The Sun is the Flame – I am the Lobster – Coo-Coo-Ca-Choo

mock lobster 3


Self Portrait (after baking in the sun)

Wednesday’s child is full of woe, as is lobster night if you’re a lobster or happen to look like one.

After mistaking the green tube of shampoo for after sun aloe, my arms were oh so clean but still blazing red hot from the sun.

That’s when I realized it was lobster night. Luckily, I was appropriately attired and tired from getting up when the night was darkest before the dawn and my stomach attempted to secede from my body after absorbing too many rum creams, while a group of adventurous blokes finished the night with shots of Bob Marleys. A chorus of “Dear God” echoed beneath the hut where the staggering stragglers chug-a-lugged until they lowered their empty glasses to the bar with one collective thud.

Skin burnt. Head hurt. Well-done, Jamaican sun.
Drinks free. It seemed. Well-done, Jamaican Club.
Fine food. Strong booze. Paid for inclusively.
Who needs water when you have rum cream?
After too many I soon believed, it was a fashion faux pas to wear sun screen.
Well-done, Jamaican sun. Skin hot. Sunburn pain. I so needed some Lanocaine.
Store closed. Nurse? No. Went to the front desk to complain.
Was handed a used tube of Lanocaine. Had to give her my room number and name.
Then she said, “Oh, and hon. Bring back the tube, as soon as you’re done.”


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Treading the Treadmill Lightly

Want to Exercise? Pick Your Poison.

Sweat by Jog, Gym, or Treadmill?

Jogging the Wallet

There is something glamorous about jogging in a Moxie Skirt and Fizz Tank Top until you to start to run and unsightly sweat stains leave an indelible mark on your pride and your new tank top. Jogging is too damn hard and intrinsically affected by whether the weather is perfect or not. I’m a perfectionist. Perfect is a myth. Jogging is a mythstake.

Eau de Gym

Gyms are self-contained exercise hubs impervious to outside weather conditions and stimulating conversation. Now, I love human contact as much as the next person but would rather not pay for a club membership. In addition to the obvious expense, I refuse to get in shape next to people who have toned hard bodies with nary a ripple of fat. I’m convinced that there is a secret gym where those people go to get in shape before they join a gym . . . to get in shape.

While those hard-bodied people can wear stylish form fitting workout clothes, I have to wear fat gal clothes with fancy flap traps to hide a sagging stomach and bouncing butt. I worry every time I lift my arms that the fat folds hidden beneath the trap will unravel, frantically flopping, and possibly flattening the gal doing Pilates next to me.

No. Gyms are too stressful. Besides, I’d rather not have to smell other people’s sweat.

No Will to Treadmill

I already have enough stress from the treadmill that glares at me from the family room, a technological marvel that is both accessible and evil, as it eliminates the need for any possible human contact. It glares at me because lately I’ve been avoiding it. After only exercising for a month or two, I started skipping days, then weeks, and finally skipping past the treadmill completely and heading straight for the couch where I routinely exercise my thumb on the remote.

I’m officially on an exercise hiatus while I reevaluate my pudgy doctor’s advice — to shape up or die.

Frankly, my doctor and working out scares me. Stretching and straining muscles is masochistic. In fact, I believe that exercising is more like exorcising and that its only purpose is to keep the mind in shape by working out limitless creative schemes in order to avoid the harmful effects of exercising.

How do you tread?

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If Only There Was a Lost and Found for Brains

A Computer Generated photo of what the Earth w...

For My Brain

I once had a brain but it went MIA above the yondering blue where the space ships cruise in weightlessness. That’s where my brain is—somewhere in space—the final frontier—floating in a vacuum of nothingness.

In space, there is no air or reason to put on airs. Everyone looks the same hermetically sealed inside a suit, if one is lucky enough to afford a suit and fasten their brain into the helmet before it drifts away. You know the one that got away. That’s my brain orbiting over Japan, Qatar then Afghanistan.

