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whilst his readers frown at his organ recital.
Now on to his periodic electronic and technological musings (or mushings):
Here on the cusp of Halloween,
Davey H will meander his way to the scene
one of which is where sweets are served;
away from that table dear Davey has swerved. Now Davey reports that he’s not a sports fan;
in fact, he retorts that’s not part of his plan.
But he was aflame
and admits he had fun
whilst watching that game
where the Nationals won!
“Egad!” Davey gasps upon reading just a few sordid snippets flashing across the screen.
News well worth dismissing, or better yet, not reading. And reading is one thing, but absorbing and being affected by it is quite another. Again, well worth keeping it at bay or several arms’ lengths away. So EFF that. Beggin’ y’all’s pardon, but who I the hell wants to be scared shitless, grossed out, smoked, buggered, dogsmacked, disappointed, pricked, pilloried, tweaked, shit-stormed, befuddled, yanked, jerked, appalled, shell shocked, discouraged, besmirched, disgusted, bemused or just plain horrified by reading this dreck?
Hah; oh, what the heck — it’s all so much grease; for no such thing exists that is called world peace.
Now let’s get semi-serious: Davey H took the bold step of purchasing a paperback copy of Webster’s Spanish-English diccionario.
This fits his ongoing desire to maintain a thin thread of semi-fluency in Español.
Then on November 3rd to save his soul
and not be in the lurch. . .
Davey thought it would be droll
to go ahead to church.
This was a discussion not made lightly;
he was getting poor sleep nightly
and figured it couldn’t hurt.
The word for the day — culled from his handy and newly acquired Spanish-English dicconario — was ‘aflojar’, a verb meaning to loosen, slacken, ease up.
That indeed sounded good.
What a perfect bit of Sunday advice. Quite nice. And you should know it was apropos
with no need to think twice.
Because as the time approached
for auto inspection,
the topic was broached
with attedant dejection.
For as Davey H did previously bitch,
it was time to replace an ignition switch.
The aggravation was tense and real;
as it meant removing the steering wheel.
Now as he felt that 7 day itch,
woozy with anticipation,
his nervous system started to bitch
toward the end of this short vacation.
“Not a whole lot to see here,”
Davey said, speakng not out of fear
but rather dread.
And this dread did spread,
then, loud and clear
for Davey H who’s sitting here.
Now for a departure from his silly-ass tendency to rhyme: Yes, this was an emotional upheaval of sorts, Davey reports.
Certain stimuli had set off a fizzing powder keg of grief within his pusillanimous psyche, and his tear duct dam burst.
A discussion with Dan — he forgot to mention previously — touched upon topics of disease, old age, death and its inevitability. “No wonder the Buddha’s teachings are so unpopular — or are at least not popular,”
Davey had said, reiterating closely held sentiments for the umpteenth time. Aging relatives seemed to be slipping away, just as Aunt Lu had; he missed his old yella dog — gone nearly 20 years — and the untimely death of Ed Z Walter hopped on for the ride. The resultant gush of sorrow reached a cacophony unmatched by any in recent memory.
It would be a long boring journey back to the so-called farm, a trek filled, no doubt with unconscious fellow travelers pasted to their handheld microwave radiation devices, caressing tiny screens and generally not giving a flying flip about anything.
Two tolls stood between Davey H and the airport, and unbelievably, both were still manned [person-ed] and accepted actual currency. The toll takers were friendly, seeming contented with their perfunctory exhaust-swathed employment.
Prior to departing (Censored), Davey purchased a 2020 calendar, the theme of which was ‘Kittens and Puppies’.A pair of haunting eyes that greeted anyone who gave the calendar a second glance were such that they could melt hearts. Davey was sold. He left the store $16.00 lighter, calendar in hand.
That puppy on the cover? Lawud have mercy! She/he reminded Davey of his childhood family dog Tammy,
who he could have treated a whole lot better. Too late to go back and rectify his indifferent, errant treatment of her; now it was time for atonement. Moreover, Tammy was worth far more than 100 words. In fact, tomes could have been penned encapsulating her short life (like so many), her bouts with fleas, and finding of a new better, more attentive loving home.
