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Once upon a terrible time, Davey hit a rabbit’s nest with his digging spade. He had no prior knowledge of the existence of such a nest and had quite frankly never known rabbits birthed their young from such half-assed, barely camouflaged holes in the ground.
Coworker and Boss-man Rob Quigley told Davey in no uncertain terms to “take him back there and end it for him.” The implication being to smote the tiny little fur ball with the spade and ostensibly put it out of its misery.
Davey refused, watching with great sadness as the baby rabbit passed away peacefully.
Out and about in DC, it’s just yet another day,
and the COBUS® propels harried passengers,
their bags, tags, flags, and coffee & sugar jags
off into the fray.
This was Ronald Reagan International airport, perhaps not the largest or busiest of America’s airports, but slam-dunk bustling nonetheless.
As for the nation’s capital, sure, politicians find their purchase here,
but many other ordinary lemmings
do also, dear.
The capital is purportedly a dog-eat-dog rocky plane of existence for some; a gravy train for others.
As a colleague once quipped
as he ‘oer DC streets zipped,
“you need to drive offensively here.”
Nevertheless, before leaving the tarmac, Davey H gawked, marveling at the specialty machines and all those expensive tires they were decked out with.
After a fairly brief layover, it was off to another state of undisclosed description; a semi-secret location that shall remain anonymous due to 100Words.com’s insecurity
Davey has found over the years the following: hanging out with seniors
that society has so rejected
is at times inspiring
because they are to be respected!
Going up in an elevator,
slow, oh, so slow,
you too will be old sooner or later;
a fact you will then come to know.
Morning paper caper: getting distracted while reading is essentially the same as being interrupted while writing. In either case, information doesn’t reach the cerebral cortex or rather, the brain, and can at times be a pretty big drain.
But later that evening, attendees of the anonymous abode where Dave was ensconced, a showing of ‘The Importance Of Being Earnest’ was shown. Dubbed a ‘farcical comedy’, it certainly was not comedic.
Extant fireworks were heard and not appreciated. They do not represent multitudes of native peoples whose land was trampled and subsequently stolen.
Gunpowder makes a racket.
“Puritans” did unpack it.
Flash went the telee as the channel switched to Bloomberg TV.
The Dow ended down 83, but FTSE was up slightly and Kim Jong Un shook hands with South Korea’s president.
Smiles all around!
Buoyed by these diversely fascinating slices of humanity, Davey H felt a burst of optimism.
For in his world of cantankerous machines, woodsplitting and green trades pursuits, he has painted himself into a bit of a box.
But that’s fine and dandy; he likes being handy,
but also sits on his buttocks.
And that being said,
Davey has little dread,
as he happily hastens to add:
“yeah, sure, we have wood;
it’s pretty damn good,
so we’ve overall more good than bad.”
Today, Davey dwelled
as he laid down some turds:
“where, pray tell, are all the birds?”
A lone mockingbird sang
with sounds he adores,
but alas, so few birds are in force out of doors.
Yes, for songbirds, old Davey is wishin’
and he feels so sad at their loss to attrition.
Come on, folks, you know full well
that fewer songbirds means things aren’t swell!
Time was, it seemed,
they arrived here in throngs;
yet a dearth is deemed
of delightful bird songs.
Do you blame feline predation? Disease? Over-development? Pollution? Wind turbines?
Right-wing hate radio talk show hosts?
On to the next topic in keeping with the grand spirit of distraction:
Ahhh, the miracles of coffee
has burst on the scene;
Davey’s not pissed off, he
just dislikes caffeine.
Moreover, he rants
if given the chance
that he likes to keep his plate clean.
So on that note he wrote the following without wallowing:
BEEF: It’s NOT what’s for dinner.
Yes, contrary to what the roadside placard stated, Davey H took the contrarian stance.
Oh, well, hardy eats await at Taco Bell®.
Don’t complain or whine or mumble;
you’re doing fine, just keep it humble.
Toad lad glowed node stowed.
No trucks today,
bottled water on tap,
Your total is $5.14
including state rooms & meals tax.
Next door, the delightful aroma of freshly sauteed onions.
Drive and thrive, you’re not alone,
jive into a microphone.
