Category Archives: humor

Weekend Coffee Share 4/30/16

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If we were having coffee, I’d offer you some cold brew, a cold coffee concentrate that is intended to be diluted 4 to 1 with water. I drink mine straight. And then have the jitters all day. Good stuff!

I’d tell you that it’s the final day of the A to Z blogging challenge that I’ve been participating in on my other blog, Glass Manifestations. Frankly, I’m feeling a bit “blogged out” for the moment. Or maybe it’s more of an overall creativity tank. So maybe I’ll take a bit of a break from blogging and let the tank refill.

Or maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow with more creative ideas than you can shake a stick at. Maybe I’ll write a blog about the origins and meaning of the phrase “more than you can shake a stick at.” Hmmm.

If we were having coffee, I’d show off my yard as you came in the house. It’s very green and lush right now. With clover, that is, not grass. The beautiful yellow flowers (dandelions) have now turned to beautiful white puff balls (seed heads) that will soon be propagating a whole new batch of pretty yellow flowers.

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I can feel the glares emanating from my neighbors as they watch the uninhibited progression of a yard run amok. Maybe I’ll work on getting it under better control this week. Glaring neighbors can be such a nuisance.

That being said, I’d better go find the lawn mower now. Thanks for stopping by for coffee, and watch your step as you proceed through the jungle… er, I mean the yard. Feel free to pick some flowers on your way out.

When in Rome

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The letter X is a toughy for the A to Z Challenge. Even Sue Grafton, in her alphabet detective novel series, “A is for Alibi…” etcetera, had a challenge when it came to X. Instead of following the pattern of titles, and having an “X is for ___,” the book title for the X installment is “X.” Simple. Succinct.

Works for me. And I really didn’t want to read a detective novel titled “X is for Xylophone.”

So what does one do with a blog post based on the letter X?

Here are 10 ideas (or X ideas):

1. X is the Roman numeral ten.
2. X-Acto knives: They do have their uses in stained glass work. I could have pulled it off.
3. X marks the spot. Maybe too obvious?
4. Sign your X on the line. Yes, a line from the song, “Santa Baby.”
5. Ex… ex-spouse, ex-employee. That sort of thing.
6. Ex as the sound in the beginning of a word: eXactly, eXcellent…
7. X out something, as in draw a line through a word. I guess an X would actually be two lines.
8. X. Just X. If Sue Grafton can do it, so could I. Or so could X.
9. X as the 24th letter in the alphabet. I don’t know… there must be some fascinating details about the letter X.
10. Malcolm X. The activist or the movie. It’s kinda scary that when I did a Bing search on Malcolm X, the first six entries were about the movie, not the person.

So many blogging options, after all. Too many, in fact. I guess I just won’t write a post about the letter X.

Oh, wait! I just did!

Xquisite!

X  X is for X.

A Smashing Success

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I’m going to make a hole in a window

You’re going to break a window?

Not break a window. Just put a hole in one.

So smash it, you mean.

Yes, it might look smashed.

What will you smash it with?

Does it matter what smashed it?

If you want to smash a hole in a window, you have to hit it with something.

What would you use, if you were to smash a window?

Me? I’d use a baseball. Maybe smack it hard with a bat. You could hit it from clear across a field and no one would know it was you.

People will know I smashed this window.

See, that’s why you use a baseball or something. Make it look like an accident.

So, an unfortunate baseball incident?

Exactly.

 

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“The Unfortunate Baseball Incident”

S  S is for Smashing.

Light Bulb Moment

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So I had a “light bulb moment” the other day. You know, that moment when you have a sudden realization, an enlightenment of sorts, when the metaphorical light bulb turns on in your brain and you say, “Aha!”

Oh wait… that’s an “aha moment.” But anyway, that light bulb moment when you are struck with a sudden insight or inspiration that leads you on to new discoveries?

Yeah… that’s not what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about a real light bulb. You know… bulbous, light-producing… something that you screw into a socket so that someone doesn’t come along and stick their fingers in it. That kind of light bulb.

Okay, on to my moment. I bought a light bulb that is supposed to have a 27 year life span. I can’t remember how much I paid for it. That memory is probably repressed to protect me from the trauma.

Nor can I remember what I was thinking when I decided that I needed this acme of amperage, this wonder of wattage, this lion of lumens.

Perhaps I just felt that, at some point in my dotage, I might want to switch on a lamp, and I could rest in ease knowing that my trusty light bulb would be there waiting to brighten my day. Or night.

So here I was, in possession of this almost ageless light bulb, and – as luck would have it – there was a burnt out bulb in one of my lamps. A perfect opportunity to begin my decades-long relationship with Brighton. (I figured if we were going to be together that long, the light bulb should have a name.)

I pulled Brighton out of my light bulb storage area (I seem to have quite a collection of light bulbs), and began wrestling with the packaging that was doggedly defending Brighton from harm. With a sudden shift of surrender, the packaging gave way, the bulb sprang free…

and began its unstoppable freefall to the hardwood floor.

The bulb crashed to the floor. My dog Chules came running to see what happened. I began to have visions of doggie blood spurting everywhere if Chules stepped on shards of Brighton. In one swift motion, I pushed Chules aside and bent down to assess the damage.

There lay Brighton. In one piece. On the floor. Where he landed after a four foot long plunge.

I tenderly picked Brighton up, held him to my ear, and gently shook him to see if I could hear that tinkling little noise that light bulbs make when their filament has broken. Mind you, with Brighton being the Superbulb that he is, I don’t even know if he has a filament. But I figured no sound is good sound.

I took Brighton to my bulb-less lamp and with trepidation screwed him into the socket. Holding my breath, I reached with quaking hand to flip the switch.

