Category: Modern Age

Jet Lag

I suffer from jet lag when I fly east or west.
North or south is not as bad.
Probably because the time doesn’t change.

Sometimes, even on short trips,
Where I may only be an hour off,
I can’t get used to the new time.
(I always miss the Seinfeld reruns, for example.)

I used to get really disoriented in California
But that may not be the time change.
It could be any number of other factors.
No offense, California.

Short trips are sometimes the worst,
Since you’re almost but not quite home.
Longer trips, there is no way you will think
You’re anywhere close to your home time.

Of course, on some really long trips,
You will have to sleep in the middle of the day.
Don’t ever calculate what time it is at home.
You may just fall asleep wherever you are.

I used to be able to sleep on the plane,
Which is the best way to combat jet lag,
Then I told people, “I always sleep on the plane”,
And after that, I couldn’t do it any more. 

I decided to practice for a long-haul trip this morning.
Every time I changed major roads driving to the office,
I moved my car’s clock ahead an hour.
Turn at a major intersection, change to the next time zone.

This was a really good simulation of jet lag.
I drove across five time zones from home to work.
Five hours difference in one drive.

Naturally, I was late for all of my morning meetings.
I didn’t even have time to have my coffee.
This would have been a major work-life issue,
However, it was time to go home at lunch.

Anticipation

When you are young,
Nothing comes slower than Christmas.
Assuming you are Christian,
And your parents buy you gifts.
(Santa may or may not be involved.)

When you are older,
Nothing comes slower than summer.
Assuming you go to school,
And your parents don’t make you work.

When you are a grown-up,
Nothing comes slower than vacation,
And you need a day off beforehand to plan,
And a couple of days off afterwards to relax.

So, when you book your vacation,
Make sure you have days on either side blocked.
Otherwise you end up with 5pm meetings,
Conference calls, and other stresses.

I am probably going to need vacation,
To recover from my vacation.
But I can’t afford to be away that long.
That is stressful in itself.

Vacations should not cause stress.
But they usually do.
I miss summer.
I miss Christmas.
I’m late for a meeting.

Vacation Packing

It’s vacation time at last.
The tedious part is the packing.
Women start this three or four days early.
Men start when the taxi pulls in the drive.
This is not the only difference in the sexes.

Women need three or four outfits per day.
Morning, afternoon, (afternoon tea), evening.
Men need one pair of pants for dinners, shorts for day.
Maybe an extra shirt per day in case he gets sweaty.
Maybe.
(Hotels do laundry, you know.)

So, women need about one suitcase for every three days.
This is why in college, when I picked up a weekend visitor,
She had a steamer trunk.
It took up most of my Mustang.
My arms still hurt.
(She did look nicely dressed.)

Airlines charge for extra luggage.
I’m getting my checkbook ready.
This is a ten-day trip, so my wife
Will have a ton of luggage.
Literally.
(Eisenhower had less for D-Day.)

I have my carry-on.
I have more electronics than clothes.
I’m ready.

First Class Blues

Editor’s Note: What would happen if some old bluesman from the Delta had actually made a lot of money before he died, and not just after some British guy covered one of his songs? 

First Class Blues

I’m sufferin’, Lord, I’m near the end.
I’m sufferin’, Lord, I’m near the end.
I’m in an aisle seat, no window,
And their only Scotch is just a blend.

Please come save me, Lord, from this storm.
Please come save me, Lord, from this storm.
My mixed nuts are mostly almonds,
And those are barely warm.

Help me, Lord, I feel a fool.
Help me, Lord, I feel a fool.
There’s no mo’ steak, there’s only chicken.
And the cold shrimp cocktail’s barely cool.

Steel me, Lord, for my final stand.
Steel me, Lord, for my final stand.
My wine was spilled and sticky,
And there’s no hot towels to cleanse my hand.

Save me, Lord, I must repeat.
Save me, Lord, I must repeat.
I went down to the crossroads,
But at twenty-seven thousand feet.

Hear me, Lord, I’m sore afraid.
(I said) Hear me, Lord, I’m sore afraid.
I used up all my coupons,
This was my last upgrade.

Anniversary

This is the anniversary of the day
I put my Mom in the hospital.
(It’s OK, it’s just my birthday.)

April 16, 1960 was a Saturday. 
It was the day before Easter. 
After I was born that day, 
It became Holy Saturday.
(That’s an old family joke. Very old.)

If I had been born in 1930, 
I would have five years left to go.
However, life expectancy keeps going up,
So, I probably have much longer, 
Even though I am surrounded by Italians.
(I’m looking at you, Debbie and Virginia.)

53 is a pretty boring age since it’s not divisible by anything.
It’s not a five-year or ten-year anniversary.
It’s a prime number, so it’s just the 53rd anniversary.
What a snooze. 

Don’t Google stuff on your birthday.
John Denver died when he was 53.
So, did Jerry Garcia.
So, a beloved, gifted musician and John Denver.
Oh, joy.
(Apologies to John Denver fans. Take me home, country roads.)

I guess it’s time for a mid-life crisis. 
I would quit my job and open a bar, 
But I watch Restaurant Impossible, 
So I know that’s a bad idea. 

I could run off to sea and change my life, 
But crew don’t get balcony rooms, 
So, that’s not going to work. 

