How to become a.) a kook, or b.) an innovative genius!

July 27, 2013 § 4 Comments

One of the Flying WallendasStart small:

a.The cat lady down the street began with one stray and a can of tuna.

b. “One small step for a man. One giant leap for mankind.”

Express an unlikely or unpopular position:

a. “Shhh…The government has bugged that ketchup bottle.”

b. Earth circles the sun. (This one could get you excommunicated when the idea was fresh.)

Burn your bridges:

a.” The Mayan calendar was clear, so I gave away my stuff and I’m sitting on this mountaintop, waiting.”

b.” The hell with Paris! I’m going to Tahiti to paint scantily clad women.”

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Grandmon* and the Beezer.

July 20, 2013 § 11 Comments

Matthew the Beezer.After warning us that it is going to be really hot today, the grown-ups leave for work.

The Beezer and I grab the plastic bug box, the one with the glued-on magnifier, and hurry outside—it’s not really hot yet.

We hit our usual collecting spot, the space between the air conditioner condensers and the side of building twelve.

We like it because spiders like it.

Most are tiny and fast so most get away, but we trap a black one with white spots. Through the magnifier it is not so much bigger as it is fuzzier. We decide it needs a leaf to sit on after watching it slide around.

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Thinking inside the box.

July 13, 2013 § 6 Comments

I live in a box known as a body, but it works like any other box.

It packages what is me, keeping it separate from, say, you.

The box I live in comes equipped with convenient eye holes to peer through.

I can see you over there.

Hey, nice box.

You can never leave your box, I can’t leave mine; and I sometimes wonder, is life inside your box the same as the one I’m living in here?

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The drive-in.

July 6, 2013 § 14 Comments

MV5BODQ1NDk2Nzc4OF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMTI0Njk3OA@@._V1_SY317_CR12,0,214,317_[1]Arriving at dusk, the screen had a sorry, patched look, but under the bright beam of Technicolor the repairs disappeared. that no-longer-blank billboard was suffused with glamour.

Hollywood kisses were exchanged, great big smackaroos planted on big-screen lips, and when those stars bothered to speak their voices came, tinny, from a small gray box hung on a partially rolled down window.

I can still see our drive-in—never mind that it became a year-round flea market years ago, the big old marquee announcing bargains, bargains, bargains!

Once it was the place to see the white hats overcome the black, go around the world in 80 days, and watch beautiful people with lips the size of Buicks exchange closed-mouth kisses.

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