Expert babble 1, 2, 3 – with the rabble on CB!
Time was when Citizen’s Band was populated with respectable working class radio mavens. This changed rapidly as smartasses soon entered the mix and overtook the entire venue. All pretense of seriousness went out the window.
Clever operators quickly learned how to configure high powered linear amplifiers and boost their RF output, thus dramatically increasing the distances over which they could communicate, bifurcate and egotistically vocally masturbate. As the Federally recognized legal radio frequency output for Citizen’s Band was pegged at 5 watts, and conventional amateur radio power was 1000 watts, it didn’t take long for CB users with wherewithal and a little knowledge to outfit those high wattage units in a setup that included their CB sets.
After thinking back on this era, Davey H then decided to contend with more pressing matters at hand.
Now this did not mean the Laundromat; rather, it pertained to bug spatter on the windshield and a necessary trip through the nearest car wash. A shameful ripoff ensued:
$2.00 down the tubes later, hard-earned,
STUFF YOUR CAR WASH, and F U, 2!
No soap, so no hope, and no trouble solved,
and the friggin’ bug juice was not dissolved.
No point wasting minutes calling the derelict bozo so-called owners.
Next, a full meal, sewage in gut, feet swelled,
and inexpicable sense of loss.
Fur coat on front teeth, someone smokin’ a butt;
time to go brush and freakin’ floss.
As we sat in that dingy outdoor restaurant, some inconsiderate patron smoked 3 cigarettes, the resultant fumes of which didn’t dissipate despite the presence of an easterly breeze and ceiling fan that whipped up a pretty good dust.
But all told,
to be somewhat bold,
no need to complain;
some key lime pie was sold.
No need too frown in that humid hot town;
it was nice outside when the sun went down.
The Sunday morning music becomes pleasant upon the ear. Baroque is the order of the day, and from the Bose Wave® radio the effulgent joy does play.
One thing worthy of mention:
it’s easy to pay attention;
as the sine waves play,
attention we pay,
and this sinks the dank world of dissension.
[This pertains, of course, to violin concertos.]
But Davey wonders aloud – as he has on many an occasion on these blustery pages – if we ever REALLY pay attention to anything. More often than not, it is half-hearted attentiveness while our minds sail off to preferred destinations.
Hey, EFF THAT! And Efff it HARD.
Now Davey will huff this old canard:
At the mere mention of text,
Davey H will often get vexed.
The project for today – or whichever “someday” happens propitiously – is repair of the Thule® rooftop carrier, returning it to its former aerodynamic glory.
And we can assume, uh,
that the model is ‘Yakima’,
and so into the uncertain waters
of gluing and screwing we shall foray.
Now several options presented themselves; you guessed it, courtesy of YouTube, all of which could possibly work just peachily.
But first, a bit of background (as if any reader happens to give a sh**): it so happened that one sultry summer day this century, an impatient Davey H wa attempting to maneuver his trusty
rusty pickup among the yard’s many obstacles, one of which was the Thule®.
With a loud CRACK! And a subsequent CRUMPLE! Davey H realized all too late
what had occurred.
And needless to say, he felt like a TURD. “Accidents happen,” he said without crappin’
in a very sad sense of the word.
Having been too friggin’ lazy to get out and move offending objects from the old truck’s destructive path,
Davey was left with a crushed aftermath.
“Bummer,” he thought,
and became quite distraught,
subsumed in a new batch of wrath.
Gist of the story: hurry often creates worry.
Much later, much ado about the French-Indian war. Or was that what the fur was for?
Guns and arrows, beaver pelts;
river narrows and butter melts.
A knowing pundit said it best:
“No one REALLY “won” the west.”
Hey, it’s like you wake up one day
and whaddya say?
It was suddenly May.
Cinco de Mayo t-shirts on sale for $10.00.
Get ‘em while you can, man.
Is that a plan?
They’re flyin’ off the shelves, elves.
Then Whupsteen raised his butt-ugly head again. He admitted with some scorn
that he had not yet sworn off . .
Yup, that’s right: porn.
Adding this soliloquy “innocence is for them birds; it makes no sense, and you’re all TURDS!”
