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 Welcome to A.J.'s thoughts!
 Finally - a place to empty my head. Because basically I intend to use this part of our site to express thoughts from both sides of my brain, I've broken this page down into two. The one you're on now is poetry and prose...sort of. This is my kinder, gentler side (This is the side that my wife likes to be with.) You can also click on the link below to catch some of my rants and not-so-stayed comments on our wonderful world. This would be my more...shall we say, contentious side (This is the side that my wife...er, my wife...you know what -- mind you're own damned business!) Enjoy my scribblings, and random thoughts. Or...not. Click here to go to the more contentious A.J. (Or don't -- see if I care!) Since the poem explains it all, I won't go in to too much detail. Suffice it to say that I was oddly inspired. When On The Way Home From Buying Our Usual Sunday Rolls and Papers by A.J. Bodnar Driving down the street I saw a sight I know so well. Crawling down the street, a little turtle shell! He shuffled on so slowly as along the road he brushed. I stopped the car and got out and saved he from being crushed. I knelt down and picked up this second cousin of the croc, It was then he quickly did his imitation of a rock. And inside the little turtle shell, I could clearly see The balance of the turtle looking blankly back at me! His little turtle eyes and his little turtle mouth, Looked at me so sadly with a little turtle pout. "Help me, please?" he seemed to say, carrying his abode. "I'm leaving town today, you see. Please help me cross the road." I said, "I'll do you better, friend. You needn't go so far." "Come and see my strawbale house." Then I tossed him in my car. (Well, "tossed" is too harsh, really, and comes off detrimental. I placed him in with greatest care. I remembered to be gentle.) Anyway, We pulled into my drive, up to my domicile I bad him not run straight away, but stay and talk awhile. He posed for a few pictures, though he was camera shy. Still I took the photographs, uploading by and by. Then he spotted with his turtle eyes our pond that was quite near. "Bless my shell!" he cried aloud. "Could I possibly live here?" "Of course you can," I was pleased to say, then placed him in the water. "We'll be glad to have you live with us, my turtle son...er, or daughter!" "I think you will be comfortable, though it's not quite a Great Lake." "You can live with all the fishys, plus a just arriven snake." So the turtle swam away to the dark where we don't see him. But I smile sweetly to myself 'cause I know that in there be him. And I fondly reminisce upon our interspecies chat, As I look back on the woodpile where my amphibious friend sat. Only one mistake I made afore he slipped beneath the rocks, Was to ask him this; As turtles go, was he painted or he box? Click here to meet the turtle!!! It seemed a shame to pass up yet another opportunity. If I can cross paths with fifteen or twenty more of these little cold bloods, I should have a book! When Coming Home From Dad’s 90th Birthday Extravaganza Arriving home on a Friday night after having so much fun, Celebrating my wife’s father’s ninety trips around the sun, With rain from the sky in buckets large, I opened the garage door, And just by chance with sleepy eyes gazed down upon the floor. The storm called out the earthworms, there was one near python sized, But not far from those two or three, something else I realized, The shape familiar to me, it bordering on the cute, I still could not decipher was it lizard or it newt? And while standing there bemused, I took a second gander, And further thought, "It could just as easily be salamander." "What’s the difference in the three?" I wondered in the peace, (The underlying problem: This was not my expertise.) E’en so, like some great "herpmeister" I vowed to study this, Then, like all us great scientists do, I made a thorough list. Now let’s see, It’s color like the black of tar when tar is laid down fresh, And on it’s back were yellow spots, like a polka-dotted…er, dresh. Determining size of the small wet thing was not particularly hard, For it was clear it was no larger than a credit card. The tail, just like the rest of it, was sleek, and wet, and dark, And it curled ‘round, arching not towards right, a mirrored question mark. But then, what ho! I heard the tiny amphibian speak. "Good evening, Sir!" Could you please help me with the one I seek?" Incredulous, I answered it, "Why yes! Is it ‘Sir,’ or ‘Miss?’" "And just who could you be seeking on a nasty night like this?" "I am a 'Miss,'" the small one said, "My moniker is Myrtle; I’m invited to have dinner here with my friend the painted turtle." "Ah, the turtle!" I did cry, "has lived hear since summer gone! Just follow this path right straight down." I pointed towards our pond. "But before you keep your dinner date with that shell-ed denizen, Might I trouble you to answer me a minor quest-i-on?" "Yea, pose your query," Myrtle said, "My friend can surely wait; I just won’t get there on the dot. I’ll be fashionably late." "Thank you," I replied, "You see, I’ve been looking at your spots, I’ve been studying your visage. And, ‘scuse, but you know what? I can not seem to place you in the greater cold-blood sphere; The answer plain eludes me. I’m afraid it isn’t near. Over and then over I’ve checked out your spotted suit; Are you salamander? Lizard? Or, pray tell me, are you newt? I’ve taken in the data, but now please reveal what’s true, So that I can go and get some sleep, just what creature are you?" Then a shock-ed look 'pon Myrtle’s face. 'Twas anger one presumes, It seemed smoke poured out her tiny ears in tiny little plumes. "How dare you ask this question?" She seemed to fuss and fret. "Why, the nerve! And such a total breach of cold-blood etiquette!" I quick could see that Myrtle was now in a minor rage, "I mean, have I asked of you how much you weigh? Your salary?? Your age??? We cold-blood-kind all think it wrong to inquire as to specie, Now I’ll take my leave. I’m late to have a meal of sois de vicis!" And I think if the wee creature had been sporting a wee cape, She’d have flung it o’er the nape of her neck, that is, if she’d had a nape. Finally all indignant, Myrt disappeared under a wall, Yelling this last, "Besides, how should I know? DO I LOOK LIKE A GRUNWALD!" Click here to meet Myrtle now!!! This poem comes from my being perpetually blown away by Liza's presence in my life. Though I deal with words constantly, I have no word for this. And perhaps, that's as it should be. It does bring to mind, however, what I heard about grace once (and I am paraphrasing here, but I think closely) - "You can not earn grace. There is nothing you can possibly do to deserve grace. Grace is unearned and undeserved. You are bestowed grace not because of, but inspite of yourself." If this is so, than for me, Liza is grace personified. by A.J. Bodnar I am thinking right now of a large piece of granite. It’s an image I just can’t seem to get out of my mind. I can see it clearly. It is smooth, measures about 6’ x 3’ x 1’, and stands on a pedestal. It is everything that one would imagine a piece of granite that size to be. Large. Solid. Heavy. Immovable. And there is one other thing. Down the middle of the stone, there is a crack. It’s the crack that is strongest in my mind. Because I keep thinking . . . That if you ever went away, I would be like that granite. Large. Solid. Heavy. Immovable. And unfixable. My granite-with-the-crack would never be fixed. It would never be whole again. And the crack would be everything one would imagine a crack of that size to be. Long. Jagged. Permanent. I could fill it. I could paint it. I could hide it. I could take the two pieces and put them so close together that you might not even see the crack. Still there, though. Now, I’m not a poet. You could fill books with the books I haven’t read. And I wish I knew twice as much as I pretend to know, Or half as much as I appeared. But I know this – That you belong next to me just as