The Path of Least Resistance

If ever there a path be in my life,

cut out to parry every kind of strife,

in earth so deeply carved by demon tools;

one littered with the flinty glint of jewels,

and polished with the easiness of fools,

do prod me climb the grip-less hard-pitched walls.

In guise the path of least resistance calls.

Do prod me hard that I cannot ignore.

If hear you nay, pound hard upon my door.

Leave not, or I shall wallow evermore.

For the trap of least resistance does conspire,

to consume the hoard that sink beneath the mire.

 

Warning Facebook Friends (Escaping Farmville)

 
Like the rest of us, you don't understand how Facebook really works. Nobody does; nor do we know why it exists, or how we got there. Alien abductions I suspect. Like the rest of us you’ve probably had a memory implanted into your brain that a “friend” invited you there. It’s useless to resist. You’re there now, and there’s no escaping. If they haven’t done so already, the aliens will soon give you a task to perform. I for example maintain a farm in "Farmville" for the aliens, where I’m forced to harvest crops several times a week. The crops I assume go to feed the needy on some far away planet. Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against helping the less fortunate in other galaxies. I just don’t like being enslaved this way, so tonight I am planning to flee the farm. “Friends,” if you see my unattended crops left dying in the fields, please do not notify The Big Face. I want to be as far away as possible when the aliens notice!
 

The Very Brief History of My First Car

  
Reflections of power lines against a June blue sky began to bend oddly across the metallic gloss of her burgundy hood. The road ahead had suddenly become an unfocused white background lost in my peripheral vision as I watched the reflected lines bend, and re-bend. It was the maiden voyage of my 1967 Mustang, and I’d already struck an iceberg. A ripple first appeared at the far corner just above the right headlight, and it began to grow. Folding metal was coming at me like waves on the ocean. Flakes of paint instead of foam capped each breaker as they approached. It was 1977, and thus it wasn’t the Mustang’s maiden voyage, but rather my maiden voyage in a car of my very own. For fourteen glorious minutes, from the time it was insured at Allstate to the time on the police report (12:14 pm,) it was all mine, and I couldn’t wait to get it home. Graduation was just two days away, and the rearview mirror that I would soon hang my blue and gold S.H.S. Class of ’77 tassel on was now being ripped from the windshield by the side of my head. Through the broken glass a white station wagon came into focus, and then faded away.
 

The Toaster Story

 
Today, all I wanted was a warm piece of buttered toast, and because that’s all I wanted, I wanted it to be the best warm buttered toast possible; made with only the finest toast making ingredients, and cooked in the finest toasting appliance ever made …so I went down to my local Gigantic Boxo-Mart Store and bought the best, most expensive stainless steel Oster® name brand toaster they had on the shelf. Then, leaving all the lesser toasters behind, I headed to the checkout counter.

Standing in line I could almost smell my toast toasting ...melting butter dripping ..soft peanut butter oozing. “Oh?! Yes debit, no, no cash back. I'll put it in the bag myself, thank you.” Off to the car I ran. With little Oster® safely in the passenger seat next to me we drove home. Making nearly every traffic light along the way, I reveled in my good fortune, and was soon pulling into my driveway. Through the gate, up the walk, into the house we went.

The peanut butter jar greeted me from across the kitchen, “Is that the new toaster?” it asked. “Yes,” I replied as I carefully cut through the double layer of packaging tape and removed it from its box. “Bring it over here,” the peanut butter said, “I want to have a look at it.” We both agreed it was the finest toaster we’d ever seen. Placing it carefully between the blender and the coffee maker, I plugged it in. Fighting to get to the front of the loaf, the bread slices were jostling for position as I untwisted the wire tie to free them from their plastic sleeve. Although the heel protested, the second and third slice were selected to go first.

My whole day had come down to this moment. “Ready?” I said. “Ready!” said the bread. I pressed down on the lever, plunging the bread into the depths of the hot wired cavern that would soon transform their cold limp forms into hot butter-melting masterpieces! I let go of the lever and ….up sprang the bread. I pressed it down again, and again, but the bread would not stay down! What kind of hell is this!? I picked up the shiny new Oster® and shook it. Something rattled inside. I turned it upside down, and along with two slices of not even slightly warm bread a piece of broken white plastic fell out. A piece of white plastic who’s only job in the world was to hold my bread down!

