Reconciling my checkbook was an unpleasant sudoku puzzle back in the day. I would load up the hookah with organic caterpillar and smoke cipher woes away.
Reconcile
Tag: blog
Strata
Working in downtown Chicago of the nineteen eighties, I witnessed first hand the class warfare dujour. The jagged edge of the serrated social strata was clearly defined. You had your “fern bars”, where the yuppies (Young Urban Professionals) went. Then you had your tried and true old timey taverns, where the yuffies (Young Urban Failures) were known to gather. Both types of establishments were clustered together in or near The Loop
Pardon my gross generalizations, but I feel comfortable making that observation in hindsight. Then as in now, no faction has cornered the market on knuckleheads. Both groups grinding against each other in the serrated gears of commerce.
Ah, good times .
Blue Boxers
Late Friday Night
Just turned nineteen
That sweet spot in time
The four years
Beer and wine drinking age
Dropped just in time
Now legal for a change
My now erstwhile crew
Would roll into Scatscio's
For a pitcher or two
Plus a marginal pizza
That left the roof of your mouth
Burned but satisfied
Hugo would tickle the ivories
In this ersatz piano lounge
My introduction to
Adult late night entertainment
Just about the time
This song appeared
On the FM radio playlist
Scatscio's was in
A large frame house
Transformed into
A neighborhood lounge
I don't remember
Which of our crew discovered
The pair of blue boxer shorts
Under a square piece
Of loose particle board
Lying on the floor
In the upstairs terlet
But for many years
When going to hear Hugo
For a quaff and a munch
One of us was compelled
To do the underpants check
By lifting the board
For a peek and a giggle
The blue boxers stayed
Silent and persistently present
Under a particle board
Lying on the floor
Of the piano lounge terlet
Onerous is the Loneliest Number
You Think You Got It Tough
Growing up in a household where the adults where born respectively in 1881, 1906, and 1916; this was not only high comedy but a self help recording. So stop whining, here’s some Merthiolate to put on your boo boo, and go back out to play. Don’t come back until the street lamps go on. The only onerous was on me.
Spun
daily I view
fabricated realities
alternate universes
diverging converging
timeline merging
tapestry of screen time
disbelieved believing
spun from whole cloth
fruit of the loom
brought to you by loons
highly unlikely exposition
narratives from nattering
decanted denominational
decrypted dominated cryptic
negative nincompoop nabobs
woven into a threadbare fabric
with a smattering of snew
What's snew?
I don't know.
What's snew with you.
Cranky
1. Widow Twanky.
An honorific she earned after her husband Cranky Twanky passed.
2. Buttons.
Things you have to push to find out what they really do.
3. Cinders.
Burn your cinders to the bone, what do you get? Boney Cinders
4. The Beast.
Something we all must try to keep at bay
5. Gru.
A thing we all need to grow some of to hide away for a rainy day
6. Cruella de Vil
Hunter Thompson's big car of choice for some fear and loathing duty in Las Vegas
7. The Fairy Godmother
Maternal Changeling terrorizing children
8. Abanazar.
When you don't have enough to qualify as Abundanza
9. Carabosse
The last railroad car on The Bosses train
10. King/Queen Rat.
The big cheeses at the local Rodent Club
You Better Not Holler
Hominids being
Horrible to one another has no
Hole in human history
Honestly it's
Horrendous
How we've treated one another
Holiday exceptions
Honestly only sometimes
Honored
Ho Ho Ho
codependency
So I wrote a haiku this morning to a Bluesky #vss365 prompt of #yearn as I am wont to do daily.
It went like this:
It always seems that
No matter how hard I #yearn
Affection is spurned
A comment made on that post brought to mind this song by Loudon Wainwright, III
“Unrequited To The Nth Degree”
Oh, when I die and it won’t be long
Hey, you’re gonna be sorry that you treated me wrong
Yeah, you’re gonna be sorry that you treated me bad
Hey, and if there’s an after life I’ll gloat and I’ll be glad
Might be a plane crash, or some sort of OD
Hey, there’s going to be a photograph with my obituary
You’re gonna see it and you’ll cry
You’re gonna wanna wear black
Hey, I’ll be dead but you can bet your life, I’m gonna get you back
I’m tired of being left up on your shelf
I might not wait around, might kill myself
Not only would you miss me, but you’d feel guilty to
Oh, I’d be dead but it’d be too late the joke would be on you
Ha ha ha ha, ho ho ho ho
Chuckle chuckle chuckle chuckle
Snigger snigger snigger snigger
Guffaw guffaw guffaw
Yuk yuk yuk yuk
Ha ha ha ha…
So you better take warning, start treating me good
Start doing the things that I think you should
And you better not pout and no you better not cry
The grim reaper is a-comin’ to town and I just might die
This song reinforces many things for me.
From irrational exuberance to unreasonable expectations.
From pining for personages out of my league, while not noticing those that would have been a better fit.
Personal life
Professional life
Business life
Financial life
Spiritual life
This song also affirms my observations on codependency:
When I die your life will pass before my eyes.
🛩Meanwhile, Keep Em Flying 🛩
A Toast to Biscuit
"I wonder if it's true that a buttered slice of toast always lands buttered side down?" She leered back at me over the breakfast table and winked. "Wanna find out?" People our age had no business behaving that way, but we put that mornings inspiration to the test for a spell. Someday I'll Google that question. But I did not then and I will not now. Some mysteries of the universe are left to be explored over and over again. The buttering of the toast can be wonderful and messy. Surprising and surpassing expectations. Not a chore, but a delight. Whether morning or night, my little toaster would often pop up when least expected, delivering a surface for that delicious spread. Toast is fine. But Biscuit was different. Since I've never heard of a buttered biscuit theory I can only imagine you never can know which side a buttered biscuit will land on; so you just have to roll around for bit. Or a bite. Or a bit of a bite. That was the way of the Biscuit.
Biscuit Bolero
Now please pass the toast and for heavens sake be careful.
Egged On
1. Why did the chicken cross the road?
Because a flyover did not eggsxist
2. Why are eggs oval in shape?
Because if they were square it would be an eggsistential threat
3. Who said Humpty Dumpty was an egg?
Upon advice of my attorney I take the fifth eggmenment
4. What is fumigate?
What will be needed once our coop's eggosystem crashes in on itself
5. What is a wuss?
Wet cloth used to wipe the eggxtra yoke off your puss
6. What is a spotter?
One with eggstremely sharp eyesight
7. What is the speed of light?
Eggstrodinarily fast wave and particle scramble to fly the coop
8. What is a hangover?
The price of overtly eggregious consumption
9. What is a grammy?
What you get with eggsentialy 28.3495 ounceys
10.What is lycra?
It's all about how you lycra your eggs
A Scroll Threw Life 