Superman - The Later Years

Chapter One (Which begins with a very long sentence)

As a lethargic Lois Lane, now likely late for the luau, was laying languidly in the leaves of the landscape on Lower Lena Loop Lane behind the lanai of the library with a lacerated leg and a lost left loafer, but otherwise looking lovely (Despite being in her sixties now, Lois always looked lovely); Clark Kent was cavorting at a cautious cadence (as a man who was once very spry and adept at cavorting would tend to do after reaching the age of seventy) carrying a container of caramel creamers across the carpet of his cozy cabin in search of a cup of coffee last seen on the kitchen counter. Lamenting her lousy luck Lois labored to locate her lost loafer. Little did she know, it had landed on the lawn of the librarian Lill, just up the hill, where she took her spill.

The clock struck seven.

Chapter Two (Where Superman is called into action)

Clark, craving caffeine, was completely unaware of Lois’ location, or situation, and in his frustration he had forgotten all about the luau he was supposed to attend that evening. His memory was failing and his alliteration was slipping badly, but a couple recent rhymes seemed to buoy his spirits.

Suddenly Clark thought he heard a familiar cry coming from outside. Through the double doors and onto the deck he dashed deliberately, followed by a dubious dachshund dubbed Dagmar. The fresh air felt exhilarating, and even seemed to perk up his alliteration a bit. Dagmar remained dubious.

Clark’s cabin, on the crest of Cooper Canyon, was within earshot of Lower Lena Loop Lane which ran along the Cooper Canyon Creek directly below. He heard the cry again. Having dashed enough for one evening, Clark hurriedly dawdled back inside to the closet where he found his old cape and tights. “This is a job for Superman!” he announced to Dagmar.

The last phone booth in Cooper County had been removed several years ago, so Supe slipped into the bathroom and squeezed into the now iconic red and blue outfit. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror Clark noticed the outfit needed to be let out a little in the seat. He made a mental note to stop by the cleaners in the morning.

A few minutes later back on the deck Clark was trying to remember why he went out there. Then Superman thought he heard a familiar cry. To the railing he rushed, and with one hand cupped behind his ear he leaned out and listened. Hearing nothing but ear hair rustling in the wind, he leaned out a little farther.

Chapter Three: (The rescue)

Lois pulled Superman out of the hedge. “That was quite a fall you took,” she said, helping him to his feet.

“I flew,” he corrected her.

“Yes, maybe, but all the same it was quite a crash.”

“I’m a little out of practice,” Superman answered. Then as he brushed himself off he added, “I’m here to rescue you. Oh, and I saw a brown ladies loafer on my way down the hill. Is that yours?”

“Yes. Thank you it is,” she said, wiping the injured leg with her kerchief.

As they walked up the hill together Lois began explaining what had happened. “I was just stopping to pick up Lilith,” she said, “and I slipped on the wet grass and fell over the bank. Oh goodness, I’ve made us late! We were supposed to meet Clark at the luau.”

“Oh crap!” blurted Superman, “I mean…”

“Hello!” called Lilith, waving from her porch. “What happened?”

Chapter 4 (The Conclusion)

After assuring Lois that he’d explain the whole situation to Clark, Superman began the long trudge up the hill. “Don’t rush!” he called back, “and take care of that knee. That could get infected!”

“What was that all about?” asked Lilith, “and why is Clark wearing that ridiculous costume?”

“It’s a long story,” answered Lois.

   

Of Guns and Gift Wrap

To Every American who gave or received a gun this Christmas:
I’m setting aside my opinion concerning the popularity of this gift-choice on this Christian day of peace to wish you a Merry Christmas with the sincere hope that this gun, this Christmas gift, is never fired in anger, in despair, or accidentally. May it be used skillfully for legal target-sport or hunting, and may any game it takes from the wild be taken for food and not trophy, and may that nourishment from nature be taken respectfully and humanely. Lastly and most importantly, should the exceptionally rare situation ever occur where the use of this gun becomes an option for personal defense, or to protect innocent life, may its wielder possess perfect judgement, and may their aim be true… for there is no pause button, or rewind button on this device.

Happymerry Christmakkah

Here’s a touching little holiday story so new that I haven’t even had time to add exaggerations to it yet…

It all began last Saturday at a little shop in Winslow, Washington, where I bought a combination Hanukkah-Christmas card to send to a Jewish friend of mine who lives out of the country with a nice non-Jewish woman. Yes, I realized when I bought it that Hanukkah is just around the corner, so I planned to get it in the mail right away…

Well last night (four days later) my wife reminded me that I need to get that card in the mail right away. “Oh crap!” I said, “I’ll send it out first thing in the morning!”

So this morning I sat down at the dining room table and began preparing the card. My handwriting has deteriorated over the years, so instead of scrawling with a pen and possibly ruining the card, I went to the computer and typed up a message to insert into the card… Well actually I typed, edited, and printed the message several times before I got it just right; and then with tedious care, I inserted it into the card. The original card was blank on the inside, so with just a touch of glue the insert looked like it came right from the Hallmark factory.

On the outside of the card was a drawing of a reindeer with lit Hanukkah candles on its antlers, and the greeting “happymerry christmakkah” printed next to it.

