Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Big Bird, Trilliums and Mothers Day in Heaven

Today the Red Sox are a half-game out of Second Place. But there are three teams ahead of them. How should I feel about that?

More important, Tim Wakefield goes for career win #190, and in a related move, there's a real good possibility I'll get to meet Big Bird this afternoon...
He's 40, too. We should compare notes.

I have white man's overbite guilt/envy when I dance to R & B records.

On Sunday, I saw a snowflake in Scranton. It was Mothers Day, and in the local paper there were more than 20 "Mothers Day in Heaven" memorials to dead mothers. My mother is still alive and well, in Florida, so I sent her flowers and took myself out to brunch at Chick's Diner on Moosic Street.

Ron Paul has introduced legislation to once again legalize hemp farming in this country. Party on, Garth.

I propose we merge April and May into one month in which all the poets bike to work.

Thank g-d Whole Foods has sprouted stores in expensive neighborhoods. Before that, I'd only partially eaten foods for which I had underpaid.

If I only write ny with lowercase letters, can I reasonably expect never to have to spend time in Albany?

The single largest donor to the Democratic Party made his fortune from "five retards in Spandex." I don't think he's a nice man.

I wonder what the career advancement opportunities are for the guy who wears a diaper and lies on a bed of nails. Does he look over at the guy who walks on hot coals and think, "That's my two-year plan, Inshallah."?

Is Inshallah Arabic for "yo" or is "yo" Jive for "God Willing"? *

When a thing is televised, its head is actually held motionless in the retractable steel jaws of fiction.

If you ask a McDonald's executive where you should eat lunch, betcha he won't say, "Burger King."

Recently I walked in the woods amongst the destruction wreaked by the natural gas companies, in their disheartening prosecution of making profit from the Marcellus Shale. Hundreds of trees had been knocked out, and bulldozers had carved a road into a mountain side -- my hunting grounds. At the edge of this road, where busted roots were flayed open like the broken bones of  so many freeway pileup victims, I discovered a tiny little trillium erectum, a protected wildflower that was illegal to pick, in my youth, and may still be. In that moment--a tenuous cling to the roughly ploughed earth--this fragile forest jewel stood proudly against the arrogance of man, as if to say, "You may tear up my home and gouge my garage, but you cannot stop the tumescence of even the smallest living thing. You Gunkies!"

Thanks for reading, and here's a question to ponder on your trip home: Does forcing the Earth to fart  constitute a safe, sane or sustainable energy policy?

* I know. Most fakirs are probably not speaking Arabic. I'm just sayin'.