Category: Oh shit Joe!

when you desperately publish something

Giddy Up

A bunch of empty--and temporary--stalls.

Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal separating her from her quarry. Her breath was a cloud in front of her tiny nose. She waited. She was soon rewarded.

She heard a hollow clippity-clop of horseshoe on concrete. The percussive rolling four/four  was the back beat to her fantasy. She pushed her face closer to the diamond grid of the fence. The better to see.

A young woman, maybe her in eight or ten years, loosely held the reins of a great steed. The girl at the fence drank in the close black breeches capped by shiny black boots. The boots had a block heel, rounded toe and a seam circling the leather at the top third of the shaft. They were finished with a brass button at the very top. A long braid trailed from the round black helmet and down the back of a velvet coat.

But it was the horse that took her breath. He wasn’t the biggest horse she saw, but he was certainly big. He was an almost white gray with definite white spots on his back haunches. His arched neck was topped by the knobs of tight braids. His dark eyes wereXxx  unfocused. She tried to catch his attention by clicking her tongue. He didn’t respond. Rider and horse walked past to their quarters. 

Her mother was hanging just a few steps behind the girl. She walked ahead and tugged the imaginary line between her and her daughter. It worked and the girl moved a along the sidewalk. She stopped again, in front of a chamber full of four horses. There were two bays, a chestnut and a gray. The gray had the biggest head, but the chestnut was the biggest horse of the four. She tried to get them to see her, but two of the horses were flirting with each other and one had her head in her feed.

For a second, the girl made contact with one of the horses. He looked right into her and the girl felt like he touched the inside of her chest. She caught her breath and looked straight back at him, holding her breath. His  gaze went through and then beyond her.

But for that second, he was in her. She ran up to her mother to tell her how she felt the horse. She put her hand in the one automatically offered. Her mother’s eyes were fixed on the next pod, where she made a connect with a chestnut flipping his head and snorting. 

She crouched next to her daughter and pointed a long finger as he tossed his mane their way. The girl and her mother held his gaze and each other on that cool fall night under the stars and on their way into the arena where they would see the horses and riders compete. 

“Mommy, can I be a rider for Halloween?” The woman smiled and wondered if her old helmet would be too big for her. 

“Sure. You can wear your rain boots…”

“No I can’t. They’re yellow. Riders don’t wear yellow. Can I get new boots?”

Her mother looked down at her own tall boots and thought about budgeting for riding lessons. “We’ll see.”

Posted on by docthink 2

Air Aria

A tree on 10th Street. There is a glass building behind it.

It almost sounded more like squeaking bedsprings than tweets and chirps. Except that there would have been an old time hospital ward full of beds, and those beds would need to be fully exerted in a most athletic fashion to create this level of racket.

Maybe the tree was a bird version of a packed convention center exhibit hall, the echoing din of vendor and vendee voices combining to fill the cavern. Except that the pitch was much higher and frequently punctuated. The noise didn’t grow to a generalized loud buzz. It didn’t fade into the background. It was scraped, like a metal rake on concrete, onto the air.

You couldn’t actually see the birds in the tree, but there were likely hundreds. It wasn’t as much that the tree was large–although it was–but that there were a lot of birds. Peering into the dark foliage you might think you could make out the movement of a bird, but it was as likely to be the movement of a leaf. Undoubtably disturbed by a camouflaged bird. Their shiny black eyes didn’t reflect any light and their beaks and wings melted into the evening shadow of the bounteous greenery.

Walking under the tree, people only thought about birds dropping. Not the birds themselves, you know. The gray sidewalk was splashed with white splatter shapes of guano. It wasn’t slick, but it looked it. Pedestrian heads ping-ponged between carefully looking up to avoid walking into dropping poop–carefully in that they didn’t want anything falling into their eyes–and looking  down at the ground to avoid a slip and a fall onto the fresh “paint.”

But it was the shrill turbulence of peeps and warbles, and the furious rustling of leaves and branches, that drew attention. And questions. Why that tree? Why so many birds? Why this evening?

As the walkers reached the second half of the block, they forgot that they had even wondered.

 

Posted on by docthink 1

Voting for Time

Napoleon Dynamite sitting on a tufted couch. With his election day t-shirt. Vote for Pedro.

He walked up to her with an overabundance of confidence. He knew appearances count. He cleared his throat. To no avail. She did not turn.

He cleared his throat again, this time using her name as he forced a grumbling sound through the back of his throat. She spun her chair around and looked up at him. Her face asked, “what?”