surely as any cliché in a love song has ever been sung about. I know that this love of ours is something I would die for, And die without. I know that if I had been this happy in my youth, things would have gone easier for me. I know that, while there is no reason it should be there, I can’t get the image of the granite out of my mind. And it isn’t that I’m scared that you’ll leave. I’m not. And it isn’t that I feel unworthy. I don’t. It’s just that . . . I wonder about other pieces of granite that I’ve seen. Large. Solid. Heavy. Immovable. And I think how they should have remained so, if for no other reason, that they were no different than the one that I have in my mind right now. And how many are cracked. Did the all-powerful Granite God ordain this one whole, And that one cracked? “I bless you over here with wholeness, I curse you over there with crackedness?” I am not unworthy. But I am not more worthy either. And you’re here. And we are whole. And I am whole. And I can’t get the image of the granite out of my mind. This partly took the form of a letter to my good friend Harold. All I'll say is that, after this experience, I couldn't sleep, so I got up and wrote it about it. I started writing at 1:00 a.m. and wrote clear to sun up. The rest explains itself. * * * Friday, I said to you that we are leaves on a tree. I said that some leaves fall before their time, and some stay on past their time, defying logic. And I said that I am content to let the mystery Be. Well, I still believe that. But in light of our conversation at The Chief [restaurant], I thought you’d be interested in this little story of something that happened to me that evening. You’d probably be interested even without the conversation. by A.J. Bodnar Since you and I weren’t going to spend the entire day together as originally planned, it gave me a chance to go see a really bad community theater production of a really putrid 1954 musical called The Boy Friend. Some of Liza’s past and current students were going to be in the production. She was going and I was now freed up to go with her. She called me up around four o’clock and suggested that we have dinner at The Brandywyne Restaurant an eatery not far from where she teaches. This is also where the theater is located. Convenient! So after a quick shower, off I drove looking forward to spending a pleasant evening with my wife. And as a bonus, I got to listen to CSPAN’s live broadcast on XM of Donald Rumsfeld’s getting shish-kebobbed by members of the Senate Armed Services Committee (tee-hee.) I met Liza at the school, located only blocks from the restaurant, which in turn, is right across the street from the theater. We left our little Hyundai over there, intending to pick it up after the show. We were off to The Brandywyne . Once at the restaurant, we were seated and given the evening’s three specials. There was a buffet for 17.95, pork chops for 15.95, and most intriguing of the trio, a 42-oz. sirloin steak which came with rolls, potatoes, salad, a dozen steamer clams, and a pitcher of beverage – all for 25.00. The idea here was that two people could split the steak. While I had no business ordering this on my diet (April’s been a terrible month in that regard), it sounded like the best buy. We went for it. They brought out the rolls. We ate those. They brought out the salads and the pitcher (we chose the raspberry iced tea.) We ate and drank. The conversation was, as it always is with my sweet wife, delightful. They brought out the steamers. Down they went. Then came the main event: two handsome pieces of steak done medium-well (it was recommended that we don’t order any higher than medium-well due to the length of time it takes to cook that much meat.) Our surgery on the mighty cows commenced. The meat seemed a little tough, but it was tasty all the same. Then it happened. I took a swallow and could feel that the steak was going down hard. I didn’t think this too odd since it was as I say, kind of tough. After a bit of a hard chew, it made sense to me that it was resisting. But then suddenly it changed into something different –- something more than just a little resistance. In a flash, it turned into a death grip, or a choke hold, as the case may be, and one of forty-two somewhat tough ounces of sirloin stopped in my throat. It just stopped. It just . . . totally . . . stopped. I attempted to wash it down with some iced tea, but somehow that only made it worse. The piece had now seemingly cemented itself neatly to the inside of my throat. And there I was. My windpipe was now totally blocked. There was no air to be had. The rest of this I write partly from memory and partly from reconstructing the experience with Liza. With what my wife later referred to as a “determined look” on my face, I sprang to my feet. My intention was to make my way to the men’s room, but I never got there. Liza had quickly realized that something was going horribly wrong even before I was fully standing. “What’s the matter? Are you choking?!?” she asked me firmly. All I could do was nod, dumbly. Raspberry iced tea (gallons of it, it felt like) spilled from my silent, gaping mouth like purple drool. I could see both of our fears in my wife’s face. She jumped up from the table and, with the clear enunciation of a teacher who has twenty years of fire drills to her credit, yelled out: “Heimlich! Somebody!! Now!!! Shock. I passed through a set of mental doors and into that melee-realm to which people who find themselves in such situations inexorably succumb. I was caught in an undertow. On the heels of Liza’s urgent demand, I clapped twice, loud -- as if I were saying “Alright, people -- let’s run all of Act II!” to a reluctant cast coming back from break. But everyone in the restaurant, or at least those in my immediate field of vision, just sat there. Though perhaps arguable, it’s difficult to blame them. It’s an unfortunate reality that not every body knows what to do in such cases. And even when people may know what to do, it isn’t every person who can necessarily recognize in that the split-second that the time to act is at hand. And besides, picture it: In the midst of everyone’s quiet meal, this guy sorta’ lunges up from the table, thus far appearing fairly normal. He then twice claps his hands as if to discipline a group of school children that only he can see. One can imagine people thinking to themselves: “What’s he doing? Is he gonna make some sort of an announcement?” (Note to self: Duh, Arp -- You’re supposed to give the international hand signal for choking. Duh, and DOUBLE DUH!) In my own defense, I think I was trying to stay in control of the situation, remaining calm as possible under the circumstances, not yet quite ready to admit to myself that I was menacingly close to a terrible cliff. Ah, there’s nothing quite like the kind of denial you experience when you think you just might be about to die. At this point, I made a conscious decision not to try to breathe (well, for at least as long as I could.) While I don’t know how correct I was in my thinking, my logic was that I didn’t want my brain to get word that my breathing had shut down. Cuz I was afraid that, if it did, all of my emergency reflexes would kick in and start to escalate -- first, trying to take a breath…then failing . . .then mildly panicking . . . then trying harder to take a breath . . . then failing a little more, and so on until it would all be completely out of my control. I mustn’t go there. I was trying to hold things together for as long as I could (quite possibly the rest of my life). Knowing that of course I was hanging by a thread, I nevertheless attempted, however weakly, to postpone the inevitability of my situation. Sort of the physiological equivalent of trying not to hit the brakes too hard when one is sliding on ice, down a hill, and heading towards an intersection. Now clearly the center of attention, I made my way towards the middle of the room where the buffet was, though why exactly, I’m not quite sure. I think I was figuring that, if I could just wait it out, surely someone would step