Onward to what was now Wednesday, and Davey H multi-tasked the hell out of it. After dark, which means way, way, too soon, this not being friggin Alaska in June — he scrolled futilely for forums
or instructions, ANYTHING relating to ignition switch replacement on the %$$^$%#-ing anonymous year, make & model set o’ wheels.
It seems those tedious things retreat into the ether these days the more one digs for them. People that actually KNOW things and how to fix stuff are a vanishing breed.
After much ado about something, the anonymous year, make & model flunked inspection. As readers of Davey H’s posts know by now, he will not reveal which state or province he lives in, which, by innocuous inference, could mean he is stuck with stringent California emissions standards – and yes, he HATES California.
Oh, he had thought he could fool the system and fudge his way through by simply disconnecting the battery. Sorry, Challie – today’s rigorous computerized instrumentation is highly sophisticated and can detect such half-assed attempts right down to the minute such attempts were attempted.
So the chief inspector attempted explaining to a more than slightly befuddled Davey H how failed emissions could be ameliorated.
So what does ‘two drive cycles’ mean? Presumably, as per inspectormeister’s ongoing monologue, it involves simply driving twice each time, bringing the engine up to operating temperature. One more niggling detail: keep the tank full if possible.
And whatever you do, don’t let it get below 3/4. “What a crock,” Davey mumbled, “but if it’ll work, it’s worth a shot.”
Then, before any inhabitants of Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm® knew it, Saturday was close at hand and that meant ‘twas once again time to haul refuse to the transfer station. Hell, it couldn’t be put off any longer; billowing bins, bags, and buckets were ball-bustin’ burgeoning.
So forgive Davey H such impropriety;
at times he is crude despite his sobriety.
So he headed out not raging or mean
and got rid of the aging bread machine.
From the outset he feared
that as the time neared
he wouldn’t be able to fake it;
but then got a bump
when the man at the dump
so oddly decided to take it.
Bye bye bread machine;
don’t intend to be mean,
and no we don’t mean to be curt;
somewhere dough will rise
and give you a surprise
so your bread baking feelings aren’t hurt!
A story then flashed across the wire, and quite timely for anyone struggling to maintain a steady flow in their writing regimen.
In an article entitled ‘The Single Reason Why People Can’t Write’,
Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker sums it up
in four succinct words:
‘The Curse of Knowledge’.
In other words – no pun intended – we, they, us, or whomever, use too much jargon.
So for simple-minded readers, that SUCKS.
Now Davey H the inveterate grate
won’t hesitate to set things straight:
and truth of the matter
is that the knowledge curse is surely not his. Moreover, Rover, things could be worse;
not knowing of this knowledge curse.
“It’s way past time to get back to basics,” says Davey as he hurries; “4 U C, politics is the least of my worries.”
And somehow through his fettered haze
he saves up his vacation days.
Well, for the sake of clarity,
that statement may not have much parity;
that camper he purchased years ago
has not meandered to or fro.
So patience, please – cut Davey slack;
for well you see he just got back.
Back, yes, and horrors to find:
no need to guess: he’s way behind.
1000 words behind to be exact.
This is due to a confluence of factors, not the least of which was his latest self-imposed imprisonment, this one prior to the annual rituals of putting gardens to bed
and attacking recalcitrant bittersweet. If this sounds wholly redundant, that’s because it is; nothing much else ever happens at the pastoral abode known as Don’t Laugh It’s Paid for Farm®. Not that Davey H ever wants it to.
No thanks. To quote him: “nothing exciting ever happens here – and that stands for twelve months of the year. If you don’t like it, lookie here: for us, we cuss, it’s near and dear.” Meanwhile, over at the (censored) center, large mounds of sandy loam were finding their way onto a medium sized single rear axle long stake body flat bed heavy-ass
duty diesel powered 80s vintage International dump truck, bound for – yup, you guessed it – Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For farm®).
And that thing made Davey’s heart sing! Ping!
No need wait until spring.
