Tag Archives: postaday2011

A Fish Story

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Howie was headed to work daydreaming about fishing. He didn’t mind his clerk’s job at the Island Souvenir Warehouse; it was an easy walk from his house. All of a sudden he felt the ground beneath his feet shudder. He half turned expecting to see a semi trailer or a steam roller on its way to a construction site. 

But the only thing on the road was a dune buggie. He shrugged and turned back.

After two more steps, he felt it again. There was no mistaking this. It was a wide rolling movement that caused him to instinctively fling out his arms and half crouch as if he was on a surf board. 

A network of cracks exploded in the ground ahead of him radiating into the parking lot. The asphalt started to bulge as if someone was inflating a balloon underground. Within minutes it was as big as a car and widening into a triangle. 

Without taking his eyes off what was happening in front of him, Howie started edging backward. As the mass grew level with the roof, the asphalt started to split and fall away.  

Out emerged a fish the size of boxcar.  After poking his head through the parking lot, it took a deep breath, heaved up his body and flipped his tail free. His skin was mostly matte grey, his eyes were spaced a good distance apart, and he had a great mass of pearly white teeth and ruby red lips.

“Oh,”  Howie said, “you must be the new guy, I’ll tell ’em you’re here.”

 

Bloggies

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Ruth Pennebaker tossed a 15-year-old granddaughter into the plot of her novel after her husband said a middle-aged woman taking care of her dying mother was a yawn. Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown is a first novel for the Austin-based Pennebaker, a veteran journalist and avid blogger. 

Blogger? You say?

Her blog is called The Fabulous Geezer Sisters; her sister has actually left for a different pasture so — truth be known, it’s singular Geezer.  I found that her blog is a finalist in the Eleventh Annual Weblog Awards for Best Writing. I bookmarked it for later.  

With over 156 million blogs out here, any effort to recognize top dogs is welcome relief. 

The Bloggies are a great way to find things you wouldn’t other wise find. A blog can win a category for a maximum of three years. So new talent doesn’t have to sit around waiting for someone to expire. 

Among the categories are Humor, Food, Best Designed, Best Photography, Art/Craft/Design, (I like Just Something That I Made ) Politics and Gossip. A grand prize is Weblog of the Year.  In that contest, I’m watching Hyperbole and a Half, and Smitten Kitchen.

Museum Appreciation 101

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Ever since I nearly missed the gift shop at the Prado because of an earlier than usual  closing time, I go straight to the gift shop when I first visit any museum.

After a while I figured out that the postcard rack is a good place to find what the museum keepers consider the best stuff in their museum. I also discovered from gift shop photo cards exactly where to stand to take dramatic pictures of the building. (Then — to the cafe to make sure it will be open when you’re ready to kick back and congratulate yourself for being cultured.)

It’s unlikely that docents universally embrace my technique, but just between us — sometimes a short tour is all you need.

The Art Museum of South Texas is a stunner that sits right on the edge of the bay. 

Philip Johnson, of Glass House fame, designed the original poured concrete building in 1972; Victor and Ricardo Legorreta collaborated on an addition completed in 2006 that added 13 roof top pyramids and alfresco dining. Worth a trip if you’re in town.

Whoop! Ing!

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Today we did touristy things. On the way home, we notice several cars parked along a road bordering a fenced pasture close to the edge of the estuary in Fulton on the coast.  

We swing around and see that the object of fascination is the trio of birds slow stepping in the grass about a 100 feet or so from the road. At closer look, those assembled are as one equipped with cameras on tripods each with a lens the size of a pro-football player’s thigh. 

Well, laudy miz claudy, who knew we were looking at three whooping cranes!? Now these birds have been clawing their way back from the list of extinction for quite some time.  We know that a nearby reserve is a destination and through diligence their flock has increased. But this pasture is sorta a no birds’ land.   

One of the bird-people cum lens tells us that the bird pair has been coming here ever since the farm owner fed them in a dry spell. Evidently they are a territorial species and since the arrival of junior, return every year, settle in and prepare to defend their home land against intruders.

Well, I had not intended to take part in the Great Backyard Bird Count but destiny calls. I just completed my report.  Yeah, I know, I know — they are a little small, trust me they are not chickens. I thought it would be really bad form to climb the fence to get closer. 

Visit International Crane Organization for close-ups.

Good Ship Enterprise

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The other day, I stopped at a table in the grocery store to buy cookies from an enthusiastic group of high schoolers raising money for this and that at their school. I asked, “How much?” gesturing at a half-dozen chocolate chip cookies in a plastic baggie tied with a jaunty bow.

“Everything goes for a donation, just pay what you want,” one of the table honchos said.

Clever, I thought. A huge jar sat smugly in the center of the table with a challenge on its fat little face. What value do you put on teen enterprise and industry? Don’t let’s be cheap, after all, these are kids not Keeblers!

I stuffed a $10 bill in the slot to a chorus of high-pitched thank yous and tossed the cookies into my purse.

Looking for my keys, I came across the cookies this morning. Wow, this is great, I thought. Homemade cookies that I didn’t have to make at home. I am having one now, and I have to tell you even if I hadn’t boosted the school’s GNP, they are worth every penny.