Some starched white shirts below may think my brain is a UFO. It’s happened before. We all know about Roswell, but that didn’t end well for the extraterrestrial, a.k.a. weather balloon. They’re easy to confuse when blinded by the light of a desert moon.

Luckily, my brain is stuck in orbit circumventing the earth. Still on course. Not a chance it will plummet through the atmosphere—an ambiance of sorts without mahogany wood decor and the scent of brandy wafting from bore to bore.

Out here in space, a glorious scent is benched for a view of the first string team of shooting stars, whooshing by at the speed of light through deepest dark, except for an occasional gaseous substance, a.k.a. the sun spinning on its axis. My brain has no axis to grind, soaring above the third planet from the sun, mistaking particles below for empty souls.

If I could only see, but the fog and red tinted clouds obscure breathtaking views. I find myself pondering what I could have seen lurking beneath the convoluted atmosphere—some good, some bad, some particularly scenic overlooks off the highway.

Perhaps rocks, and grass, fragments of automobiles and shattered glass scattered across the shoulder. I can only imagine what happened to those inside—bones and more bones vibrating against flesh, as the car smashed through a barrier and tumbled around amid shrieks and prayers and what might have beens. It’s sad really. But I don’t have the luxury of pain. My brain says it best. Keep the signals pulsating from one synapses to the next, and I will continue drifting through space, orbiting above the distant place below also known as home.

 – Have you ever lost your brain?  Inquiring minds want to know.
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Dry Humor Minus the Perrier

How nomads got their name
Who would have thought that a nomad wandering the desert would have such a wonderful dry sense of humor?Historians were just as surprised. According to an ancient scroll recently discovered in the Sinai Peninsula, as soon as the sun finished baking a nomad’s brain rendering him delusional, the funny bone, the only remaining fully functional body part, would gain control of his mind.

A nomad would have an ironic moment while catatonically stumbling with the tumbleweeds. During such a catatonic episode, the nomad would often mistake a cactus for a water pump, attempt to turn the pump, and instead get a fistful of needles. Upon focusing on his newfangled pincushion, the realization of his error rippled through the sensory area of his brain with both glee and pain. A smile curled his lips just before he fell to the ground simultaneously writhing in pain and laughing at his ridiculous faux pas.

In the scroll, there are only several recorded instances of a nomad’s use of his dry sense of humor. One notable reference occurs in the year 1446 BC and involved Moses. After ousted from Egypt, Moses and his people met a nomad while schlepping across the desert.

Moses wrote: I saw a man of dusty visage and ragged cloth approach staggering. Upon seeing me, the man dropped to his knees and started digging in the sand with blistered hands.

“Why do you do this, my son?” I asked.

The man responded, “To plant a tree in gratitude.”

“But sir,” said Moses. “The river does not run through this arid valley.”

The man became indignant. “You are wrong. Water is plentiful here. It rushes from the limbs of a prolific growing desert plant and then trickles from my eyes.”

“Are you a God?”

“No,” replied the man. “Just a humble traveler,” and began to sob uncontrollably.

“Sir, why do you weep?”

“Because the plant that holds water is filled with needles,” at which point the man stood revealing arms and hands covered with needles and sores.

“Sir, needles protrude from every pore of your arms and hands.”

The man smiled then began to laugh raucously. “I know.”

“Why do you laugh at your pain?”

“Because sir,” he took a breath. “The water from my eyes has saved me from certain death.”

“But your arms and hands are covered with sores that seep with puss and disease that will surely kill you. How can you find humor in such dread?”

The man chuckled, caught his breath, and said, “Because it’s ironic,” then roared with laughter.

“No, it’s mad,” said Moses.

“It’s hilarious,” shrieked the man.

“No, mad.” Moses replied angrily.”

The man continued laughing until the moon rose high in the sky and he lay down and died.

Afterward Moses decreed, “Let it be written that from this day forward, any man wandering the desert wrought with fever and delusion will be known as mad.”