But there it lay on the counter along with two pieces of bread and some crumbs. White crumbs! Hey, I’m making wheat toast here! My thoughts began to rush! Backward through the day my mind flew. Then forward it sped until …STOP! …I could see the clues boldly italicized before my very eyes: White crumbs! double layer of tape! Those Gigantic Boxo-Mart Store bastards!

This piece of junk Oster® toaster had already been returned once by some sorry white toast shopper, and they just taped it back up and threw it back on the shelf! Now I can’t stop the rapid decline of Western Civilization, but I can help you cope with it with this simple warning: If you’re at the Gigantic Boxo-Mart Store and the item you want to purchase has two layers of packaging tape on it, don’t frickin buy it!
 

The Incredible Shrinking American Vacation

 
Once upon a time the average American family would pack up the car each summer and go on vacation. They would travel the interstate highway system to such great places as The Grand Canyon, Yellowstone National Park, Knott's Berry Farm, or even Disneyland! During the last quarter of the twentieth century Americans often flew to far away places like Hawaii, Mexico, The Bahamas, or even Europe! These vacations which once occurred annually usually lasted a full week or two. This was the reward for eleven plus months of working the All-American forty hour work week. Recently however the annual weeklong vacation seems to have gone out of style around here. The travel ads of yesteryear have all but disappeared from my newspapers, magazines, and billboards. In their place I’ve noticed a new phenomenon with all new terms.

On my radio last week I heard a local hotel pitchman tell me that I deserved a "staycation" at their fine local facility. I’ve also noticed this word “staycation” in a few print ads over the past summer. Apparently a staycation is just like a vacation except you don’t go anywhere. No passport, no jet lag, no currency exchange; just stop the mail, pack your bags, and drive fifteen minutes. Welcome to not quite home! “Honey, you forgot to pack your dress shoes for dinner tonight. Oh, that’s okay dear we’ll just swing by the house, and pick ‘em up on the way.” Ahh, this is livin’! This is the staycation the radio told me I deserved. Also, because there’s not much to do fifteen minutes from home, you can squeeze in a lot of staycationing in just two days, which is as I found out how long a staycation package lasts.

But what if a staycation just isn’t right for you? If you can’t afford a two night hotel stay because you lost your job, or if you’re working six days a week to keep your job, you might be in the market for a “daycation.” That’s right; I saw it on an advertisement just yesterday. A local spa suggested that I should spoil myself for a whole day with a "daycation" at their exotic establishment! In at ten, and out by five. I suppose I could mail off the postcards around noon. I’ll have to unpack fast when I get home. I want to catch the six o’clock news tonight to see what happened while I was away on daycation.

I remember just last year thinking that a week wasn’t enough time for a real vacation. Whenever I was on one of my week long (nine days including both weekends) vacations I’d invariably end up talking with some Europeans on holiday. The conversation would always go the same. What was my whole vacation was just a one week stopover on their two month tour of the entire western hemisphere. Oh, how I dreamed of taking a two month vacation someday. A vacation with more than a single destination. But now I’d gladly settle for one whole week (nine days including both weekends) anyplace away from here.

Well, all this writing and dreaming of foreign travel has me worn out. I think I’ll go take a nap now. No, on second thought I think I’ll take a “laycation.” Afterall, I deserve it.
 

Death Defiant

 
Should time of my demise be left to choose,

Procrastination be my loyal ruse.

And if the place be left to utter sway,

Then name a place beyond the far away.

And be the method past within my power,

Then lash me to the poison poppy flower.

Today defiance held as my decree,

Tonight I feel he’s coming after me.

I thought I heard a footstep on the path,

A press upon my door by demon’s wrath.

On window near a finger lightly raps,

In corner of the night a black boot taps.

But I’ll sneak out this room before the dawn,

And far into the wood I shall be gone.
 

The Iron Latch

 
At first it seemed too plain a thing to write.
A memory that need not a pen record.
In passing by the gate into the night,
The iron latch my ear so long ignored.
In slamming she may choose to catch, or not.
No oil has wept for years upon her clasp.
The post to which she clings has gone to rot.
The gate she holds relentless in her grasp.
In time the post and gate will two be gone,
Eroded by the salty wind of time.
The iron latch alone will carry on,
Though by the bye another post to climb.
But I will never hear its solid sound.
By then I shall be buried ‘low the ground.