BTW, I actually put a fiver in the jar, he wasn’t that convincing.

A Puppy Chow Night

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The Westminster Dog Show is packing ’em in to Madison Square Garden tonight for the Best of Show finale. Counting this year’s 2500 competitors, over 300,000 dogs have taken part since the first show in 1877.

It stands as the second longest continuously held sporting event in America, right behind the Kentucky Derby. Even New York pays attention, the tower lights on the top of the Empire State Building are purple and gold, official Westminster colors.  

If your dog pines for a chance at the big time, give him a front row seat when they broadcast the finish tonight. In case you think age is a factor — the oldest Best of Show Dog was Grinchy Glee; he was 10, the youngest was Rough Collie at 9 months.

Hang this poster in his doghouse to keep him motivated for the long road ahead. A portion of the proceeds goes to support the Animal Medical Center in New York.

Break-through Minor

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I am at a significant personal break-through; I do not expect grand and spontaneous gestures on Valentine’s Day. And ever since, I am a whole lot happier. What a strange quirk to believe that love is best demonstrated when it catches me off guard.

I talk about Valentine’s Day way before it rolls around.

And I know now that repetition is directly correlated to making sure that the day will come and go with at least a modicum of celebration.

Another sign of having arrived is the part about asking for what I want.

Not that there is anything wrong with a Farberware double boiler but there are few things more satisfying than a bouquet of bright flowers and a card I can save for a while.  

(He gets a slab of mint chocolate fudge he can eat all by himself and a card with a cat on it waiting for him to come home. February 14 is just a Monday to him. )

HVD where ever you are.

(UNICEF card at left.)

Anybody else thinking?

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What exactly does Mubarak not understand about, “It’s over.” Sure, I understand –he’s used to the gig and doesn’t have a whole lot of other marketable skills but still when a whole bunch —hundreds of thousands –of people mill around outside your window hollering, “Show us your shoes!”

 Ouch.

News reports have picked up the suggestion evidently floated by the Mubarak camp that  foreign interests are fueling the demonstrations. Well, don’t be looking this way. Although Show Me The Shoes is a fine and catchy line, we are partial to Show Me The Money or that old-school favorite, Wake Up and Smell the Coffee.  

Ahem, Big M, here’s a thought. If you hurry, you probably can make the entire talk show circuit over here.

You’ll be able to reveal how Loera, the next door neighbor lady, in the absence of your caring-but-way-too-busy parents, nurtured and coached you to stand tall against the boys down the street who for some reason kept stealing your shoes. Then a ghost writer memoir in the works, an endorsement or two, and an offer to launch a brand new reality show, Real Ousted Autocrats. 

You’re money, Mr. Mubarak. Go ahead, quit.

Guest Blogger

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In the end, I would like to write as fresh and honest as say — a third grader. And I have an example to show you thanks to my sister who forwarded this e-mail pass-along. You may have already seen it, if not, you’re in for a treat. I only wish I knew who deserves the credit. (If it is some adult, I don’t want to know.)

In January, a teacher asked her third graders to tell how they spent their holiday away from school. One child wrote:

We always used to spend the holidays with Grandma and Grandpa. They used to live in a big brick house, but Grandpa got retarded and they moved to Arizona .

Now they live in a tin box and have rocks painted green to look like grass. They ride around on their bicycles, and wear name tags, because they don’t know who they are anymore. They go to a building called a wreck center, but they must have got it fixed because it is all okay now, they do exercises there, but they don’t do them very well.There is a swimming pool too, but they all jump up and down in it with hats on.

At their gate, there is a doll house with a little old man sitting in it. He watches all day so nobody can escape. Sometimes they sneak out, and go cruising in their golf carts.

Nobody there cooks, they just eat out. And, they eat the same thing every night – early birds. Some of the people can’t get out past the man in the doll house. The ones who do get out, bring food back to the wrecked center for pot luck.

My Grandma says that Grandpa worked all his life to earn his retardment and, says I should work hard so I can be retarded someday too. When I earn my retardment, I want to be the man in the doll house. Then I will let people out, so they can visit their grandchildren.

Is it just Me?

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Whenever my mother said, “Far be it for me to say anything about …” You knew she felt just the opposite; and sure enough, she’d launch into talking about someone or something like a dog.

“Far be it for me…” I heard myself say to Sig this morning, “to talk about someone’s idiosyncracies but that letter to Dear Ann is stupid.” Though he is as interested in the topic as in hearing how to decorate with plaids, he arranges his face to resemble attentive.

So, this person writes to ask,”How long should I keep cards I’ve gotten for holidays, birthdays and so on?” Her dilemma comes from feeling guilty about throwing cards away when she knows her friends have spent time and money picking them out just for her. 

I continue, “Not only is the question stupid, the answer is baaad.” She is told to gather up her cards and take them to a school or senior citizen home to recycle into crafts. A mild warning was stuck on for good measure: cut out any addresses, both yours and the senders before you drop them off. 

“OMG, so maybe the lady has hoarding tendencies, but who says she is a dummy? Someone is getting paid for this drivel!”  

“Hmm” Sig says, “Keeps them out of the landfill for a while longer.” I look at him and realize that he will never understand that dissing only works when there are two or more players. It’s kinda like the tango.