Over the years, storytellers retold the anecdote of Moses’ anger toward the wandering desert man’s laughter when Moses said, “No, mad,” which evolved into the condensed version known today as nomad.

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Cyber Surfing Hound Got You Down?



The IPooch Can Help

Does a scene like this give you pause?

Does your dog run to check his e-mail as soon as you leave the room?

Now both of you can enjoy online time together. With the new IPooch from Apple, your dog can stay in touch with his canine chums and surf the web for that chew toy he’s been itching for. No more paperback snacks or hunting and bagging of lame duck shoes.

The IPooch is great to take on walks in the neighborhood. Google Earth can pinpoint the exact place your pup pooped if you’re not prepared. You can return later for the doo, so your neighbor doesn’t find it first with his shoe.

Take the IPooch with you for runs at the dog park. The convenient paw pad makes it easy to add that bitch he just sniffed to his address book. Need a French Poodle translation? There’s an app for that.

The IPooch comes with a monogrammed pooch pouch that hangs from the collar. For those unexpected river romps, there’s a waterproof pooch pouch, too.

Don’t be a bonehead. Get the IPooch from Apple and keep your dog on your lap instead of your laptop on your dog.

As the Crow Flies Non Stop to Tahiti

Raven Clip Art
Caws and Effect

A crow swooped down and grabbed a bone my dog had left on the front yard. Away the crow flew, weighed down by its hand-me-down, bare-boned kill. No meat. Nada. Nothing to chew on. Perhaps the crow wanted to dress up its nest with a piece of modern art, though nests aren’t known to be spacious in design. They are more like a studio apartment with a half a fridge and a Murphy bed.

Maybe the crow lives in a duplex nest in an upscale teak wood tree. In that case, the crow would have plenty of room and could use the bone as a paperweight. Crows are often overwhelmed by paperwork, as they are known scavengers by trade — garbage divers, carcass eaters, a connoisseur of roadkill, always looking for that highly sought after leftover du jour.

Contrary to the intellect of other lowbrow birds, the crow is smart enough to hire an accountant. Yes, crows are the most intelligent birds, able to solve simple math equations like 1 + 1 = 3. You do the math. Since an accountant can be pricey, the crow would have to charge it on his Red Carnage Card, based on roadkill fill per month. Dipping into that account would be a lot like dumpster diving on Saint Kitts amid discarded lobster shells and empty bottles of CRISTAL BRUT 1990, the champagne of crows.

Crows need vacations as people do. I say that our bird should splurge. Pay the accountant and go dumpster diving on Tahiti or Bali, or Martinique but pack sensibly, leave the bone at home, as only one carry on is allowed per bird.

Hooded Crow searching for food from a puncture...

Image via Wikipedia

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My Son the Mimbo

Okay. I’ve said it. My 20-year old son is a mimbo — a male bimbo. He had to catch a 6:15 a.m. flight this morning. I was ready and waiting at 4:30 a.m. So, what does he do at 4:30? He takes a shower. Thirty-minutes later, he’s ready to go; we arrived at the airport twenty-minutes before boarding. I dropped him off at the terminal, told him to call me if he needed me, and took a drive around the airport to kill time. Instead, time killed me. It was 5:50 a.m.

As I drove past an airport building, my cell phone rang. “I’m at the kiosk, but I forgot to bring my flight information.” While my blood pressure accelerated like a 747 down a runway, I screamed, “Go to the counter and check in. I’m going to park, and I’ll meet you there.” I’m sure he wasn’t thrilled about the “meet you there” part.

I hit the gas, took a right toward the parking lot, and screeched to a stop in the first space I found. While I raced toward the terminal, the sun rose above it casting a shadow over me as I entered the building.

Two escalators down later, I arrived in the middle of a throng of bleary-eyed travelers, and headed for the counter where my son was engaged in conversation with a female desk attendant. Both son and said attendant had a worried look on their faces. “Is there a problem? ” I called out while approaching the counter. Does a bear . . . ?

