the holly, disconnect the hose and lay it out on the driveway to drain and soften in the sun and then remember to go to the patio to sweep off the squirrel's nut detritus that I'd noticed while scattering grass seed.  In my travels about the landscape I also noticed a plethora of downed three branches and twigs, and so, proceeded to pick them up and deposit them curbside.

   Now, nearly two hours after I'd set out to determine the cause of a foul odor in the garage, I return to the comfort of my abode to take a hot shower to thaw out, put on some appropriate clothing and sit down to a breakfast of hot porridge prepared by my mate.  Over said breakfast, Diane suggest that today would be a good day to store the lawn and patio furniture away for the winter.

   Those "brisk" autumn mornings are perfect for getting fall chores done.

This morning, at 0600, when I stepped outside to retrieve the Sunday  paper, I noted the temperature to be a bracing 35 degrees F..  Immediately I decided to sit, read the paper, check my email, check Facebook, and contemplate the fabulous time we had at Kevin and Ann's wedding and reception last night.

All in all, it was a fruitful and rewarding day.

 

 

Travelin' Dan

An unhappy man was

Travelin’ Dan.

He had no place called
Home.
He threw his duffle in a
Chevy van;
Moving from place to place
Across the land.
Then one day, in a little
Town,
He met a gal and settled
Down.
They had good times and bore
Three kids,
And raised them up, smart,
They did.
A happy man is
Travelin' Dan;
With no desire to
Roam.

I don't remember

"I don't remember"  a prompt from; http://first50.wordpress.com/2014/10/08/i-dont-remember-5/#comment-26580

I don’t remember what I forget.  I don’t remember being born, or being three.  I frequently don’t remember names.  I never forget a face, that’s the problem:  I know the face but, I don’t remember their name.  It’s “Okay” when it’s an acquaintance or someone from the distant past.  I routinely don’t remember names of my closest friends, acquaintances and co-workers.

The distinction between don't remember and can't remember is blurry, but significant; "I don't remember" implies that I could but I don't for some reason.  "I can't remember" says; I may have known once but now it's gone, irretrievable.  Alzheimer's is, perhaps, an example of the latter, where the former comes about from inattention or lack of practice or timely review.

In my  example of forgetting names;  my wife takes umbrage when I refer to wait staff by cutesy colloquialisms such as hon, babe, dude, bud etc.  Ma'am or sir is acceptable but still imparts to the waiter/waitress the fact that you don't remember their name, and they usually introduce themselves when they first approach your table.  Now I always make a point of asking the server their name early on if I didn't catch it when first offered.  From that point on I always thank them by name and that satisfies every party and there is a good chance I'll remember their name the next time we go to that eatery.

The other day, I was at the gas pump with a women of my acquaintance of some forty plus years.  We have daughters who were good school chums and graduated together.  My wife and I often socialized at various gatherings with she and her husband.  She recently retired from a place of business that we frequent on a regular basis.  She used my name numerous times in the course of our conversation and at our leave-taking.  Try as I might, her name failed to enter my consciousness.  Three hours later her name flashed in my mind.

I remember

I remember my dad singing; at home, in minstrel shows, wondering why he was an "Oil Man."  He sounded better than Tony, Bing, or Dean _ "Moon River," "Old Man River," and "Some Enchanted Evening.
He was a natural; carried a tune like a wallet in his back pocket.

Ready

The alarm is set for four; I’m awake long before four; full consciousness comes to the fore and I’m ready. I try to re-enter the land of dreams, to no avail. 3 A.M. and I’m up and at ‘em, my most productive time; I’ll be ready for a nap at Three P.M.