Thursday, March 24, 2011


I challenged myself to write lyrics a country song but the end result seems more like a Bluegrass number instead. The difference is subtle, of course, but read on and you’re likely to detect it.
    I ain’t wipin’ your tears no more
    But that ain’t no betoken
    That my love for you’s all through
    It’s just that the washer is broken.
    So I got no clean handkerchiefs
    And we can’t afford no Kleenex
    My shirts can’t have saltwater stains
    In case my boss inspects.
    So forgive me, my sweetheart,
    I love you as before
    But for now I’ll have to let
    Your tears fall to the floor.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Filler or Thriller?

If you have one foot in the grave and graves are six feet under, wouldn’t that make you an amputee? Unless you’re really tall, in which case you probably won’t fit into the coffin.

It’s easy to give parenting tips when you have no children of your own. That’s what I like about it. 

If no man is an island, how do they explain the Isle of Man? Evidently, no men are islands but some islands are men.

Money can’t buy happiness is a common claim among amateur philosophers. Turns out, however, that the saying doesn’t apply to shallow dirtbags. If they get money, they’re likely to be happy as clams. That’s another thing. Why are clams thought to be so happy? Is it because the shape of their shells crudely resembles a human smile? That seems presumptuous. What if the shell actually approximates teeth gritted in rage? It appears many fallacious assumptions have been made about clams, which probably means a lot of distraught clams aren’t getting the help they really need.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Un Re Quit Lying

Terence suffered for months, the victim of his unrequited love for Mean Doreen, who lived up to her name by constantly mistreating him. She would not even give him the time of day, claiming that her cellular phone’s GPS had malfunctioned and the clock no longer reflected the correct time zone. She also made snarky and needlessly cruel comments such as, “You’re such a nice guy, Terry. It’s too bad you’re married.”

Married, he thought. It was almost as though she knew about his bigamy. But how could she? The authorities hadn’t caught up to him yet. Or was she holding this knowledge over his head, waiting for the opportunity to blackmail him? Perhaps one of his wives had been in touch with Mean Doreen, but that seemed unlikely. Louise still thought he was away on business, although after three and a half years even she had begun to express suspicions, and Ramona had not yet been released from prison.

He decided to exact revenge on Mean Doreen for being so mean. What was the best way to get back at her, the ultimate punishment?

Marry her, he decided.

It was how he had punished the women in his life, except his mother and grandmother for logistical reasons. Terence had even married his cousin Doris, who only found out they were related after giving birth to a child with sixteen toes, one finger, and no tongue. She requested a DNA test shortly thereafter and filed for divorce a month later. It was her own fault for calling him “cute, but too young” at a family reunion when he was fifteen and she was nineteen. Years later, he altered his appearance just enough not to be taken for the same person and married her under a different name. 

But wooing Mean Doreen might prove tricky. She already knew about one of his marriages, but he couldn’t recall if he had identified his wife as Louise or Ramona or named one of his ex-wives, like Gillian or Celeste. Or Tawny. Still, Terence would find a way. He always did.   

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Yo, Japan

We love you. Hang in there and let the rest of the world know what we can do for you. You're rich, you're smart, you're resilient, but a disaster of this magnitude looks worse than if the real Godzilla appeared and began to wreak havoc.

Natural disasters never seem fair and we are at their mercy, whether they strike poor nations like Haiti or wealthy ones like Japan. They are tragic, sickening, and humbling, but curiously fascinating, reminding us of the truly phenomenal power the Earth/Nature/God or whom/whatever wields.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Corporate Cliche' Couplet

I have developed a new style of poetry called the Corporate Cliche' Couple. The idea is to include as many overused workplace words and phrases in two short, rhyming lines. I’m hoping to spark a new trend, one in which people write insipid poetry while they’re supposed to be working.

Synergize, strategize, more with less;
Leverage, interface, dress to impress. 

Not that good, really, but I guess that's the idea. 

When Boy George plaintively asked, “Do you really want to hurt me?” I kind of did. Later on, Culture Club grew on me and I wound up liking several of their songs, but never warmed up to that initial, whiny hit. I was just a kid in those days, but I was sure, absolutely positive, that George Michael of Wham! was gay. Straight men don’t wear long sleeve shirts and short pants and I don’t care if Andrew Ridgeley—the “other guy” in Wham!—hooked up with a member of Bananarama, he was gay from the time he put on the long sleeve shirt and short pants until the moment he took them off. I bring this up because Boy George’s look and behavior seemed so over-the-top that I didn’t really suspect him of being gay, even though it’s now clear “Karma Chameleon” is a gay love song. Time teaches us many things.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Hoary Wisdom May Increase Your Cynicism

Relinquish your grudges and free yourself of bitterness. Your bitterness may be justified, your grudges understandable, but you will never damage the object of your resentment as much as you harm yourself.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Don't Bore Me With Your Platitudes

Award shows suck.

Nobody knows why relationships work or don't work. It might have to do with the usual cliches--communication, compatibility, other pie-in-the-sky nonsense--and maybe there really are things like soul mates and fate, but whatever the secrets are can't be captured or bottled or even understood.

"Blogger" doesn't sound like a real job. And it isn't. People who are lucky enough to get paid to do it ought to at least be thankful but the most famous professional bloggers seem notoriously grumpy. Maybe I would be too if I got paid. That could be a natural side effect of the vocation. 

Most people really don't care what initials follow your name--MBA, DDS, PhD, TECHLOSH. Unless we encounter you at work, we really aren't interested in your credentials. No one cares that you have an MBA if you're talking about baseball. 

Misanthropy can be fun and all, but don't overdo it. I hate misanthropists. Every last one of them.