The message I typed in the insert went like this:

“Dear _____ and ______: I know it may seem cruel to place lit candles on the antlers of reindeer, but as long as you arrange them so they don’t drip hot wax into their eyes or onto the tips of their noses the deer don’t really seem to mind; plus there’s snow on the ground and the fire danger is very low at the present time (I checked). So please accept this reindedelabra as a sign that goyim and Jews can light up the season together... And goodness knows the world needs all the enlightening it can get!” The note continues with personal memories and holiday wishes, blah, blah, blah.

Anyway, with the finished card in one hand, and a couple rejected copies of the insert in the other hand I went back to the table to get the envelope. Along the way I stuffed the rejected inserts into the paper shredder.

When I sat down to put the card in the envelope… Now wait a minute, don’t get ahead of me here… When I sat down to put the card in the envelope I… I couldn’t find the card. All I had in my hand were a couple drafts of the insert. “Now where did that card go?” I thought to myself. I spent the next several minutes retracing my steps. After thoroughly searching the area around the computer and around the table, and along the pathway in between, I finally started thinking what you’re probably thinking already…

The shredder! No, I couldn’t have. I just couldn’t have. I lifted the lid… Yes I did.

The nice folks at the shop in Winslow (89 miles away) are mailing me a new card… And yes, I know, Hanukkah is just around the corner, so I plan to get it in the mail right away! With a little luck, it should get there by Christmas.

My Hat

I’m not typically a hat wearer, a cap donner, a chapeau aficionado, or even a hoodie flipper, but recently while perusing through a fine men’s wear haberdashery in a small mountain village of Bavarian persuasion smothered in Christmas sauce, I spotted a hand-made… Wait! Not just a hand made, but a "Responsibly grown, (and) beautifully made" hat (according to the sewn in label). A genuine member of the “Conner hand-made hats” family! And as fate would have it, it was an extra-large… just like my head!

To sweeten the deal even further, it was a dusty faded shade of pine green, pre-scuffed and pre-worn in all the right places; not quite a fedora and not quite an Aussie outback hat. It was… it was the perfect hat. And by perfect I mean it was the first hat to ever speak to me, and it said, and I quote, “Hey dude, I’m your hat”.

“I don’t need a hat,” I said back to the hat, and I set it down and continued walking through the haberdash… Ha! Who am I kidding? I continued walking through the overpriced Leavenworth gift shop.

Then I heard my wife say, “Do you like that one?”

“What?” I said. “Yeah, I guess, but I don’t need a hat,” I continued.

“You should get it,” she shot back.

I reluctantly returned to the hat. It sat there looking a little smug for my taste, but I picked it up and dropped it back on my head. It fit perfectly… “Slytherin!” it hissed. I flinched and the hat laughed, “just kidding,” it said. “I see you've read the books…”

“Yeah I read the…”

“I think you should get it,” my wife said, unknowingly interrupting my conversation with the hat.

I looked at the price tag and set the hat back down for the second time. “I can’t afford it,” I said.

She picked it up and checked the tag. “It’s $49.00. You can afford $49.00,” she informed me.

“That’s a lot for a hat!” I protested. But being as well-versed about hat prices as I am about the going rate of mangos in Dubai I was apparently unconvincing.

“Get the hat,” she said.

“Do you want this in a bag, or will you be wearing it?” the cashier asked.

"I'll wear it," I said, and I still wear it… Because after all, it’s the perfect hat.

Tipping Point

We enter the rapid

off balance.

The current

more than my paddle

sets our course,

and chooses our fate.

A fallen tree

reaching up like a beggar

nudges the side of our canoe.

An observing raven

flies from its branches

loudly calling out its displeasure,

as the river’s icy water envelopes us

quickly and completely.

Rising to the surface

my wife and myself,

our canoe and our gear,

scatter like raindrops

on a freshly waxed car hood,

gripped only by gravity.

Racism at the Highest Level

Rolling Stone recently named President Obama “One of the Most Successful Presidents in American History”, but imagine what could have happened if, like white pitchers throwing at Jackie Robinson’s head, a group of white lawmakers hadn’t since day-one been trying to take our President out of the game. Of course I’m talking about the Eric Cantor led group who vowed on January 20, 2009 to oppose every bill that President Obama supported regardless of the fallout solely to destroy his presidency. History will clearly show these men to be backwards immoral frauds who risked a nation in an attempt to take down one man of color for having had the audacity, like Jackie and others, to break down another one of their sacred racial barriers. Their back-slapping self-congratulating conversations will blow away in the wind, but their shame, just like Barack and Jackie’s success will be written in stone for the ages. Thank you Barack, for enduring and succeeding in a rigged white man's game for all of us who cheered, as well as for those who booed.

My Best Pet Yet

Note: This was written for a poetry prompt. The prompt was "What pet should I get," written in 20 lines or less.

What Pet should I get, or should I get two?

Should I get a duet, or will one creature do?

And where should I keep it, here under my bed?

And if it won’t fit, then my closet instead?

Should it be furry, or covered in scales?

Something that scurries, or has a long tail?

Something that swims, or something that purrs?

And what should I name him, or should I name her?

And where should I look for this new pet of mine?

Should I look in a book, or go shopping online?

Should I look in a guide? Should I look high and low?

Well when I decide, I will let you all know.

Well it’s time to report that I got my new pet!

I named him Mort. He’s my finest  pet yet!

I just went in the yard, and I climbed up a tree.

It wasn’t that hard. I just caught me a bee,

in a little glass jar, with some holes in the lid,

and it may seem bizarre, but here’s what I did.

I gave him his name, “Morton J. Bee”,

then I opened the lid, and I let him go free.