forward who knew what to do. I remember commotion and yelling all around me, but as yet no help. “Where the fuck was the staff,” the thought emerged somewhere in me head (as it turned out, all were in the kitchen for that brief moment.) “Weren’t they all supposed to know how to handle this, it being an occupational hazard and all? And where’s the fucking Heimlich poster with the faceless people dispassionately extricating themselves from their predicament? I mean, I thought those were mandated!” No time for that now, though. I figured I would start losing ground pretty soon. After that, pretty fast. And then . . . Good Christ! I felt it! A great bear hug. Someone was jerking me, firmly thrusting me from around my waist and behind me! How many times - twice? Maybe three times? Ugh . . . I don’t know who . . . .ugh… the hell that is back there, but it sure feels like they know what the hell . . . they’re . . . ugh . . . doing! And then it was over. With the same fury and drama that ushered it in, it was over. And just as suddenly. A great volcano of raspberry iced tea spewed forth from my mouth, accompanied by the now felonious piece of steak. First I involuntarily uttered the hideous “GL-GL-GL–GLDT!” sound of a drowning-victim, and then I was breathing. I was breathing normally. I was breathing. The big loser was the buffet table. It wasn’t a full frontal assault exactly, but my proximity to it at the time of the Great Spew (and New York State health regulations), guaranteed that there would be at least some removing of bowls and cleaning up to be done. Alas, poor carrot-raisin salad. I knew it, Horatio. I’m sure the re-appetizing of the clientele also entered into it, somewhere. Perhaps the strangest part of the story -- okay, let me start that again. The second strangest part of the story was how quickly things seemed to get back to normal. After my windpipe was cleared, the very first words out of my mouth were directed to everyone in the room, “My apologies to all. My apologies.” You see, I am after all, a gentleman (though I readily confess that it isn’t easy being suave when you’ve got raspberry iced tea and bile running down your shirt.) Every body went back to their tables. Moments later, the ER was converted back to an average, run-of-the-mill restaurant dining room -- ok, “run-of-the-mill,” but with some not-too-thrilled guys in kitchen whites holding mops. It’s remarkable how quickly one can return to a natural state (or, at least, what can pass for it) after such an incident. Things slipped intrticle_loc_6" BELOW This piece began out of reality. I had read a book called The Artist's Way, by Julie Cameron. I recommend this book highly for artist's who are severely blocked creatively. In the book, Cameron talks about how one of the things artists fail to do is put aside time for anything other than their work and or their art. Cameron contends that artists must make dates with themselves to do other things ie: take walks, go to museums, build models -- whatever. These things feed the artist's imagination and soul as much as any art. This resonated with me. And so, very excited one particular week, I made the date. I think I had set time aside to build a model I had been meaning to get to. But on the night in question, I was out with friends and my car died. While we were waiting for AAA, I had told my friend Jackie that I was upset because I had made this date with myself for tonight, and now I wasn't going to be able to keep it (I had explained to her about Cameron et al.) Staring down the highway, waiting for the tow truck, she said, "Well, I guess now you'll have to call yourself up and cancel. What follows is a result of that remark. * * * Two weeks ago I made a date with myself for last night and I was determined to keep it. You see, I’ve stood myself up before. And I didn’t like that very much. I was insecure enough in such matters as to think that there might be someone else. It had happened before. So, naturally I was quite upset when the car broke down. I’d have to call myself up to cancel. And I just knew that I wouldn’t be understanding. Naturally I didn’t believe me. I yelled some expletives at myself and hung up on me. I knew that when I got home, I’d be in the doghouse. Maybe even wind up sleeping on the sofa. I slowly pulled into the driveway and quietly made my way through the front door. “Hi,” I said, with a big sheepish grin on my face. But I was not amused. I was standing there, furious. I was in for a battle, I knew that. I barely got two words out of my mouth, when I interrupted myself. “I’m nothing but a cruel tease!” I said. I was crushed at the accusation. I wanted to leave me right then and there. But at the same time, I wanted myself so badly. Be reasonable, I pleaded. But I wouldn’t listen. “I’ve had it with me! So, just pack up my things and get out!” Then I lost my temper. “Ok,” I screamed, “If that’s the way I want it, well then good-bye!” And I stormed out of the house. But do you know that I had the nerve to follow me? I mean, who do I think I am, anyway! “I’m sorry. I lost my head.” I said. “Hey!” I snapped back. “I can’t treat me this way and then expect to just come waltzing back to me for forgiveness! What’s the matter with me!?!” But, I’m a sucker for a sob story. And, knowing this about me, I cleverly went into a song and dance about how I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. So, I went back into the house with me, knowing that I was letting myself be conned, once again, by my good looks and charm. Well, I’m happy to report that now, I’m friends. And things are pretty nice again. I’m communicating. And when I speak, I listen. And so do I. All in all, I’d say that everything has been patched up. As a matter of fact, if things continue on as they have been, maybe tonight, I’ll get lucky. The bench was green, partially chipped, about five and a half feet wide. A yuppie sat at one end, a musician at the other side. The yuppie read The Wall Street Journal, scoping the Dow Jones; The musician, an old dog-eared book, Choesser’s Greatest Poems. The yuppie, on his way to work (it was 8 o’clock a.m.) The musician, just back from a gig, was coming home again. The yuppie in his pin-striped suit, The musician in his jeans, One with a shadow cross his face, The other neat and clean. The musician spied the yuppie’s dress and paper, And he thought to himself, “Jerk.” The yuppie glanced through his Foster-Grants, Saw the Choesser, and thought, “Twerp.” The musician saw the expensive tie and thought, “Jesus Christ, how plastic.” The yuppie looked and thought, “Nice hair.” And of course, that was sarcastic. And there the two men sat and slung the mud across the chipp-ed bench, Through attitudes formed years ago and teeth politely clenched. One father saying, “My boy, beware the dreamers of this world, With their heads a-drift in clouds, and rebellious flags unfurled.” “Get an education, son, and study, study, study! You can do anything you want (as long as you make good money). Another father shows his son the guitar and how to use it. And tells him, “You can be a star!” And then never shows him how to do it And now years later, two young men, Convinced their path is right. One, a creature of the day, the other of the night. You’d think the one was Amos Hattfield, The other Josh McCoy, The way they manage to scorn each other With a most peculiar sense of joy. And yet, If by some great twist of chance, If only they could hop the 969c Content-Disposition: form-data; name="comance, Think out their views, and then shake hands. Maybe even become friends. For all the differences they see, The differences are few indeed. When you prick them do they not bleed? They both feel anger, joy, and pain. They both get soaked when caught in rain. Both get hungry, have needs to be fed. Both get anxious at what lies ahead. The differences are all the shell. The pulp’s the same. They just don’t know it well. But today’s not the day to negotiate, As on Platform #3 they wait. Maybe on the morrow they’ll patch. This morning they have trains to catch. This is kind