Colder shoulder update: thus far the grate Davey H has postponed physical therapy on the bum shoulder. You see, it’s tough to keep appointments when paying work is at hand. Besides, they eat up the time and frequently offer little benefit long-term. Thus, he would worry and fret over such issues later. For now, he preferred to relish waning moments in the seclusion of his temporary lodging
– once again in old room 41. Although this wasn’t the Sheraton, it may as well have been.
In fact, room 41 would handily exceed the comforts of Sheraton accommodations, with the added perk of no synthetic chemicals having been used prior to his stay.
A slight whoosh of tires on Route (censored) barely penetrated the window casing at night, much to his delight. The room had not changed; only Davey’s deepening appreciation for it had: how crisp, clean and plumb all edges, joints, and corners were. The woodwork seemed to be made of polished marble; so perfect was the paint.
And insulation? Unparalleled. Even if a Sasquatch was snoring in the adjacent room, it would not be heard in 41.
So leaving this space was difficult, like parting with an old friend or lover. To wit: ‘Take the last train to Clarksville.”
But reality bites, and it was back to real struggles with real, recalcitrant machines.
First off, the non-modular phone jack had gotten itself disconnected and a fussin’ tussle ensued; repair was tedious, even with that overpriced $23.00 special tool Davey had bought to shove wires into ‘bridging clips’ as they were called. Next up, the heavy drape hook
on the end at the door’s edge – you know, in the catch-all room – which, in ordinary household parlance would be called a ‘den’.
Meanwhile, and mighty mean – out in the roiling real world and across the dithering globe, violence erupted in Iraq, and Davey H found himself showering praises upon an NYU professor who has laid out the facts regarding this. They are actually peaceful protests carried out by fed-up Iraqis – in contrast to media portrayal as well as what‘s spouted by Mike the Spike non-person Pence – whose gray-tinged pate is the boor’s head bloody-fang representation of US hegemony.
But Davey didn’t hate the man per se; he merely took umbrage with what a fellow like Pence represents.
He’s not tense.
Hence, he won’t sit on the fence
But writ large, sarge, regardless of whatever subversive thoughts you are thinkin’,
the media fawns over Mandy Patinkin.
Or Paris Hilton. Or Kylie Jenner.
Yet if you oppose
that debacle in Syria,
those media foes
aren’t likely to hear ya
Meanwhile, back at the non-ranch, Davey H has cracked Wendell Potter’s ‘Deadly Spin’ – a brilliant exposé of the inner workings of the perilously parasitic “health” in$urance industry.
The grate Davey H hereby gives the tome two thumbs up.
Now for his Thanksgiving Day post: Here it is on Thanksgiving Day, and Davey awoke so compelled to say that although he had some dues to pay beneath such dreary skies of gray he booted up and did inveigh “wouldn’t have it another way”.
It had been a couple of years since
Davey had read of Christobal Colon’s horrific barbarous exploitation of the indigenous peoples of ‘Hispanola’ – what has come to be known in modern times as hati/Dominican Republic. – and the shocked sadness still lingered. Many of Davey’s colleagues
and cohorts had come to realize that, like it or not, they’re now working and playing on what amounted to stolen land. Land that bore the well-dried blood of sorry corpses.
So if that isn’t murky enough,
slaughter that turkey and fill it with stuff.
A trial of denial
with all of our might
means we sill not smile
at the dawn’s early light.
Now it was the end of November.
Let’s see what that entails.
Would it be one to remember
with those hot Black Friday sales?
Set a record, they did, led, of course by the Bezos monopoly.
Davey H fell for the Black Friday ploy,
while being a dutiful consumer boy.
He accomplished this by tossing a mere $102.00 into the shopping cart of (Censored), a nutritional product company.
It felt good NOT to give money to Amazon.
One fan, its blades dust encrusted, is no longer needed in this, the change of seasons. So to a cluttered closet is will go. In the interim, it is tripped over.
The Bassett hound – Nature’s design of a incisively keen set of nostrils pasted onto the body of a dog – whined, desiring action. And scents: does she have sense?
Now on a wintry day sublime
Davey will say “let’s waste some time!”
after all, as arteries harden,
it will soon be time to plan the spring garden.
Yes, said garden would be planned,
in this, his beloved home’s heartland.
But now hear this: old Davey chooses
not to reveal which shovel he uses.