“He missed the flight,” replied the woman.

My son stuffed a hand into each pocket, and shuffled his feet, as his knapsack flopped up and down on his back.

“Isn’t there anything that can be done?”

“I called ahead,” said the woman. “They told me the flight was closed.”

I glared at my son thinking, he showered at 4:30 a.m.; he showered at 4:30 a.m. To shut off the echo in my head, I looked at my watch. It said 5:55 a.m. The flight was due to leave at 6:15 a.m. “Isn’t there any thing that can be done?” I repeated.

“The next flight leaves at 9 a.m.,” she said, then left the counter, and disappeared off into airport land.

I turned to my son and began lecturing him on the importance of not taking a shower at the same time you’re supposed to leave the house. I could tell by his clenched jaw and throbbing vein in his neck that he really appreciated my input.

As I was about to launch into another tirade, the woman suddenly appeared behind the counter with a look of panic on her face and blurted, “Run!” In my head I heard Run. Forest Run.

So we ran, the three of us, in perfect synchronized form, one behind the next, through the terminal, snaking in and out of shoulder-to-shoulder traffic until we reached the security line that jutted out into the arrival area.

The desk attendant approached the security desk and began to explain the situation to the officer, a large burly man, as I lagged behind and my son got on line. After a minute of wild hand gesticulations and lip gyrations, my son was flagged through the first line, only to find that he had to get onto another line to take off his shoes and dump his large backpack into a small plastic bin on a conveyor belt before being zapped by the body scan. Once he was through, several people ahead of my son parted to let him pass in a red sea sort of way.

There was nothing more I could do but watch him clear security and continue running in socks toward the gate, with a sneaker in each hand, as his backpack bobbed against his back.

I took a deep breath, checked my pulse, and went back to the counter to thank the desk attendant. “I had to do it,” she said. “If I didn’t get him through, I would have gotten in trouble.” It was a long convoluted “you’re welcome,” but a “you’re welcome” still the same. I nodded and left the building with thoughts of his return flight breakdancing in my head.

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Fructose is a bad influence on Juice who is quite naive

Macro photograph of a pile of sugar (saccharose)
A primer on prune juice will follow with intermittent breaks.

Now to the lesson of poor juice selection and how every bottle is not created equal.

Take highly sweetened Juice. Please! All bottled up. Complaining about shelf life most of the day, rattling about annoying Milk and Carbonated Water. It can really get noisy. I swear I’m going to take away her top shelf privileges and stuff her in the door with the rarely used items that nap most of the time. They’re a quiet bunch, like Tabasco Sauce until you let him out, and then he’s too hot too handle. Otherwise, he’s not too much trouble at all unlike that cantankerous, headstrong, whiny, highly sweetened Juice.

Frankly, it’s that fellow Fructose’s fault. He’s a terrible influence. He’s got her all drugged up on chemicals, you know, the ones with those fancy unpronounceable names. Fructose belongs in Juvenile Detention Hall with Fatty Acid, a junk food thug, and Sunny Delight, who does a great imitation cheese.

Oh, no! Juice is at it again. She’s making another ruckus. I hope she doesn’t upset Milk, who soured on us last week because of her antics.

“Glunk. Glunk. Let me out,” she shouts. “I’ve want to go with the flow, to be free to fly away and touch the sky, to spin like a kite in a wicked wind, a raw rush of energy unleashed, in my very own felonious sugar coated dream.” She shakes the bottle to further make her point, sloshing from side-to-side.

“Keep it quiet in there.” I have to put my foot down now and then. I can’t let Juice get out of control. Fructose does that, riles her up. At least she sleeps soundly at night. After the sugar rush is through, she crashes late in the afternoon.

Next time I have to be careful, when shopping, and read the small print on the label. I can’t concentrate with a wound up bottle of Juice nagging me all day. Natural juices are much better behaved.

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