of a departure from the mission statement of this page, but it harkens back to a question on our FAQ page regarding my name. I'm a Unitarian. UU's (Unitarian Universalists) say, "Bring many names." Well, here are mine. Variations on "Arpad" Arferd Alferd Arbad Aroid Arsaad Ardvaark Variations on "Arpi" Arby Alby Arky Arnie Arby Opie Ahpi Sparky R.P. Noopy Kevin … á-ÂÀGET http://www.cnn.com/pipeline/StreamStatus/stream_1.xml TTP/1.1 Accept-Encoding: gzip If-Modified-Since: Fri, 03 Mar 2006 13: Liza has a guitar piece called Goshen that I find absolutely enchanting. It's a quazi-depiction of a morning she spent at a friend's house in Goshen, Connecticut. Everytime I hear her play it, I can see that morning clearly in my mind. After having listened to it so many times, tonight, I finally decided to do something about it. Not to throw water on it from the start, but Liza informs me that the scene wasn't quite as idyllic as the images that either her piece or mine might evoke. But hey, what the hell! I mean, art doesn't recognize the boundries of reality, does it? No, I think rather like water, it seeks its own level. by A.J. Bodnar The gentle chaos of morning begins again, as it never has before, and as it has a million times before. Coffee on the stove. The microwave drones an F# above middle C. Kids, dead unfortunately. They are light years away from their mother’s voice. From the bathroom, a whining, like a large mosquito. Dad’s shaving. The children are finally pulled out of bed by either their mother’s loving coaxes, or her ultimatums. It can be hard to tell the difference. The smell of Johnson’s Shampoo from last nights showers is still faint on their tousled heads. Each child appears at the breakfast table as if by magic. One impossibly young voice, hatchling in the nest that it is, cries out, “Mom . . . " "Can we have French toast this morning?" Nothing. "MOM!" "CAN WE HAVE FRENCH TOAST THIS MOR-NING!" Mom explains why that isn’t going to happen today. Willard Scott joins the children at the table and tells them about centiginarians. And the weather. And Aflac. Out of no where, and in five seconds flat, Dad avalanches down stairs, grabs a cup of coffee, tucks the paper under his arm, kisses his wife, and disappears into the garage. Incredibly, he performs these acts, one per second. The children gulp their lasts. The children march out to school with stomachs full, and minds waiting to be. School will empty one, and fill the other. And now, the sigh you hear, is Mom.  by A.J. Bodnar Is there a dark yellow Do they sell Amero-slicers in Europe? Why is the logo for Lucent Technologies an "O?" And just how many late night sessions did it take to come up with that ingenious design? Why do TV stations put their logo in the corner of the screen during a show? We all know what show we're watching. Wouldn't it make more sense to display the logo during the commercials since that's when everybody channel surfs? What is the cut-off age for eating Trix? Just what ship is Captain Crunch captain of? Why is a bed the only thing that can be "queen size?" And shouldn't a single bed be called "knave size?” Does Dr. Pepper have "D.D.S?” What exactly happens to a cat after its ninth life? Should we send police beesafter killer bees When "the king of the jungle" unsuccessfully averts its gaze, does it prove that there ain't no use in hidin' lion eyes? When a person is unsuccessful in trying to make a celebrity out of an other person, does that mean that there ain't no use in tryin' to lionize? If a car wax company deceives you, does it go to follow that there ain't no truth in tryin' to Simonize? If you want to share your day-old Burger King side dishes with a friend, and they just crumble from being so dehydrated, does that mean that there ain't no use dividin’ your dryin' fries? Sorry. I'm done. Wouldn't a more apt name be "woodchew? If our calls are being monitored for quality assurance, why doesn't the quality ever improve? Does the Easter Rabbit have his eggs bunny side up? Does Kris Kringle use Santa floss? What's with the crown on top of Jughead's head? Could there be any better clue of what society was like in the 50's than the fact that Paul Drake was a detective - a profession which absolutely requires one to blend in? Why do networks advertise their excellence on their own stations? Just what exactly is "Opie" short for? Why do woman call it a "period?" Isn't it more of an elipses...................? Would people with no sense of smell be called "smeaf?" And would they thereupon need to use smelling aids? Or nose trumpets? Or contact nostrils? Was Humpty Dumpty's death considered an abortion? If you wrap yourself in the flag, are you being “Old Glorified” In the land of the blind, would the one eared man be the visiting head of state from the Land of the Deaf. Isn't the Empire State Building, the building of the Empire State and not the state building of the Empire? Why then, is it pronounced the Empire STATE building and not the Empire-State BUILDING? Is Starkist's spokesman a "car-TOONA? Are Rumplestiltskin's relatives Rumplestiltskin's kin? And, if two of his cousin's got married, would that be Rumplestiltskin's kissin' kin? If a tree falls in the woods and there is no one to hear it, is it possible that it's because the tree fell on top of the one who was supposed to hear it? Freedom IS free. If it wasn't it would be called "costdom." “Iceberg lettuce" is kind of a dumb name, isn't it? Ever try to freeze lettuce? When nudists argue, do they wind up their argument by yelling at each other, "And you can stick it where the sun shines!” What is a goblet a small version of? In ten years (maybe five), what will Paris Hilton do for shock value? Would a shopping center filled with evening patrons be a mall and the night visitors? You know, you just might be a redneck if… - you're as ignorant as a manure spreader. - you're as bigotted as a fifty year old fifty years ago. - someone says the name of a southern state and you go, "WOOOO!!!" - if you're as open-minded as lobotomy patient. - if you'll laugh at any redneck comic, no matter how banal. - if you somehow manage to delude yourself into thinking that dumb and stupid are chic. Does a spoon full of sugar help the medicine go down if you're a diabetic? Why are the numbers on the keypad of a drive-through ATM also written in braille? Do you suppose Indians sing "maisy love songs?" Do Indians breakfast on "maise flakes?" One more of these and then I promise I'll stop. Do you suppose Indians eat "maised beef" on Saint Patrick's Day? Who put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop? I think that's fairly obvious -- "The Big Bopper." There is a follow-up question, "Who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong? But I don't know if there was a "Big Rammer." And perhaps, I don't want to. Could a line for the restroom be referred to as a "loo queue?" Does Lucifer eat deviled ham and deviled eggs for breakfast? Proverb: You can drink from a stein, but not from a Rosenbaum (unless they're a real good sport). Re Donald Duck - - Donald Duck wears no pants. - He wears a sailor's hat, though he has never served in the military. - Though curiously they have the same last name, he and his girl friend are not married. - They have never had any children, but they have taken in three nephews from a sibling yet to be found. - The names of those nephews are Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Try to imagine three siblings, Johnnie, Ronnie, and Donnie making their way through high school. - Donald's only other living relative is an avericious, cut throat robber-baron by the name of Scrooge. - Bigotry may be evident in the fact that his one enemy, Daffy Duck, is black. This is one dysfunctional family! When primates insult each other gratuitously, are they engaging in "ad homonid attacks?" Are there "gentleman bugs”? Are there "mommy long-legs"? Why did My Mother The Carfail so miserably as opposed to the rest of the stellar TV sit-coms that have been produced in the last forty years? How big was the chicken that laid Humpty-Dumpty? Aprapot of that subject, if your name was "Humpty Dumpty," wouldn't you go by 'H.D."