I suppose the biggest challenge I have today
Is figuring out how to get out of this stupid poem.
It’s rambling even worse than some of the stuff
I wrote when I was 52. 

That seems like a long time ago. 

Bucket List

Time to check on the bucket list,
To see if I’m getting ahead.
I don’t want to do all of them too soon,
In case completing it means you’re dead.

Visit Australia.
Check.
Multiple times, in fact.  It’s Texas with a funny accent.

Have my salary be my age in thousands.
Check. Uncheck (Thank God.)
This only made sense when I was young. And single. And dogless. And broke.

Visit all fifty States.
Close.
Still have a few to go. Wondering how to get a business need in Alaska.

Go on a cruise.
Check. Check. Check. Check.
Now, a yearly ritual. Apparently, on someone’s else’s list, as well.

Sail from London to New York.
Scheduled.
Someday soon, this will be done. I hope.

Make my own beer.
Check. Uncheck.
Ick. This is really bad beer. Need to try again. Or just drink Guinness.

Make my own soda.
Check.
Sorry about the grape stains on the ceiling. It may have been over-carbonated.

Make my own wine.
On the list.
Have to find grapes. And equipment. And time. And patience.

Marry my soulmate.
Check. Uncheck. Check.
Wow. Divorce really sucks. Luckily, it’s not cheap.

Own a pick-up truck.
Check. Check.
It’s a Texas thing, I think. Or a guy thing.

Ride the train cross-country.
Check. Partially.
Been from Chicago to both coasts. Just not on one trip.

Ride the bus cross-country.
Reconsidered.
See partial check on train trip. Planes are much faster.

Earn one million AAdvantage miles.
Check and a half.
Business travel. Not as fun as it sounds. Trust me.

Trace my family roots.
Pending.
Met some of my relatives. Interest waning. No offense.

Write a novel.
Reconsidered.
A poem a day is hard. Who has time for a novel?

Have a dog.
Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.
May have over-achieved on this one, just a wee bit.
(RIP Sparky. RIP Max. RIP Bubba.)

Visit Ireland.
Hic.
Water of life. Mmmm. Don’t remember a lot of it.

Sing with Paul McCartney.
Check. Check.
OK, everyone else in the stadium was singing, too.

Sing with John Lennon.
Damn.

Write a book.
Check.
It was a Redbook, but it counts.

Run a radio station.
Check.
OK, that wasn’t on the original list, but KNON rocks.
(Also, the station manager knows I really don’t run the station.)

Give a eulogy.
Check. Check.
RIP Rose. RIP Dad.  This one sucked. Twice.

Sleep with a grandmother.
Check.  (Actually, a multitude of checks.)
I may get in trouble for that one.

Monday Morning

Woof. Woof. Woof.
Oh. God. No. It’s Monday.
Four out of five dogs are asleep.
One Shih-Tzu without a snooze button.

I did not have enough fun this weekend
To explain feeling this bad right now.
How am I hung-over without drinks?
Time to find my motivation.

A shower always helps.
Except on Mondays.
On Mondays, it just makes you damp.
Maybe I should work at home.

Let’s see. It’s ten after seven.
Meetings start at nine.
So, I’m already late for work.
I hate Dallas traffic.

I would just call in sick, but
I’m not in third grade anymore,
And Mom wouldn’t come make soup.
(She didn’t last Monday, anyway.)

Spousal Unit just reminded me
That her first appointment is at noon.
She will be back in bed before I leave.
I will poison her coffee on the way out.

It’s time to go.

Road Rage

An idiot cut me off yesterday.
I saw her in the corner of my mirror.
She was weaving through traffic
Like a halfback running for daylight.

I slowed down so she could squeeze by me.
She missed me (barely), then saw her chance.
As she accelerated far beyond the limited speed,
I thought “She’s going to have an accident.”

I usually think “I hope you have a wreck.”
But I didn’t want to get involved this time.
It was the weekend and I was already busy.

Apparently, someone thought she should wreck,
Because a moment later, we heard brakes locking.
We saw smoking tires and bright red lights.
Then, we heard the silence of anticipation.

Accident.

Like a couple of happy drunks in Vegas,
Two cars joined together and immediately separated.
The results were just as damaging.

Everyone around the scene froze, not sure what to do.
The neighbors walked over to meet the victims.
“There’s two people who need a ride to work on Monday.”

People in both cars seemed alive and responsive,
Which means the Dallas cops won’t bother to visit.
Just exchange insurance and move the cars from traffic.

We slowly drove by, witnesses that weren’t needed,
Since someone got rear-ended by a speeder,
And the cops wouldn’t come anyway.

I’m glad I let her by, so she didn’t hit me.
I feel guilty I let her by to hit someone else.
Always check your mirrors for idiots.
They’re everywhere these days.

Where do you have to be on a Saturday afternoon?

It’s Hard

It’s Hard
to write something meaningful
when you’ve been trained to think in bullet points.

Sometimes, bullet points aren’t enough.
There’s no emotion, for example.
Sometimes, there’s no meaning.
But those are the bad bullet points.

A poem in bullet points would be strange.

  • This would be the title. Probably in bold.
  • Each line would be indented.
  • And bulleted.
  • Even ee cummings would think it sucked.
  • ee cummings was a famous poet who didn’t like punctuation.

So, don’t do that.
And, stop thinking in bullet points.
It’s why nothing good comes out of meetings.