To wit: Davey H offered this retort: “Whupsteen, you belong in the airport,
a place, as you know, so often portends
to be where you go
to meet your closest friends.”
Whupsteen would have none of this.
“F*** that sh**,” Whupsteen replied
in his usual manner, profane and snide,
adding with a grin,
a bevy of acerbic expletives.
After all, he just HAD to get them in.
In this context and many others related to Whupsteen and his ways, NO way would Whupsteen ever
land a partner of his own gender or any of the other three. Indeed, the world was scary enough without junior Whupsteens, see?
He had too many skeletons in his closet
to ever live it down;
and that’s not only because it
was that he was such a clown;
for common sense would posit
he would burn the sane world down!
Moreover, Whupsteen’s fanaticism in the political spectrum did not serve him well during his years of non-education, which would not lend itself well to his being remotely considered as a mentor. Young minds are better off sans Whupsteenian influences.
Drizzle and roar, people galore
hot grease aroma and trash on the floor.
Faint rivulets of semi-musical songs
slither among the dull heaving throngs.
Walk, skip, hop, roll, push past on through;
“Hey, I’m in a bigger hurry than you!”
Unpleasant, unfriendly, so seems the scene;
as many a finger caresses a screen.
Festering pain in this sitter’s sit bones;
rank inane chirping,
annoying ring tones.
Grab a seat, greasy food
and a drink, twist ‘o lime;
well, what do you think?
Now you’re on Central Time.
Burning to give this place a heave-ho
welcome to busy-as-hell Chicago.
This was the first time Davey had seen the massive Chicago O’Hare International airport’s innards.
Deplaning (a real word?) was a trip, pun intended.
Entering the cavernous alleyway leading, presumably, to the concourse, a chock-full veritable highway of harried humanity writhed, rolled, strolled and chattered hurriedly and often nervously to their respective destinations.
Davey and his sweetheart stopped momentarily to grab some tidbits from their lunch bag.
Mmmm – chips and hummus. Lots of hot peppers.
“Not the most romantic or sanitary venue for eating,” Davey noted as luggage-toting scrambling commuters rolled past, many with cell phones pasted to their faces.
Ahh, yes, back on solid familiar ground
and out of the zoo-airport, serenity found!
A spate of hot weather came too soon,
so let’s get together: hey, we need to prune!
Sugar maples, though, they say
don’t get cut until late May.
As someone who didn’t attend the convention, Davey had nothing worthy of mention.
And as long as his jaws weren’t
flippin' or flappin’,
nothing of much consequence would happen.
Get out, dude. Let your dog bark,
slam some food, too, before you go park.
Later, Davey went out attempting to learn whether his chickens would 'ere get sunburn.
Probably not,” old Davey H thought
as he traversed his plot.
For them, ‘twas a treat,
this early spring heat,
– it ruffled their feathers a lot!
Then, rolling through town
in a long line of cars,
a Davey H clown
with his steering wheel spars.
This was a sunny Saturday
and it really brought out the phone zombies.
You can spot them a mile away,
even from behind. They sport a characteristic hunchback look and stark fixation to their tiny screens. Shout their name if you know them and watch as they don’t budge.
That’s a gig you can’t fudge.
Note to self upon the shelf:
“please try and write legibly!
This sh**’s hard on the eyes;
it shall be no surprise
that they’re losing the struggle to see!”
When you plug data into the Internet,
it belongs to you, ostensibly, but you can bet
that somehow somewhere,
unbeknownst to you,
it will be stuck there like Superglue®.
As the venerable Zuckster once quipped, “you have no privacy. Get over it.”
Now on to the next distraction: it was a typical Monday, with nonfunctional faculties whipped into submission out of necessity, as plenty of work needed to be completed.
Tires had to be changed, meetings were to be arranged, and a host of mundane employment related foibles lay ahead like hungry vipers.
All the while, Golden Sacks, aka ‘The Vampire Squid’ traded, raided, evaded, and to all consumer concerns was jaded.
Later on, Davey H admired a very tall Ulmus americana, guessing it to be 80+ years old.
Well? How did he know? He didn’t. That’s why he friggin’ guessed.