“Hi. Hi, I’m sorry, but uhm, I got permission on Monday to take administrative leave today so I can register to vote. I can’t come to the mandatory workshop. I need to go because they close at 4:45 p.m. and I need to go home and get {something} first. And {something something},” he went on a bit more.

She wasn’t listening. She wasn’t sure why he was there. Blathering on about something when she had less that twelve minutes to get the worksheets printed, gather a pile of laptops and spread them around the room upstairs.

Then she heard that he had to register to vote.

“Really?” she asked. “You need to register to vote? Why do you need to leave early for that?” She didn’t care–except for one thing. “You know, you can register to vote at the polls on November 8th.”

He soldiered on, not letting his confidence drop. At least not too much. “Well, it’s too late to mail in my forms.”

She was messing with him now. “Sure, but why aren’t you voting in your home state? It’s a more meaningful state for you to vote in.”

He went on by quoting some laws by their numbers and names.

“Well, I know that you can register on voting day.” The man in the next cube stood up and chimed in.

“Yeah. You can register on voting day.”

Some of his swagger was leaving him. This getting time off this afternoon was getting more complex.

“Look, I want you to vote. I’m just curious why you think you need to register today, in person, at this one office in particular?” She was just toying with her prey who started to spew additional nonsense legalese. Nonsense because he was a distraction she didn’t need at this moment, yet she felt compelled to bat him around.

She let him squirm for another twenty seconds. “Are you looking for my permission to skip the workshop?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Fine. I need to finish something up. You can go and register to vote since you said your boss already cleared your leave.” She really did not care, not a single bit, if he showed up to her thing. “I just want you to know, that today is not a deadline.”

He started to respond with more jibberish, but she had already turned away to finish what she had started. She only had nine minutes left. His scheming had all been unnecessary. She was indifferent to him. “Just leave already,” she thought.

Posted on by docthink 0

Splice of Life

A almost collapsed cake with four lit birthday candles. The cake is greenish. With some chocolate cake poking through the frosting. What a mess. We didn't eat this. It's just a picture from the Internet.

Our neighbors moved a few months back. It’s only a few blocks from here, and they really needed more space. Their new house is terrific. The people who moved into their old house are very nice.

But it’s just not the same. It’s like there is a hunk of film spliced out of the reel. Something is missing.

My dog misses their dog. He’s gone up to their porch to check if his pupster uncle is there. He never is. He doesn’t live there anymore. Or maybe The Beast is just waiting for the door to open. One day they were having a party and he pushed into the house and beelined to the brie wheel on the table which he proceeded to eat in a single gulp. The kids were amazed by his audacity. It might have been their favorite story, ever. I know this because they have told it to me more than once. So maybe the dog’s standing on the porch because he wants more cheese.

I miss watching the kids running to the car in the morning on the their way to school. Sometimes they were in a big hurry and there would be backpacks flying and open jackets and someone carrying their coffee in their almost free hand. Sometimes it would be less frenetic and we would have a short visit. The kids would all ask to come across the street to pet the dog. Even though they had one of their own that they didn’t actively pet.  It was always a charming part of the morning. Sometimes I would bitch about The Spouse. Sometimes she would bitch about hers. Always in a loving way. That’s what neighbors do. Listen to each other bitch about loved ones.

I miss the extended family. Grandma’s and sisters and nephews and cousins. After a while, they all knew me. And I knew them, too. I’d get called over for a glass of wine at the tail of a family party. One day The Spouse brought over the leftover ginger ice cream I made. It was Christmas Day. Another day we were all snowed in and they saw that someone made me a fancy mojito. IN THE WINTER. You know how Facebook makes you jealous of your friends? So I sent the Big Guy over with a summer drink to make them feel less envious. The flow of goods and services frequently criss-crossed the street.

My friend and former neighbor had a birthday party. There was cake. There was dancing to favorite music–Hall and Oats and Skee-lo and some 80s music that I must have slept through but that everyone else knew.  And there was love. My neighbors are spliced out of the daily reel, but still have important scenes. I miss seeing them every day. But am glad I still see them.

Posted on by docthink 0

A Less Than Worthwhile Post

champagne

Oh, geez. There is not a post here to be had. Nope. No post.

This is just a Post that acknowledges that a post is posted every day. And this day, this day that is today, acknowledges more duty than purpose.

Also, drink less champagne. But, that said, I love champagne.