? When Ron Howard can't get to sleep, does he need to take an opiate? Do humorists prefer rye bread? Do actors prefer roles? Do bigots avoid pumpernickel bread? Does Woody Allen prefer banana bread? Do proctologists prefer buns? Do animal rights activists prefer pita bread? Does Lewis Carol prefer Wonder Bread? Does Tom Vilsack prefer corn bread? Do porno actors prefer French bread? Does Dr. Pepper prefer soda bread? Does Red Pollard prefer biscuits? Always more to come…  I've spent some time over the years listening to my wife play the guitar. Now, you understand that I don't know anything about guitars. They all look the same to me. But I can tell you that, when she has to take it to get repaired for some reason, her Martin M36 (ok, if you say so) always gets a salute and proper tribute from the guys at the shop. And indeed, even I have noticed that it has a fine sound. Infintely better then say, her "cheap Martin." Liza also has a nylon string guitar. This instrument is an interesting piece by contrast. It has nowhere near the status of the Martin (Liza's father picked it up at a pawn shop in New York City for forty dollars when she was a kid.) Funny enough, with no name at all, it manages to emit sounds that the Martin can only dream about. Which makes me randomly think - Nylon guitars must be very secure in their indentity, sure in the knowledge that they are everything they can be and that the world melts at their sound like teenage girls at a boy band concert. But I'm sure that there are days when metal guitars wish they could be as expressive as a cheap nylon. Give a listen sometime. Absolutely lovely. 
 Recently, Salon put this picture up on their "War Room" page and asked for captions. I took a few stabs at it. I confess that this one could just as easily have wound up on my "rants" page. Judgement call. Sometimes you just gotta make 'em. "Dummo and Bono" "Schlocker and Rocker" Bush: "So you're Ir-eecan?" Bush: "It was a pleasure talkin' to ya', Boso." "President and Bono discuss Global Pretzal Safety" Bush: "Like this - You put your right foot in..." "President and Bono Pose For Photos On Top Of Presidential Cake" Bush: "Love your musssic...Just stay away from ma' daughtersss." The Winners See? I'm such a nice guy, I'll even show you the competition. I thought at least a few of mine were as good as these, but what do I know?  When I an old man I shall wear plaid. With a bald head and a bad comb over that doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on cheap booze and loose woman And the hottest porn videos and say we’ve no money for toilet paper I shall sit down on the bowl in the public lavatory when I’m tired And gobble up stale pretzels in bars and press up against young girls at the bus stop And DEFINITELY run my “stick” along public railings And make up for the lack of sexual experimentation in my youth I shall go out in a trench coat and nothing else in the rain And urinate in people’s gardens And teach polite little children to spit You can belch and fart And leave a big dump on the living room divan Or only eat Tang ® out of the jar for a week And hoard old catheters and stripped wing nuts and things in boxes But now we must have clothes that keep us looking conformed And vote even though we know that the election system is rigged And lie like road kill on an interstate to our children. We must have friends to dinner (even though a mediocre steak costs a whopping nine dollars) And read the papers (even though the New York Times is now going for a buck) But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear plaid. Here's the poem I just trashed.  This summer I sat through War of the Worlds. Moving right along. I had an odd, albeit vicarious connection to this movie. My life-long freind, Harold, and his entire town of Athens, New York, appeared as extras in the film. Having visited my compadre there countless times over the years, I felt almost a part of the movie myself. As I watched it, I recognized several parts of the tiny hamlet. Of course, the fun in this flight of silly is that Harold, like most extras, appears in the film for nanoseconds (ok, maybe nano-minutes), and without any lines. That, and the fact that I believe the time Harold has spent in his entire life involved in the performing arts totals up to about 8 minutes. He's white- collar WASP all the way (Still, all in all, he's a thoroughly nice fellow.) The piece started out as a just a few lines for the purpose of amusing my friend, and then I got carried away. I sorta' threw the gauntlet down in front of myself on this one. _________________________________________________________ From The Times, June 30, 2005 The summer blockbuster season is upon us and once again, hype and quality will battle to the death. Hype will win, and it won’t even be a fair fight. Take as just one example the case of Steven Spielberg's War of the Worlds. The special effects are in fact dazzling, and the first shots of destruction are so unrelentingly realistic that one finds one’s self terrified that the alien ships will lumber right off of the screen and into the aisles, destroying both patron and popcorn-stand alike. It is September 11 all over again, and the mouth goes dry from being held agape. And then, tedium. With the "MDJ's" (monsters du jour) quickly revealing themselves to be invincible, as well as constitutionally incapable of giving quarter, the tension deflates and you start to wonder what's the point? Add to this a completely unbuyable performance by the ever-so-wooden Tom Cruise as a poor but boyishly-cut container loader (both of which are the opposite of real life -- this occupation often pays six figures and is sedentary), a plot with more holes in it than gauze, ideas (including the “a-duh” ending) co-opted from a half-dozen other films, and you have a cinematic pu-pu platter that winds up in the WAL-Mart "Best Values" bin faster than a dissenter is removed from a Bush town-hall meeting, five'll getcha' ten. The one shining moment of real acting prowess comes from screen-novice HAROLD LINDSTROM (up until this movie, Lindstrom's acting career had yet to extend beyond the stage.) Though Lindstrom is on for considerably less time then Cruise, his film work runs circles around Cruise's (Full disclosure: this is not a difficult task - Cruise's performance on Oprah was scads better.) His highly complex, yet at the same time understated performance manages to be the lynchpin that holds together the entire movie. Lindstrom grippingly teeter-totters back and forth, forth and back between calculated cool-headedness, and raw human emotion, and the audience's immediate empathy for his character is understandably palpable. For his entire time on screen, and with very little dialogue, Lindstrom implacably pushes ahead, holding his viewers in the palm of his hand. He never lets go and never eases up on the pressure. Indeed with barely a word, he manages to be a one-man tipping point, a "Mr. Dénouement" - or at least he would be if the movie would kindly draw to close after his appearance. As it is, however, the movie drags on for far too long beyond the point wher…ÐJlGET http://www.google.com/ HTTP/1.1 Abut subsided, and so the audience is cruelly teased with a brief, if virile, display of thespian swordsmanship. But take heart. In the coming months, watch for this fresh face to become a sure Oscar contender. Riveting. For this misfire, War of the Worlds gets 2½ Ferries. _________________________________________________________ You'll have to see the movie to get the "ferry" joke. But I am informed by Harold that after passing this piece around to a few of his fellow "cast members," that one or two did actually ask him whether or not this was a real review. And that, my friends is pure satisfaction! This link will take you to a site where various "Athenians" posted shots of the shoot. ATHENS, NEW YORK BURSTS UPON HOLLYWOOD!!!  