Meanwhile, across this great land of “ours”, oil companies were busily raising prices just in time for Memorial Day and its anticipated spike in domestic travel. No surprise here.
Davey did burn a bit of gas and also produced some of his own, though it was neither marketable nor useful for the purpose of automotive propulsion.
It was a spring thing, aye, and Davey H thought favorably of all the things that he bought.
Yes, spring, was here and all was green,
yet some have fear ‘o the Death Machine’.
Ahh, yes – much death is what it’s for;
the depth and breadth of another war.
Now Davey’s idea of something good
is splitting a bunch of hickory wood.
On to canine concerns: Davey has found that pound for pound
the Elison’s Lab was the smelliest around!
By gawd, the fallacious accusations of voter fraud were the actual fraud.
Who would bother to give a fraud the nod?
[That just popped into a silly stream-of-so-called-consciousness post.]
Now this: Davey is pissin’
because he won’t listen
as he has told you before;
he’ll now make it clear
of nothing to hear
so you may as well just shut that door.
Prior to dumping off yesterday’s load,
Davey was grateful the boys fixed the road.
‘Round many a corner, the potholes did lurk,
but now it’s much smoother en route to work.
Now Davey would not be uptight
oer the hundred words he failed to write.
Now he’s wasting some time tonight,
but one of these days he’ll just get it write!
Next day: too much sun, and damnit, Davey forgot to get clothespins! Wooden ones, please. Made out of maple.
Very durable and up to the task. Never again will he buy the cheapass plastic ones. Thay snap as soon as you look at them.
Hanging clothes up on the line;
sun and wind they won’t rescind,
but solar heat they will soak in,
so they will hap’ly dry just fine!
Then, a new day, a new page; this one begun with a brand new TwistEraselll® pencil with navy blue barrel. Unfortunately, it is 0.7mm instead of the more desirable 0.9mm.
But it will do for now.
One question keeps nagging this pencil-wielding scrivener, and that is this: why on friggin’ earth do they need to put a zero IN FRONT of the decimal point? Isn’t that entirely superfluous?
No matter; here’s more chatter: Last night a call was placed to a fella whose memory is better erased. Upon answering, said fella could have asked “why are you callin’? Whaddya need?”
“Nobody calls me unless they need somethin’”
Davey would have to concur with the fella’s assessment of such periodic communication, and proceeded to launch into a series of requests, one of which involved replacing the water pump on an old 1967 International 424 diesel tractor, the other a furnace ignition module.
Next, Davey had a challenge on this day and felt compelled to charge accordingly. “What’s the big deal?” he would ask the customer, adding, “at this point it’s all funny money anyway.”
Later, after dark, the computer was doing strange things. Nothing catastrophic, mind you, but not normal behavior.
For example, the mouse wheel would minimize web-page items rather than scrolling.
Said mouse appeared normal otherwise.
An email program also sported erratic tendencies, blinking into unwanted folders when a letter key was pressed.
Funny, as soon as the operator decided
to throw in the towel,
whether ‘twas with consonant or a vowel,
the email proggie began to cooperate,
and damnit, it wasn’t a minute too late.
This was mostly a desktop adventure, while in other venues, the word ‘tablet’ used to carry a much different, simpler meaning; a fact that Davey has archived and from which he’s been gleaning.
His tablet, by the way, still dependably plays podcasts from which he garners much of the information that hopefully stays between his ears.
A day or so behind,
Davey H scrapes up all he can find.
Work he won’t shirk and will not scoff,
as long as he isn’t pissing folks off.
‘Twas a spring thing,
a warm fling,
and lovely to hear song sparrows sing.
On the radio you know,
the delight of a piano.
Then on to the job site for arduous work,
this worker then asks
“oh, where doth calm lurk?”
How’s THIS for a revelation?
We are just SWIMMING in information!
Yet a large percentage
is clatter and chatter,
no need this appendage
- that thing called your ear . . .
This sound doesn’t matter
so you’ve no need to hear.
Ode to the remnants of the day:
but wait! The day’s just beginning!
So we fare to get out there
and try to start winning.
Not that you care,
so please stop that grinning!
Delving into a calm space is a consistent driving force in his practice. While it is a generally and vigorously sought after state, it should never be craved.
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