Posted on by docthink 0

Mumbo’s The Word

carryout

The D.C. corner carry out. This one has been most recently named Sammy, but it used to be Sammy’s. Before that it was Granny’s, and before that, Granny’s was Granny’s BBQ. I forget what it was the time before or the time before that. But Carry Out was always part of the sign.

The carry out menu features “Chinese and American food, seafood and sub.” I guess, given the new big sign on the top of the building, pizza, too.

Before the exterior bricks were painted red, it was white. And before it was painted white, it was blue and maybe green. Different names, different facade, same food.

No matter its name or color, the food is always Chinese chicken/beef/pork/veggies that are indistinguishable from each other with rice and a sauce, subs, gyros (for some odd reason, maybe because it’s on the menu generator template that all the carry outs seem to use), fried fish, fried chicken, wings and pizza. Most everything is less than $10 and you can get a 2-liter soda, to boot. They’ll deliver for a fee, but the driver won’t leave his car. You need to come and get your food from the curb.

The carry out takes care of people who don’t usually cook or usually cook but are pressed for time or ingredients. The food itself is filling if not healthy. There is congealed sauce on many of the Asian entrees. The sub rolls are thick and chewy, but without taste. Same with the fried catfish and fries, taste free, if you discount the fat and the salt.

That’s why they have mumbo sauce.

Mumbo sauce is the mainstay of D.C. carry outs. It’s squeezed on the fried fare–french fries, fried chicken and fried fish. It’s an amazing shade of fluorescent orange with more than a little hint of pink. It is not spicy. It’s sweet. If you want to punch it up a firey notch, there’s Texas Pete’s or, increasingly, sriracha.  If you ask me, I’d tell you it was sweet and sour sauce mixed with ketchup. But there are folks who would dispute my cynical recipe.

The carry out condiments are not an accompaniment as much as they are the entire flavor. But between the fat and the salt and the sweet + sour and the spicy all of your natural tastebuds are covered. And you will be full. That’s what a carry out is for.

Posted on by docthink 0

Strange Brew

A cup of coffee in a white cup on a white saucer. I bet it's not decaf.

Nice event this evening. People were dressed very fancy. Sparkles and beads, bow ties and cufflinks. Little bitty bags with long metal chains and shiny shoes, too.

The room was filled with dozens of nicely sized rounds. Not so big that you couldn’t introduce yourself to the person sitting on the other side of your diameter but too big to have a conversation across the centerpiece. The chairs were that light metal that was welded–or maybe strongly glued–together to look like bamboo. Bamboo that was sprayed a golden color. The biggest surprise was the tablecloth. It was a fancy print–a creamy, almost yellow, background with a somewhat Asian design of small red flowers, maybe poppies, with thin green vines dispersed almost in balance to the ecru. The fabric felt more like upholstery or a heavy drape than a tablecloth and, when you put your wine glass down, the embroidery or a seam or some unevenness would make you steady the stem to find a flatter spot.

There was a big water glass and a medium sized wine glass, but if your brought your pinot noir from the reception, you would notice that the cocktail wines were much smaller. That seems like a good decision by central catering.

The seats were fairly deeply padded, but after a few sets of remarks and videos and jokes and applause you wanted to stand and stretch. The planners were smart, too. They broke the program up around the courses to allow for standing and milling and visiting. Greetings from the dais, a catalogue of grateful thank you’s that may have been commercials, then a few segments accompanied by a salad. Main course and then more videos, emcee schtick and more segments. Dessert and coffee followed by the final two segments.

But, let me get back to that dessert thing. Really, to the coffee. There was only decaffeinated coffee served. Only decaf. What is up with that? It’s like seeing a soda machine that only has diet soda or walking up to a bar to find they only have 3.2 beer on tap or looking into your Halloween bag to see only apples, boxes of raisins and pennies lined up on a piece of tape.

It’s flipping the idea of coffee on its head. Coffee is coffee and decaf is a disarmed cup of coffee. Someone decided that all coffee served after dinner would be incapacitated. What? Caffeine been bothering you? Makes me wonder what the world is coming to. What kind of monsters serve strictly decaf? Where is my choice?

So I drank my impotent brew and then took to the huge chocolate thing on my plate. And I know that there was caffeine in that chocolate thing–along with maybe nutella. It was creamy and almost gloopy. And I ate too much of it. Now I’m too full of rich food to sleep.