by A.J. Bodnar Dear Monday, For a long time now I've been meaning to write you, but something always seems to come along and distract me. Finally, I have the time to sit down and tell you how I feel. I hate you. Ever since I can remember, you've made it your business to make me miserable. No matter how hard I've try to escape, you always come back to torment me. It doesn't seem to matter how much of a nice weekend I have. It doesn't matter how many days I take off or how long of a vacation I get. It makes no difference if there's a three day weekend and I begin work on a Tuesday. I can even try to avoid you by calling in sick on Sunday night. The following week you're there, back in my face, laughing. What have I ever done to you? When I was a child, didn't I gree you with the same eagerness and enthusiasm that I had for Wednesday or Friday? Thursday has never treted me badly. But you -- you seemed to always have it out for me. I try and try, but I can't avoid you. So yes, Monday, I hate you. I loath you. I despise you. You've never been kind to me. I'll never remember you for anything good. You've always treated me with malice, and I shall never forgive you for that. Never. I curse the day you were born. I want you to go away and leave me alone, forever. Sincerely, Me PS: See you next week.  Christmas time's a time for giving A time for love and hope, and cheer. A time when children, filled with longing Wait for gifts to reappear. It's the season of the candles Bringing lightness to the dark. And the carols of the Yuletide The herald angels sing now, hark. While the goodness of the season Spreads like the sweet smell of the pine, The innocence of small ones Can be for us a sign That the Christ child's soon to be born. And 'round the Christmas tree The presents from the heart Give joy as friends sit by the hearth. On Christmas Eve, at twelve o'clock, Every church door is unlocked. And every church bell starts to ring As congregations start to sing, O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie, Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by. And then the love and snow so bright Fall from the sky on Christmas night. And the only thing I wish to mention, A minute thing, a minute question, The season of the tiny king, The one of which the angels sing, With Christmas touching great and small, What the hell is with the malls??? I mean, are they criminals? Or is it me? A hundred bucks for a Christmas tree! Throw in the garland, Christmas lights, And your money's out of sight. And then a special Christmas caper, Seven bucks for Christmas paper. And your kids With toys spread cross the floor, This Christmas will be shouting, "More!" And in this you can be sure, That in two or three weeks They'll be bored. The toy stores, happy to oblige, Wrap up greed in Christmas guise. The mall Santa's jolly holler, "Ho, ho ho! (Photographs - $15.00) It makes you want to take those elves And hang them up by their little bells. While somewhere, in a Christmas lab, High on top of Madison Ave. An oak table with marketers around, Sell off Christmas by the pound. X-bots, such a warm tradition, Should all short out, so I've been wishin'. Dolls that develop diaper rash Entrance your kids and steal your cash. Millions of suckers you can bet, In January are in debt. We should, I think, GO into malls to the Christmas stuff And, in the name of Christmas, Blow it up. Then pass a law for to remember, "No more Christmas before December!" Peace and joy should be the rule. Incinerate the Christmas fools. Incinerating Christmas junk. Eliminating Christmas funk. Toy stores, marketers, and the rest, Would have to pass the "Christmas Test." Before you sell your decorations, Tell us first your motivations. Do you want to spread the truth? Or pack your pockets full of loot? We should strike a mighty blow for Santa Claus, And Christmas time, Because every year the buck and purse Make the situation worse. And I'm no fool. I can guess That with this poem my wasted breath Falls on deaf ears and minds made up Of Christmas sales and Yuletide mush. Quarterly projections on Tonka toys Hypnotizing girls and boys. And don't call me "the cynic" Because I made The call on the spade, And called it a spade. Christmas may not be quite dead yet, But the time is right to start to fret. Let's go back to how it used to be, With Christmas at about three weeks. Not two months of Yuletide merry That makes you gag by January. Christmas spirit? I'm behind it. So Merry Christmas, If you can find it.  This piece came out of my experience with spending some extended periods of time as a houseguest at the home of my good friends, Charles and Fernye (pronounced F-ER-N). I was privileged not only to be welcomed into their lovely home, but also to be exposed to those delightful little idiosyncrasies married people frequently have. One of these was a grandfather clock that Fernye had brought to the marriage. Fernye loved it, but as a bit of a classical music fiend, Charles abhorred the hourly "BONG!" of the clock in the middle of a soft Beethoven passage, or a subdued Puccini aria. Like most successful marriages, the couple has varied interests. Charles is an abashed homebody, while Fernye little explores the world, going from African safaris to Hungarian excursions, and beyond. It was always easy to tell when Fernye was away on one of these explorations -- the clock would be stopped. A few clue-ins so as to get all the lines of this poem: - In the beginning of the marriage, one of Fernye's sons lived in Maryland, where she would visit him regularly. - At the time this was written, Charles was a polymer-chemist for Allied Signal. Benzaldahide is the chemical in cherries that gives them their flavor. - Charles and I did a considerable amount of work involving the poetry of Robert W. Service. That would explain the rhythm of the piece, as well as a passing reference to Service's poem, The Cremation of Sam McGee. Tempus Fugit By A.J. Bodnar They were husband and wife. They were in love with love. They were oh so devoted and true. They always talked. They never fought, From when to the preacher they said, "I do." Every morning they'd say, "Dear, have a nice day, My darling, my pet, my sweet." And at night they’d return, All the day their love burned, Their hearts in unison beat. He adored she, and she worshipped he, A scene never to rearrange. Then one day, to his shock, She purchased a clock. And paradise suddenly changed. A hideous thing, Which on hour would sing, Ten o'clock, and eleven, and twelve. She was pleased with the piece, Which chiming ne'er ceased, And was making his poor life a hell. When she first brought it home, It didn't bother him, no. In fact, he thought it a prize. When they entertained, In sunshine or rain, Friends praised it with wide-open eyes. But then fate lent its hand, As it certainly can, And he chanced to think it again. This would go through his head, Usually while in bed, As the thing chimed 3:30 a.m. Then there was the time When the blasted thing chimed While he was listening to Orpheus in Hell. During Offenbach's themes The clock intervened, And he thought, "Oh, it's the '1812.'" As time went by, A gleam appeared in his eye, One which she had noticed not. But he knew that one day, If she glanced away, He would rid himself that wretched clock. And then finally it came, That for which he pained, When she said to him, “Honey, you know, It’s been way too long Since I’ve seen my son. So, to Maryland I must now go. “Now I leave on the fourth And return on the ninth. I know for five days you’ll be fine.” Thought he, “Yes, it’s true. I won’t run out of food. But if I’m lucky, I’ll run out of time.” The day she took off He worked in shop, With mixtures that bubbled and hissed. A thought in his brain Drove him nearly insane. And he found he just couldn’t resist. So he mixed up a brew With a horrible hue, And he sneered with malevolent pride. Then feeling quite merry, So to smell like cherry, Added two drops benzaldahide. The five o’clock whistle Through the evening air chiseled, And he raced home with fiendish delight. One thought in his mind ‘Till he nearly was blind, “A clock will see justice tonight!” He