Junk e-mail

The best part about junk e-mail is that when we delete it, it doesn’t end up in a landfill, or have to be recycled in one fashion or another. It shoots off into space.

Or does it? What if, as the really smart physicists say, no energy is ever lost, just redistributed in one form or another? What then?

Are we going to discover a giant, planet-sized ball of e-waste floating in space—right outside our atmosphere?

Is that giant ball of propa-sales-ganda-pitch-special-e-gook going to reach critical mass, coalesce, and come crashing back to earth to bury us all in an electronic maelstrom-hurricane-e-flood? Wiping out all thought and reason?

Oh, wait. We already have that. We call it television news.       

Bologna and eggs for breakfast.

That’s the newspaper and scrambled eggs.

We usually put green chile in the eggs here in New Mexico.

Okay, toast too, but that goes without saying.

Okay, okay, the bologna they print in the newspaper probably goes without saying as well, but I really wanted to say it.

Or, for the grammarians of the world, write it.

To be honest I’ve given up on most of what the papers choose to write about.

I mostly read the funnies and the sports section.

There’s enough murder and mayhem printed there. 

What’s with the inch?

There are twelve inches in a foot. There are three feet in a yard. That’s thirty-six inches in a yard. Twelve is the key, a number divisible by three.

So, why aren’t there twelve twelfths in an inch?

What’s with sixteenths? And eighths? They aren’t divisible by three.

A quarter of an inch? Why isn’t that three twelfths?

A half would then be six twelfths.

Okay, okay. I’ll give you that six twelfths doesn’t roll off the tongue the way eight sixteenths does. Say six twelfths three times, fast, and you’ll rupture your lips.

Or, for that matter, four sixteenths. But still, it would bring us closer to the numerical sense that the metric system makes.

I know, I know, we couldn’t swallow the metric system.

Look at it this way; they have their tenths. We’d have our twelfths. We’d be two better. And I’d have an easier time drawing the plans for our new pantry.

One inch could equal one foot and so one twelfth would equal one inch . . . and our contractor would be able to figure out my damn drawings.

He’ be happier . . . and so would I.

We men don’t get it.

My wife had a doctor’s appointment this morning.

It was getting close to her time to leave, and she was violently scrubbing down the kitchen.

I said, “What are you doing, you’re going to be late?”
She said, “The kitchen is dirty.”

After a moment, I said, “Our cleaning lady is coming this morning. Isn’t that what she’s supposed to do?”

“Well, I don’t want her to see how dirty it is,” was her answer.

I stood for another moment and went back into my studio. There’s no response to that kind of thinking.

And yes, I know all the women out there understand it. 

They burned the beans

What do you do when your coffee bean factory burns the beans?

I say the first time it happened the conversation went something like this;

            “Oh, no! We burned the beans!”

            “Ahhh, crap! That’ll really tank the bottom line this month.”

            “Jeeze, look at them. They’re almost black.”

            “I know; we’ll call them something.”

             “YES!”

            “How about French Roast?”

            “Hell yes. We’ll even charge a little more.”

And that is how and why we came to buy and drink that stuff.

My wife actually likes it.

But then again, she’ll even eat burnt toast.

Tight suits are apparently in right now.

That’s good news and bad news for guys like myself.

Myself, and hundreds, no doubt thousands, like myself, who haven’t bought a new suit or sport coat in quite a while.

We’ve gained a few pounds and our jackets are tighter. So technically, we’re right in style.

The problem is; tight suits only look good on trim guys.

The rest of us look like Oliver Hardy.

I even have the derby hat.  

EMBERS

He had a book and a small, dying fire.

The embers weren’t bright enough to read by, so he tore the cover off the book and threw it on the embers.

It smoldered for a moment then burst into flame.  The flame lasted just long enough for him to read the first page.  And give him a little warmth.

When the flame died down he tore off the page he’d read and threw it on the fire. Burning it gave him just enough light to read the second page.

The second page gave light to the third, the third to the forth, and so on through the whole book.

Each bright burning page gave light to the next, until the last page had been consumed.

And by then the dawn had come.

Donald Duck turned me on to classical music

It’s true. When I was six or seven I saw the Disney cartoon of Donald Duck taking a trip down the Grand Canyon Donkey Trail.

As he sat on the donkey, ready to go, the guide, or maybe Daisy Duck, took his picture. The donkey’s eyes went from giant black pupils to tiny pinholes. And off Donald went, on a blind donkey, down the harrowing trail, to the music of Purdy Grofé’s The Grand Canyon Suite.

Every kid the theatre laughed hysterically as Donald screamed and the donkey wandered precariously near the edge.

Over and over Donald Duck and the blind donkey veered to the edge, closer and closer each time. That afternoon I went home humming the Grand Canyon Suite. And the joy of that cartoon and the music never left me. Many early cartoons were scored with classical music and I loved them all. I was hooked on the music. The cartoons, not so much.

Novel idea

My novel idea is that you should buy one of my two novels.
Or buy both. They're on Amazon right now. And three more coming in late January or early February.
Kindle is not far behind.
If you start reading when you take off in New York, you'll be finished by the time your plane lands in Los Angeles. If you're a fast reader, maybe Dallas.