Seriously, if those people were looking to take care of me, they would have served much smaller dessert portions. And some real coffee. I think I’m going to have to find some fizzy water. Damn nanny state.

 

Posted on by docthink 0

Popcorn 

The salt flew from her fingers. Some flakes coated her lips as she closed them on the krunchy kernels. 

For what is the purpose of popcorn if not as a salt delivery device?

The salt strayed on her fingers that would find their way into her mouth, the crystals only to be caught by her tongue in a moment. Her lips swelled from the salt. Is it a poison? Or an enhancement?

As she emptied the bowl, the last layer of popcorn flipped the balance of snack to brine. It almost became too much. No longer a condiment, but the main course. Too coarse. 

She left the last pieces of popcorn, but only for now. Tomorrow she would eat the salt-snack as if it was correctly proportioned. She could do that for twelve pieces. And then grab a tall glass of water. 

Posted on by docthink 0

Muse

Feet and Beast at beach.

Sitting on the couch, next to The Spouse. Tragically, he either refuses or is incapable of giving me a decent idea for a post. I only say refuses because the concepts he has provided displayed a lack of operability.

Seriously, his offers were more like an SAT essay prompt. Or a sickly question for Miss America. (Do they still do Miss America? Do they still ask her about world peace?)

I wondered if The Spouse has ever read the Doctor Of Thinkology. A regular reader would know that it is rare that the Doc is difficultly thoughtful. I mean, I POST EVERY STINKING DAY. Most posts are going to be short or glib. Sometimes I hit a home run. But if I’m asking for inspiration, rest assured this will not be a high scoring game.

I do appreciate the support. I really do. Throwing out ideas shows that we both take this seriously. And there is no reason on God’s green earth that The Spouse should. Yet he does.

While I am grateful that my quixotic quest to write and publish every stinking day is encouraged and endorsed, sans idea there is no post.

The Spouse asks me to stretch out so he can rub my feet.

Seriously, why is it when someone puts their hand on your foot and squeezes, or presses their fingers along the spine of your foot, or works through each of your toes, you’re just done? Done in a way that is perfect. Done in a way that the sensors in the balls of your feet which are directly and immediately wired to a spot in your brain, at the back of your head and above your right ear, deliver a breathless, “ahhhhh.” And a melting of the foot into the magic hand, begging for more. Because that is what happens. Foot massages are crack.

The Beast crawls up on the couch and drapes himself over the right side of my body. As he works to find his most comfortable–and comforting–spot, I take the laptop and move it around his huge shoulders, his huge head and his hugest snout. He settles in with his heavy head on my shoulder and his skinny legs folded underneath him. His sigh disperses a forceful wind of hot air, delivered with just a huff. At the end.

The hand on my foot absent-mindedly continues to sometimes apply pressure to bones and sometimes to just run along the distance between heel and toe. Whatever the technique, it lights up the dopamine receptors and all is right in the world.

So, what will I write about? What is my inspiration? Thank you, Spouse. You done did good.

Posted on by docthink 0

Work, work, work, work, work, work

a slice of the WWII we can do it poster.

Is it Friday yet?

Oh. It is. And ahead are three days without going to work.

Labor Day. A day of leisure. A day of anti-labor. Because we work. And we prefer not to.

The idea of work being something that requires relief, versus an integral part of being seems kind of bad.

I chose the word bad on purpose. As in opposite of good. Because work is what we do. And to make work separate from being seems like a recipe for unhappiness. Learning is work. Thinking is work. Walking is work.

Winning a gold medal in the 800 meter freestyle? Work. Feeding and diapering a baby–your own included–equals work. Negotiating at a parent/teacher conference? Definitely work.

Ask a professional dancer what they do, they’ll tell you they work. The cast of Hamilton, they go to work everyday. The Pope? Doing god’s work. Being the leader of the free world? I think President’s would call that work.

Teaching a class? Work. Taking a class? Work. Making dinner? Work. Paying bills? Work. Thinking big thoughts? That’s work, too. Being a spouse, child, parent, sibling? All include work.

You work at relationships. You work at finding compromise and solution. Struggle can be work, but work does not have to be struggle. Or maybe struggle isn’t work? I mean, this could be a better post if I worked on it.

Right now, though, I am finishing the work on this post. And then I am going to rest my head. Maybe I can say that I’m working on sleeping. Yeah. That’s it. Until I punch the clock in the morning.

I don’t mind work. It’s how we grow.

Posted on by docthink 0