arrived at his home, Now completely alone, His face was near twitching, it seemed. As he opened the door, And stepped onto the floor, The monster chimed five and fifteen. He said to the thing, Which so proudly did ring, “The contest is done. I’m the winner! So go ahead, chime. I’ve plenty of time. I’ll tend to you right after dinner.” Though through with the clock, He destroyed it not right away, The great moment to savor. For revenge is so sweet, When one starts to eat, One wished to relish the flavor. After the meal To his car he did steal, And returned with the horrible mixture. Then this man half possessed With tortured unrest, Took a spoon and stirred up the elixture. He slunk towards the clock, Which ticked and then tocked, This irritant within his home, And with a shrill, a lust awoke, “To kill! To kill!” Where was I…oh, sorry, wrong poem. So he moved towards the pest That brought such unrest, And he spoke, as he slid ‘long the rug, “I know this won’t thrill you, But I’m going to kill you. So don’t try to hide. And don’t run. In the name of Tchaikovsky, and Johannes, And Wolfgang, And Ludwig, and Schubert, and more…. In the name of George Gershwin, And Verdi, and Bodnar, This mixture now on you I pour! For those moments piano, And pianissississimo, Moments that caused me to grin, During the soft of a Chopin cadenza, When you saw quite fit to Chime in; For bastardization, for subrecreation Of music I once held as timeless, I now do pass sentence Within this my resdence, And thus condemn you to be chimeless! And as he lifted the beaker, So totally eaker, He heard a familiar tone. As he woke from his craze, And shook off the daze, He realized it was the phone. “Hello,” picking up. He was all but shook up. The anxiety cut like a knife. He waited to hear, And then just as he feared, Heard, “Hello!” My God, ‘twas his wife! “I just called to say I’m arriving today. I hope that that don’t come’s a shock. I had fun while away, And oh, by the way, Didst thou take care of my clock?” Well, The end of the story Ends without the glory Our hero had so much desired. To this very day, The clock chimes away. About that you needn’t inquire. Make no mistake, For he still wants to take That clock and give it a lickin’. But his love for his life Saves the wretched thing’s life. So like a Timex, The clock keeps on tickin’.  These are entirely my mother-in-law's fault. Liza told me she's been writing a lot of them lately, so I decided to try my hand at a few. The next thing I knew, I was hooked. Are they good? Who knows -- who cares -- they're fun! No filthy ones here, I'm afraid. Invite me over to your house for dinner some night, and we'll think up a few. Meanwhile, enjoy. Or should I say, "I certainly hope that you like 'em!" *One additional note: Limericks appear to be written in 6/8 time. I have tried a few in 2/4. I colored outside of the lines -- what a surprise. In truth, I don't know whether that's allowed in "Limerick Land", but then I don't much care either. By A.J. Bodnar Who bought stocks and futures in Pfizer; The stocks hit the roof, And then they went “poof!” Which to her came quite the surprisa Who lived all alone in the forest, She lived on boiled tree bark, And barbecued aardvark, And that’s why she needed Lavoris. Had a boy friend who was tall and beefy, But when hunting some deer, He shot off an ear, And now Fifi’s poor Beefy’s part deefy. Is the stomach where one ought to start, But if you want success, I suggest you address, A totally different part! For high public office he ran, To be White House resident, As well as the president, You think it can't happen? It can! I laughed at him and I know you did too. But he was lonely. Wadn’t he, Without female rabbit comp'ny, And that other thing that rabbits like to do? ‘Cause there’s nothing for which you can’t pay. But if being so richy, Makes one mean and bitchy, Why would one want to be that way? His cooking awards did abound, But he failed the great test, When they did him arrest, For serving up sautéed greyhound. Is diamonds will sweep them away. But if you want success, I suggest you address, The chocolate issue today! Found to their shock they were deceased, Saint Pete, with a grin, Said, “You can’t come in. ’Cuz our standards have greatly increased!” Call back, he flies into a tizzy. This chance I am taking, To ask is he faking, When he says that he’s busy…well is he? When he saw folks below who were dyin’, But the cause he was after, Turned out to be laughter, ‘Cuz his tights he’d left way far behi-in’! Ate Pinocchio after Gepetto, I don't want to be rude, But that Italian food, Must have given him heartburn, I'll betto. Is something about which I con talk, There's nothing more true, Than from Kalamazoo, Out to Montauk' is still quite a long walk. It picks you up when you feel moody, So if cheese is your fare, Then make sure you share, 'Cause anything else would be rudee. This limerick has no point, Bored out of my mind, I’m just killing time, So don’t get you nose out of joint! It's time to be festive and gay, But if you're still the schnook, who winds up the cook, What the hell is the diff’ anyway! Who belongs in the One-Cell Museum, His visage, 'tis true, Is shaped like a shoe, But don't look, he's too small to see 'im. King of all that is scum and is green-a, If I wrote one more po-em, I'd have a small to-em, Of one-celled poems one, two, and threena. In his shirt pocket Fruit Loops he'd carry, He lived on a boat, He married a goat, We don't talk much about cousin Harry. That is until it turns to agony, 'Cause what with all the drama, Your one true love you'd bomb-a, If you simply had the opportunity. To ensure a standard that is gold, But if the service is great, Then why must I wait, For forty-five minutes on hold! These limericks were inspired by my good friend Harold, who makes his own "limerick-al" appearance in I Have My Doubts. He sent me a limerick that he wrote about a co-worker of his, Jim. I took this as an opening salvo. What follows is sort of a limerick version of a variation on a theme. It made for an interesting and fun excersise. The first limerick I omitted. To raunchy. Trust me on this one. Who wore petticoats on a whim, He traveled so far, To find a Gay bar, Just to have guys say, “Ooo, look at him!” Who was friends with a cowboy named Slim, Into business they went, On the outskirts of Kent, That’s where they came up with “Slim Jim.” Would show a young hot stud named Jim, Asked a young grenadier, “Sir, why return here?” Whereupon replied Jim, “To keep trim!” And that Jim to another Jim, And that to a Jim, And Jim, Jim Jim Jim, Then Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim! Who wished his name was Sal or Tim, If one drinks enough gimlicks, He’ll write tons of limericks, About any name, Sal, Tim, or Jim! That repeating is all that I gots, Well if that is so true, Then let me ask you, Some say I repeat myself lots, That repeating is all that I gots, Well if that is so true, Then let me ask you, Some say I repeat myself lots, That repeating is all that I gots, Well if that is so true, Then let me ask you… Climbed the building like lightening greased, But with the smog and the crowd, And the horns honking loud, ‘Twas the city that murdered the beast! Went to a bar to have a shot, Contemp’ries they weren’t And that much they learnt, So they all shrugged and danced a gavotte. Whose tactics were more than just wily, If you’ve watched his show, Than you surely know, He certainly brings up the biley. Which came first, the shell or the leg? Who cares? If I’m able, I’ll come to the table, For either I’ll sit up and beg! He looked back in total surprise, His heart, it went bump, Her heart, it went thump, And so they hastily said their good-byes! His office is neat as a pin. He waves and he smiles, He charms and beguiles, And his head is as empty as sin. Oboes are instruments truly proud, But in my humble view, One unbiased and true, The piano’s the one leaves ‘em truly wowed! Saying that I don’t care about her no way, I am generous and true, And all she has to do, Is do things exactly the way I