And then there was light!!!! Brighton’s alive! Metaphorically speaking, of course.

As I sit here basking in Brighton’s warm glow, I have every confidence that we will be together for a long, long time.

Hey, wait! Did someone turn out the lights? Brighton…?

Brighton?!?

L  L is for Light bulb.

Jetsam: Lightening the Load

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Flotsam, Jetsam & Lagan: sounds like a prestigious law firm, doesn’t it? Or maybe a 1960s folk rock group? But no, these terms have a more nautical theme.

I’ll let dictionary.com explain:

Flotsam — 1. the part of the wreckage of a ship and its cargo found floating on the water. 2. material or refuse floating on water. 3. useless or unimportant items; odds and ends.

Lagan — anything sunk in the sea, but attached to a buoy or the like so that it may be recovered.

Jetsam — goods cast overboard deliberately, as to lighten a vessel or improve its stability in an emergency, which sink where jettisoned or are washed ashore.

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I won’t be channeling my inner pirate here; I get seasick in the bath tub if I take my eyes off the horizon. The thought of people chucking things into the ocean intentionally is also rather sickening, but I’ll save that for another post.

The point of this post is:

 Life is like a shipwreck.

Wait, that doesn’t sound quite right… Anyway, I’ll wade in with my analogy:

Sometimes we go about life having taken on a lot of unnecessary “odds and ends,” and when we get hit with – “stormy weather” shall we say — we founder and end up floating about, all wet. The “useless and unimportant” baggage we were needlessly hanging onto bobs about pointlessly in the waves nearby as we frantically dog paddle and wait for rescue. That’s flotsam.

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Sometimes we get the “ship” kicked out of us and lose our footing on dry land, but we manage to take stock of what happened and what’s important to us, and we can devise a plan for how to recover from our losses. That’s lagan.

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And then there’s jetsam, when we rid ourselves of the unnecessary baggage that’s weighing us down, impeding our progress, or endangering our stability. And having done that – and continuing to do it – we sail through situations that might otherwise have sunk us.

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I’m striving for jetsam; lightening my load of unnecessary stress, worries and material “stuff.” It’s definitely an ongoing process. Stuff seems to seek us out at every port, clinging to us like barnacles on a boat.

Okay, swabbies, I think this ship has sailed. I’m off to the galley for some chow. I suddenly have a hankering for fish and chips.

J  J is for Jetsam.

A Host of Hostas or a Flock of Ferns?

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You know how it is when you have a thread loose on your shirt sleeve that you can see out of the corner of your eye every time you move your arm?

It’s on the sleeve of your dominant hand, so whenever you have scissors handy you try to cut it off, but with your weaker hand you can’t manage the scissors well enough to get the thread between the blades. And if you do get that far, you’re still afraid to make the cut because from your peripheral vision you can’t tell if you’d be cutting the cloth of the sleeve as well as the errant thread.

You do know how that is, right? And then when there are no scissors around, and you start noticing the thread poking up from your sleeve again, you just want to pinch it tight between your thumb and index finger and yank it out to be rid of it once and for all.

But you know you can’t. You’ve been told that if you pull on a loose thread, the entire article of clothing will come undone and fall at your feet in a ragged, unraveled heap.

What I’m getting at here is:

What is the meaning of art?

Not following? See, the definition of art is like that wily, unruly thread that you just can’t quite get a hold on. And so you keep coming at it from different angles, thinking the meaning of art – heck, the whole meaning of life – is right there, just visible out of the corner of your eye.

Take hostas for example. You know, those green leafy plants that don’t look like ferns. Okay, so you’ve got your hostas over here, and over there somewhere you’ve got your ferns. And the question is:

When is a fern a hosta and when is a fern a fern, and who gets to decide?

It doesn’t get any clearer than that. But you’re still scratching your head and giving me that look, so I’ll continue. No, no, I insist.

I follow the Facebook page for Dale Chihuly, world-renowned glass sculptor. Yes, he’s the magnificent artist after whom I named my dog. It’s an honor really; maybe not so much for Dale, but certainly for my dog.

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Dale Chihuly’s work.

 

Recently, on Dale Chihuly’s Facebook page there was a photo of a glass art installation in Oseyrarsandur, Iceland, from the year 2000. The artwork is titled “Green Ferns.” I haven’t had the chance to hop over to Oseyrarsandur to snap a photo for you, but here’s the link to the FB photo:

Okay, so the artist is sharing a photo of the artist’s work which the artist has titled “Green Ferns.” And below the FB post someone comments, “I’d say those are hostas, not ferns…. But thanks!”

So here’s the question: are they ferns, because that’s what the artist says they are? Are they hostas, because that’s what the commenter says they are? Are they both, depending on who’s looking? This is starting to sound like that twine theory stuff. String, I meant string!

Does it matter at all what anyone thinks they are? I believe it does. If you’re watching a ballet featuring dying swans, for example, and someone says, “I’d say those are ducks, not swans… But thanks!”, don’t ya kinda think they’ve missed the whole point???

I don’t suppose Dale Chihuly is losing any sleep over this. I know my dog Chihuly certainly isn’t. And maybe I’ve just turned this whole matter into a ragged, unraveled heap on the floor.

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Dog Chihuly’s work.

 

Maybe someday I’ll see that niggling little thread out of the corner of my eye and I’ll turn my head and there they will be… all my answers to:

  • who gets to say what is art?
  • who gets to say what art is? (yes, those are two separate questions);
  • what the heck is string theory, anyway? and
  • why are so many loose threads in life just barely out of reach of one’s scissors?

I apologize, Mr. Chihuly, for pulling the thread. I just couldn’t help myself.

H  H is for Hostas.

Daily prompt: Green