In Politics

We must remember, with innuendo
the speaker is apt to be indiscreet,
while being boring, dull and incessant.
That is so true. With his thoughts still inchoate,
the politician spews inconclusive
facts, and his lying is inveterate.

The world's best liars are inveterate
ones, and they rely on innuendo
to appear wise, sage - not inconclusive.
The real secret is to be indiscreet,
leaving the truth temptingly inchoate
in a haze of chatter quite incessant.

Politicians are great at incessant
yammering, and they are inveterate
promoters of slick ideas, inchoate
policies, and fans of innuendo
that makes their opponents look indiscreet.
They don't want to appear inconclusive

while all the while being inconclusive,
just firing away with an incessant
attack, and denying they've been indiscreet,
which they have been more than once; inveterate
philanderers hawking innuendo,
pretending their ideas aren't inchoate.

But all their ideas must be inchoate,
so they seem frank while being inconclusive.
Why talk ideas? Isn't innuendo
more effective? And a long, incessant
speech about that evil, inveterate
crook - the opponent - is quite indiscreet.

You ask: What's wrong with being indiscreet?
It beats rambling on about inchoate
ideas. And the old pol's inveterate
lying disguises his inconclusive
conclusions in a rant of incessant
charges, half truths, lies and innuendo.

The lies, inveterate and indiscreet,
all the innuendo and inchoate
sham - too inconclusive, too incessant.

Shooting the Moon

Meteor scatter and moon bounce are radio terms, although they sometimes pop up in other contexts.


Vance Lindstrom was not dissatisfied with his job - or with the quality of the work he did - in the advertising department of DietTronics Corporation, a manufacturer of weight-loss products. But he was disappointed that in his twelve years with the firm he had not written a phrase or slogan that had swept the nation and fell easily and often from the lips of people everywhere. There was no "Where's the beef?" or "Plop, plop, fizz, fizz" on his resume. Even his efforts to stand out from the Vance in accounting, and the Vance in R&D, and the Vance in shipping, and the Vance in legal, and the Vance in human resources by calling himself "Ad-Vance" never caught on.

Then one morning, Mr. Jennings, the advertising director, called Vance into his office. He was concerned, he said, because Vance wasn't generating ideas the way he used to. Vance protested, telling Mr. Jennings that he had made significant contributions to three projects last week.

"That was last week," Jennings said.

"But it's only quarter to ten on Monday morning."

"No excuse," Jennings said. "Now, Vance, I see you ran in a marathon over the weekend. How did you do?"

"I was eleventh in my age group."

"You coach your son's Little League team, don't you? Is the team any good?"

"The kids are having fun and playing hard," Vance said.

"What place are they in?"

"Fifth."

"Somebody told me, Vance, you entered the Chili Cook-Off at the county fair."

"I did," Vance said. "I got honorable mention."

"Vance," a very serious Mr. Jennings said, "you're eleventh in your age group as a marathoner, in fifth place as a Little League coach, honorable mention as a chili chef, and you haven't had a usable advertising idea in an hour and a half this morning. Do you know what we call it when that happens to someone like you who was once a bright light coursing across the advertising sky?"

"No, I don't think I do."

"We call it meteor scatter. And it's not a good thing," Jennings said. "The bright light becomes a host of faint flickers. And we can't use a slew of barely visible glows here at DietTronics. I suggest you reassemble your scattered meteor."

The day got even longer after Vance left work and found himself in the midst of a huge traffic jam. While he waited impatiently and listened to a ranter rant on the radio, Vance noticed the teenagers in the car next to his. They got rambunctious as time went on, and finally one of them put his rump against the window and lowered his pants.

By the time traffic was moving again, Vance's advertising brainstorm had taken shape. In the "before" segment, a woman of great bulk, wearing the most unflattering pair of skin-tight slacks imaginable, bends over. Her seven-year-old son is a few feet behind her with a popgun that shoots ping-pong balls. He fires: the ball hits his mother's backside and falls listlessly to the floor. In the "after" segment, the woman has been transformed by a regimen of DietTronic products, and in her new pair of seemingly sprayed-on pants, she is slim and alluring. This time when she bends over and the boy shoots the popgun, the ball springs off her shapely and firm posterior, whizzes by the boy's ear and knocks a glass off the dining room table.