Then in a rare occurrence of television viewing, Davey H puzzled at the well-buffed, white-pated celebrity Anderson Cooper, the stalwart newscaster who urged viewers to vote for CNN’s ‘Heroes Of the Year’ awards. “Cool!”, Davey thought; “let’s cast our vote!” Oh, but it had a catch:
you had to select your ‘hero’ from a list of those whom CNN had already cherry-picked and deemed to be so heroic. Well, that means it was high time for some civil disobedience, popular resistance, obstinate opposition, and downright temerity-tinged, terse, to-the-point trolling. Maybe even some cajoling.
Davey’s top picks include the invisible women and men who are unafraid to challenge such behemoths as Pharma, Monsanto, Goo-gall, vulture ‘capitalists’ and Big Tech in general. Let’s give a warm hero’s welcome to the likes of Jill Stein, Sharyl Atkinson, Gary Null, Chris Hedges, David Cay Johnston, Wendell Potter, and Noam Chomsky.
Fat chance of that, so the idea was tabled;
at the drop of a hat, then, was Davey enabled. ‘Twas long past time to go make a mess
whilst remaining sublime and avoiding bee ess. And alas, one more missed opportunity
came and went
as to another locale our loam dirt was sent.
Yes, Davey jives: “that lack of dirt hurt”,
but Burl non-Ives had other work.
This was unfortunate, of course,
and Davey’s lip curled;
but with equal force
not the end of the world.
Davey burped this canard
without too much pomp:
“hello, fenced-in yard, and goodbye swamp!”
The reader should be brought up to speed: this was an evolutionary process that began twenty-plus years ago when Davey and Mrs. T moved to the property that eventually [but in relatively short order] became known as Don’t Laugh It’s Paid For Farm®. It didn’t take long to see that at least half of the (censored) acre lot was essentially unusable. Looking forward, it was fearsome; the cost to fill in the soupy lowlands could conceivably run into the thousands. Now, in the ensuing two decades, optimism has arisen; the fill project blossomed in several major spurts, incurring mimimal cost.
So the proverbial coin was tossed and all was not lost. And as may have been posted previously, Davey H had gotten lucky on more than one occasion when, upon seeing local crews performing outright headbangin’ major excavation, he asked after the resultant fill and to his stunned surprise, was granted it free of charge if you will. Apologies for this redundancy, folks, but repetition you needn’t coax.
Is an English major in the house? If so, please have her/him brand Davey a linguistic louse!
For he sucks at the poor grammar nipple
and hangs up many a dangling participle.
Meanwhile, citing Jeb Trotter’s editorial skills, Davey takes some pointers; from Jeb,
Trotter literally CRAFTS sentences; he doesn’t just type them. And his computer skills? Beyond match. What’s the catch? Jeb uses wildly expensive, complicated Adobe software in producing his periodical entitled The (Censored) (Censored). Thus Davey H has sought – most often futilely – to tear a page from Trotter’s workbook AND perhaps whilst flipping through Trotter’s social media posts – his playbook as well. Such eloquence as that displayed by the likes of Trotter is a pleasure to behold in this age of 240 characters or less butchered linguistics,
truncated syntax, pissy punctuation and perpetually puerile, passionless prose.
No, Davey won’t fritter
his time on a Twitter,
but rather would spend it;
even upend it
ensconced on his porcelain shitter.
And let Davey tell you: he has better things to do;
he’s a writer and not a quitter.
With 40 watt lamp and pinhole glasses,
Davey must vamp before too much time passes. Hitting up the ‘net to check out the weather;
on that you can bet he will get it together.
Thus as his so called mind wanders on
and is very unkind at the crack of dawn,
he stifles one of many a yawn
until the fog of fatigue is gone.
Then, as if to pass the time,
he plays a riff on one last rhyme.
It was December 11th and all through the so-called house dust bunnies were rolling, but no friggin’ mouse. AND it was long past time to move the fridge out of its cramped corner and extract all the crap that had fallen behind it.
This had long been
one of Mrs. T’s major pet peeves,
so Davey, you see, had to roll up his sleeves.
[Sorry; the next verse is in January.]
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