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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.

True Blues

I listen to KNON a lot. Partially, because I’m the President of the Board of Directors and mostly because I like the music we play (pledge drive coming up in May – get your online pledges in early!) In fact, I’m President because I like what we play.

So, when I was coming home from my check-up this morning, I had KNON on the radio. Gregg Smith’s Blues Review, to be specific. (Every Friday, nine until noon. Heeeey.)

We play a lot of blues, and the longer you listen, the more you realize pretty much all blues is about sex, unless someone just died in the song. I was listening to someone moaning about not riding in his girl’s automobile this morning and after a couple of verses, I realized “He’s not really talking about her car.” Well, duh.

I’m sitting at a stop light, and I had just had this realization, and I thought “Blues artists can make anything into a sexual euphemism.”

There’s a basic blues premise “I don’t want to be your ——–, baby.” where the blank turns out to be the song’s specific euphemism for some sexual organ. That’s when I heard “I don’t want to be your pastrami, baby” in my head (yes, I probably should see someone about that.)

Then, a flash. Who’s ever written a blues song about a deli?

I thought, “There would have to be a verse about pastrami and rye bread. What else? A pickle. How could a pickle sound dirty?”

I know you love dill pickles.
But don’t you grab my pickle spear.
My woman said that ain’t kosher,
You better not come ’round here.

That came to me almost as it was written. Same with the verse about pastrami. Other than not being able to find a rhyme for “rugelach” or “knish”, the song almost wrote itself. Based on the quality of the final work, it did write itself, because that way, I won’t get blamed for it.

Inspiration strikes in truly bizarre ways at truly random times.

Deli Blues

I’m not your pastrami, little baby.
I’m not your pastrami tonight.
I really love your rye bread,
But my woman’s gonna fight. 

I’m not your bagel, little baby,
I’m not your bagel, little fox.
I really love your cream cheese, 
But my woman’s changed the lox. 

I love you little baby, 
I want your sweet relief.
But if I’m not home this evening,
My woman will corn my beef.

I know you love dill pickles.
But don’t you grab my pickle spear.
My woman said that ain’t kosher,
You better not come ’round here.

NaPoWriMo

So, beyond half-way through National Poetry Writing Month, and I’ve still managed to write something every day. In fact, today’s entry was written yesterday evening, so I’m a day ahead. I suppose it’s true that the more you use something, the easier it gets to use. This is as far as I have ever gotten in a multi-day challenge to be creative.

I still can’t rhyme to save my life,
Which caused the family untold strife.

My poetry is formless (sometimes meaningless) – let’s face it, there aren’t many rules for poetry, so if you say it’s a poem, it is. Still, I’m hoping the quality has improved over the month, although that’s probably questionable.

What have I learned?

  • I can write something every day as long as it doesn’t have to be good.
  • Something will inspire me every day, even if it was annoying.
  • Poems that mention Rocky the Chihuahua get more hits than anything.
  • Blind John Ellsworth may have a book when this is all done.

A long, long time ago, two kids sat in a room with plastic electric-look guitars and sang along to Beatles records. One became a musician. One did not. Listen to Jim’s records. Read my poetry. It all worked out for the best, don’t you think?

 

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.

Toothache

I’m going to the dentist today.
I haven’t been in a couple of years.
Mainly, because it’s annoying, but also
My old dentist dropped my insurance.

If you want to save money on a dentist,
He has to take your insurance.
Otherwise, you can get gouged.
Or, you can just not go and save even more.

However, I have to go because I have a toothache.
It’s not really a toothache, it’s just sensitive to cold.
Unfortunately, I like ice. And cold drinks.
It’s time to have it checked. Annoying.

I have to do tons of paperwork
To start a new dentist.
It’s online so I can print it out.
That’s partial automation.

I print it on paper and fill it out.
I take the paper to a smiling person.
They type it back into their computer.
Hmm. This does not seem efficient.

I suppose since I’m going to the dentist,
My teeth should be brushed first.
This is much like my wife cleaning the house
The night before the maid arrives.

I haven’t been to the dentist in a couple of years.
Somebody said you brush your teeth three minutes a day.
This means that I should have started brushing
About thirty-six and a half hours ago.

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.