The next morning, Vance presented the idea to Mr. Jennings, who loved it. After several months of hard work, the ads based on his idea appeared on TV. In a trice, they were the hottest commercials on television, and everyone was quoting them.

Vance was the toast of the advertising world. But none of the honors pleased him as much as his experience one Saturday in the local bookstore. Standing at the magazine rack, he notice two young men of college age looking through a magazine and commenting on the pictures.

"Wow! Put that chick on home plate and shoot ping-pong balls off her butt; you'd get a home run every time," one of them said. "We're talking some serious moon bounce here."

"Moon bounce," Vance said to himself. "You're standing five feet from the guy who coined the term."

Fair Warning

According to news reports, officials in Alabama were aghast that so many people blithely ignored the tornado warnings issued on television, radio and the Internet during the recent spate of storms in the state. Part of the problem might be that weather warnings have lost their punch. Turn on Jeopardy any night of the week, and sometime before Alex congratulates the day's winner, Mark Johnson, Channel 5's crack meteorologist, will almost certainly elbow his way into the proceedings. And when he does, he will issue dire warnings of some imminent weather catastrophe. Although, judging from his demeanor, the more immediate threat is that he will be incontinent before returning the audience to the regularly scheduled programming.

But some people do hang on to every word that drops from the weatherman's mouth. Take Donna, for instance, a former colleague at the Ashtabula County Board of Developmental Disabilities. To be fair, for most of the year Donna's interest in the weather was in the normal range. "Hot enough for you?" she'd ask; or "Nice day, isn't it;" or "Does anyone know if it's supposed to rain tomorrow?" And at lunchtime, she stuck to the usual topics: what she had done the night before, what she was planning for the weekend, her kids' most recent accomplishments, how much work she had done that morning, how little work a co-worker not in the room had done, some uncomplimentary thoughts on the latest administrative directive and a slew of slanderous remarks about her ex.

But one day, usually around the middle of November, she forgot those things - completely, utterly, totally forgot about them for the next four months. There was no fading out of the old topics. It was as if Donna had gathered all the clutter in her mind, shoved it in a closet and slammed the door. All this happened on the day Donna walked into the lunchroom and said, "Snow day tomorrow." From that moment until St. Patrick's Day and perhaps beyond, Donna was a walking winter-weather advisory.

During the long, dark winter, our lunchtime conversations were dominated by the meteorological malarkey Donna had absorbed the night before.

"They showed it on radar. It is a huge storm," she'd say. "And it's all coming right over the lake. I'm predicting a foot-and-a-half, and if the winds are right, we could get two feet, easy. It you've got stuff here you might need at home, you better take it with you tonight, because we're not going to be here the rest of the week."

The next morning, it was obvious to even the untrained eye that the "storm of the century" had come disguised as scattered flurries. Any thought that Donna might have been humbled by the experience was dashed the moment she sat down to lunch.

"It was the jet stream," she'd say by way of explanation. "It veered south, and the storm missed us. But did you see the news this morning? Akron got clobbered.

Donna devoted the next few moments relating the tribulations faced by those in the areas where snow did fall: traffic jams, school closures, power outages and snow shovelers suffering heart attacks. After the recap, Donna would smile and say:

"Friday is going to be a snow day, I guarantee it. There's clipper on the way, and we're right in its path."

We all went to work Friday, of course. And the always optimistic Donna spent lunchtime assuring us another storm was brewing and that we would have a snow day on Monday just as sure as the sun comes up in the morning, which it did Monday in a beautiful, blue, cloudless sky.

Donna wasn't always wrong; three or four times each winter we'd have a snow day, just as she predicted. But one day in late March or early April, Donna would sit down to lunch and start bragging on her kids, complaining about the price of gas and talking about her plans for a garden. That's when we knew winter had run its course.

Jailed in a FreeCell

I'm beginning to feel like a mad scientist. Not the mad scientist in the middle of the movie, when he has been overtaken by his madness and is intent on destroying the world. Of course, the cinematic mad scientist, besides being mad, is brilliant enough wreak havoc all over the world. That he never destroys more than himself and his laboratory is because the hero is even more brilliant. You know the hero will triumph because he is younger, sexier, has better hair and doesn't have a sinister foreign accent. There is no dashing young hero in my movie. In my movie, the world is made safe by my ineptitude.

But none of that matters, at least right now. My madness has nothing to do with world domination. And at this moment I'm as sane as the next man teetering on the edge of insanity. I am the scientist when he is still aware that his mind is a battleground and that he's going to lose the battle if the cavalry doesn't show up soon. Late at night, in a corner of his laboratory lit by an anemic candle, the mad scientist writes furiously in a notebook. His handwriting is barely legible and, for the convenience of the movie audience, he reads the words as he writes. Given the thickness of his accent, his reading is of minimum value to the audience. But those who are paying attention catch enough to know that an idea - an idea that he can rule the world, that every human can be a slave to his needs and desires - is quickly seducing his mind. He wants to regain control of his mind, to put it to work making the world a better place. His mind, however, has a mind of its own, and willingly cedes it to the evil notions that came disguised as high class street walkers.

So, here I sit at the computer, which happens to be in a dark corner of the house. The only light comes from a small reading lamp - I used the last candle the other night. And, in what's left of my sinister Pittsburgh accent, I read the words as I type them illegibly into a Windows document.

"FreeCell has seduced me," I say as I type. "I don't want to play FreeCell; I don't enjoy playing FreeCell. But it won't let me go. I come to the computer each day hoping to produce something worthy of my talents, or at least something legible. But the moment I sit down, I can feel FreeCell approach me. 'Go ahead, just one game,' FreeCell, a scantily clothed lass with even scantier morals, says softly. 'No, I can't. I have work to do.' 'Work, shmerk,' she says. 'Come on, just a quick game. One game isn't going to hurt.'

"It will hurt," I continue scrawling into the computer. "I know it will hurt, no matter what she says. One game of FreeCell will lead to another, and another and another. Fifty-three games later, I'll still won't be satisfied. I'll play FreeCell through lunch and late into the afternoon. Why is it that I'm so weak? Why is it I cannot resist the urge to play this game? Why can't I stop once I start?"

I sit hunched over the keyboard, typing feverishly, hoping to find the strength, the tenacity, the determination I need to subdue the temptress FreeCell. "Wait a minute," I say to myself, "that might work. That might be the answer. Just maybe this will free me from FreeCell."

I'm boiling over with excitement and anticipation for a new and better life, a FreeCell-free life. The thoughts are coming so quickly. I can master this. I know I can. In the euphoria, my mind becomes a hectic jumble as it devises plans to slay the monster that lurks in the games menu. But I need to get control. I must calm myself and plot at a more deliberate pace. Everything is moving too fast, my blood pressure is rising, my head is throbbing.

"There, there," FreeCell says. "Just play a game or two. It will clear your mind. Then you can sort things out."

"You're right," I say. "But, you know this is the last time."

"Of course. We'll never see each other after today."

"You say that as if you don't believe me."

"I have faith in you," she says coyly.

"What's that mean?"

"You figure it out."

"I will," I tell her. "Just as soon as I finish this game."

She smiles, pulls up a chair and makes herself comfortable.

Let the Sunshine In

Though I have spent the winter whining most of the time, I haven't been whining the entire time. Why just the other day I stumbled upon something I started on almost a year ago. So, I thought it would be wiser to dream dreams of summer than to wallow in the nightmares of winter.

Cuddles is now almost a year-and-a-half old now, and as the days get longer and the sun gets higher, she, too, is anticipating summer.

Let the Sunshine In

Not yet a year old, Cuddles the Cat is experiencing summer for the first time. The sudden burst of heat and humidity that dropped by the other day didn’t faze her, although she is none too happy about changes it caused in her routine. The disappointment can be seen in her dreary eyes, her sad countenance and her shuffling gait. Where once there were thrills, excitement and activity, there are now two empty hours in Cuddles’ day. Whether the old Cuddles will reappear in October or be forever lost, a victim of the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, remains to be seen.

From the day the clocks jumped ahead to savings time, Cuddles had derived great enjoyment from chasing the lively beams of afternoon sunlight that flit around our living room. I often joined in her games, using a book cover or the screen of my cell phone to transform sunlight into a frolicsome Tinkerbelle dancing on the walls. Cuddles loved the chase; she crouched in anticipation; she darted; she jumped; and finally she pounced and covered her prey. Seconds later, I made the elusive glimmer reappear, and the chase resumed. There were times when I didn’t know the game was on; times when I was unaware I’d become the source of jumpy sparkles. But Cuddles was always alert and always aware. And when one of the sun’s rays bounced off of a passing car and onto the living room wall, she eagerly pursued it.

Alas, the heat from the summer sun is too much for Cuddles’ primate friends. Now when the sunlight begins to creep in the front windows, the shades come down. A disappointed Cuddles is left to wander through the house, searching for a wayward shaft of light that isn’t there.

Cuddles is not a demanding cat; she asks for little beyond food, water and a clean litter box. She is content to spend most of her daylight hours doing very little. For the few minutes of the morning and early afternoon when slumber isn’t enough, a scrap of paper or a hair band provide all the diversion she needs. But as the dinner hour approaches, and the light from the westbound sun streams in the living room window, Cuddles comes alive and her predatory instincts come to the fore. Crouched in a corner, she stares alertly toward the window and, with her muscles taut, she waits for a darting speck of light, the elusive prey she loves to chase but never captures.

At least that’s what she did before the shades came down.

Is There a Longwinded Me?

Suzanne, our writing teacher, tells us every week to bring something from our longer work. I don't have a longer work. As a writer, I like to think I'm a sprinter, not a marathoner. I usually give out after two thousand words or so. Then again, maybe I'm lazy and just quit once the initial urge peters out.

There are times when I think I should write about my experience with Multiple Sclerosis. But every time I've tried to keep a journal, even those times before MS entered my life, I've quickly become a whiny bore. If I get disgusted after reading a few paragraphs about me - and I am my own favorite subject, you know - how long will those people who are not me last?

As it happened, Nancy and I were in San Diego over Christmas. The weather was wonderful - we got there the night all the rain in southern California ended. There were a few chilly days, but there were no sunshine-free days. I left there determined to immerse myself in a longer work. But all the enthusiasm disappeared when we got back to Ashtabula and winter. I like to think the weather had something to do with that. But now spring is just around the corner - or maybe the next corner - and whether or not a longer work is forthcoming will reveal much about the cause of my winter funk. Is it the weather, or is it laziness? Only time will tell.

The AARP Bulletin Came Yesterday

Brother Jim reminded me today that I have been ignoring my blogger duties. The truth is, this has been the winter of my discontent. We got back from San Diego on January 2, and a day or two later it snowed, and we never saw the grass again until the middle of last week. Last night the grass disappeared again under six or eight inches of snow.

Anyway, AARP has been getting the best of me lately, mostly because their magazine is dedicated to celebrities, who are mostly boring and have had so many face lifts their faces look like masks. Then came the January AARP Bulletin, which was all about boomers at sixty-five. It caused a reaction. Whether that reaction can be classified as getting things off my chest or merely as whining is for others to say. For better or worse, this is how I felt about the article at the time. A month later, I still feel that way.

The AARP Bulletin Came Yesterday

The AARP Bulletin came yesterday.
The AARP Bulletin, January issue,
all about Boomers at sixty-five:
busy, vital people;
people doing things,
energetic, happy people.
People who walk, and run,
and swim, and bike,
and lift weights,
and work, and do useful things.

It’s winter.

My world ends at the front door.

The snow.

The goddamned snow keeps me inside.

The snow and my legs.

My heavy and slow and unreliable legs

that make driving difficult on clear, dry roads.

How the hell am I supposed to drive on icy, snowy roads

when my legs are heavy, and slow, and unreliable?

What if I lose control and go into a ditch?

Big deal.

What if I lose control and make someone else’s legs

heavy, and slow, and unreliable, and useless?

Ask for help, I’m told.

Don’t be ashamed; don’t be proud.

Ask for help.

Get in the wheelchair;

let someone else push.

And let someone else struggle with my legs;

my stiff and uncooperative legs,

my legs that won’t get into the car without a fight.

Then, when we get where I am going,

someone else can get the wheelchair out of the trunk

and help me out of the car,

and back into the wheelchair,

and push me through the parking lot that isn’t plowed,

and down the sidewalk that isn’t shoveled,

and through the door that isn’t handicapped accessible.

Have someone else do the work.

That’s the life for me.

Keep your magazines, AARP.

Don’t bother me with them.

Don’t remind me of what I can’t do;

don’t remind me of what life could be.

(Some day I'll understand how to copy and paste Windows documents into this blog and maintain the spacing. Until then, bear with me, please.)