say! Clearly quite mad, he was smi-o-lin, Was he first? Well, who knows? But at last, Nero shows, He made crazy world leaders the sty-o-lin! I’ve been giving it some thought today and yesterday, Just three more lines to write, And now just two within my sight, Now it’s done. Surprised? Well, what did I just say? The Democrats clearly are mouses, Either one that you choose, There’s no doubt you’ll lose, A giant pox on both their houses! His recall on what happened, muddy, It took Dick to do this, A man full of hubris, In his hands the truth turned to putty. His recall on what happened, muddy, It took Dick to do this, A man full of hubris, In his hands the truth turned to putty. Permanently changed my reg'stry. I wish I could say I was happy today, But so far the work's too much ext'ry! The right- wing machine? So much sleeker. But I can still give my view, On what I think is true, Before they will unplug my A problem occurs that’s quite tough, When one’s hands stick like glue, Then it’s probably true, One should watch where one’s digits wind up! Thought he’d have cabbage pie for a hoot. But to have a fifth slice, Meant paying a price, ‘Twas not merely the foghorn went “Toot!” It’s a fly of gargantuan size, For most of its days, In the water it stays, And then after it grows up, it dies. One more year older, no more, But as all you have seen, I still act fifteen, So there’s really no use keeping score! What could it have been that she did need? She was young, she was bright, With a future in sight, Furthermore, unlike Georgy, she could read!  Harold is one of the ones who shows up a lot on this page. That's only logical since he's one of the central figure in my life. He asked me a while back to come up with possible names for his wife's "Kinder Music" program. Once again, glad of the opportunity of another literary excersise, I forged ahead. I just thought that I’d share these with you, Dear Reader, as well. The following is the letter that I sent to Harold, which included my suggestions. So, first of all, this no trouble at all. Be aware that if you don't use any of these, you didn't waste my time. It was a fun exercise. You must know on some level that this kind of thing comes naturally enough to me and that I find this kind of assignment much like doing a crossword puzzle - an amusing diversion. One day, you ask a favor of me that will require me to muster all be resources, but not today. Today, I get off cheap. I will say that I could use a few more details here, even the ones you already gave me (this'll teach me, yet again, to listen to a message with half an ear.) I got that it's music, and that it's for kids, and I got that there's signing involved (Kristen knows how to sign?) But I must confess, I never have been absolutely clear on exactly what the "kinder music" program is. And now, will it be the same program with signing added? Is she just looking for a better name - a name that reflects what she already does? Or is the new name supposed to reflect a restructuring of her organization? Kind of like, "And now Toys R Us is Kids R Us, cuz now we sell kids clothes too! We've gone wacky!" What are the ages that she will be dealing with? And, while we'll sort of touch upon this as we go along here, what is her access to a visual artist for the purpose of logos and promo stuff, and does she intend to use one? I also included a Word doc attachment of just the names I came up with - just in case you think that Kristen doesn't need to see all of this junk that I've included. Just bear in mind that if you show her only the doc, there may be a few names you have to explain to her in greater detail. That out of the way, let's forge ahead. I basically brainstormed here for you. There were some ideas I may not have been crazy about, but I thought better to include them because they may trigger something in Kristen, and she in turn may follow a particular route to a conclusion I was not able to reach. To begin, I happened to mention this to Liza when I got your message. Her immediate "how-about?" was the "Athens-Place-To-Dump-Your-Kids-For-A-While-So-That-Mommy-Can-Go-To-The-Hairdresser's." Now, I believe in truth in advertisement, but that may be a bit too blunt. Then there wa "Kinder Lingus." This is equally unsatisfactory, I think, since it describes a completely different program than one Kristen is offering. Liza did however, and with a bit more sincerity, come up with Music For All. She tells me that New York State has a READING For All program, and this could be Kristen's answer to that, enabling her to co-opt an existing name that's already in the ether and giving it a twist. This is a pretty good name if the majority of Kristen's clients (hmmm...Kristen's Klients?) are aware of the program. If they're not, then I believe this one may lack punch just a little. Still, it might be worth considering. I really opened up my mind on this. I used various models and I would expect that, which one Kristen chooses will depend largely upon what quality she wishes to extenuate. I've also included my opinions on a lot of these because...well, because I'm me. These are no particular order. MUSIC-TO-MARKET-ROAD - A little play on your locale, here. This might work better if you had a booking agency, but what I like about this one is that it plays on the "local." This name would mean nothing to people outside your vicinity. Conversely though, it would really be inviting, in a warm way, to those who live immediately around you. Kinda' like an inside joke. And, as a bonus, I think it has a kiddish flavor to it. Like "Schoolhouse Rock." One can almost see the logo with the little children dancing down "Music-to-Market Road," little notes, staffs, and clefs in their wake. MUSIC: FIRST, SECOND, AND THIRD - I like the pun in this - music as an absolute priority, and then the allusion to the age group. Question is, is the age group accurate. I suppose that if it isn't, you can just lop off the words that don't apply: e.g. Music: First and Second, etc. MUSIQUE - Too French. This would work with my friends, not with yours. Let's move on. EARLY MUSIC- This one's ok, but you have to make a determination as to how hip your crowd is. Know-what-I-mean? SIGNS AND SYMBOLS - This is like the only one that I came up with that includes the signing stuff - the "symbols," here, being notes. Of course, once I wrote it down, I immediately saw SIGNS AND CYMBOLS as a viable option as well. Problem is, Kristen may not feel that the word "cymbals" completely describes what she's doing. TOO MUCH MUSIC - Kind of a Madison Avenue approach, here. We don't have so much music, we have TOO MUCH music! All kidding aside, it could be a hook - describing the unfathomable amount of music (and by association, fun) that Kristen is offering. And hey, kids, she's so zany! Sorry - lost my head. (hangs head in shame) BEST PLACE ON EARTH - Ok, here I go again. I think I was trying to come up with a few that just sounded fun without being necessarily descriptive. I had fallen into kind of a rut and I was trying something new. So, in that spirit, I would lump these in here: My Favorite Place, and My Favorite Space. Tell ya' what, though. These sound more like nursery schools to me than what Kristen's doing. AH MUSE! TAKING NOTES THE MUSIC GARDEN NOTE WORTHY TUNESILLVANIA - Tee-hee. I got a soft spot for this one. Do I see a logo with a "cute" vampire who has a polka-dotted cape and quarter notes for fangs? Oh yes I do! And now, if you will excuse me, I will go and make amends to my people for suggesting that someone further perpetuate a stereotype that has done us ill, and has continued to give a skewed view of us to the rest of the world. (hangs head in shame, again!) TUNISIA - Taken. TUNSILLITITIS - I like this. No, really! I like the pun, and every parent will get the reference. And, as a bonus, it means an enlargement of tunes. Just might be silly enough to work. TUNE UP! TUNESY WOONSEY SPOODER - Sorry. I think I'm beginning to loose it, here. NOTES TO LIVE BY GEE, CLEFFS! - Ok, now follow me here. This one ain't too great, but then I wondered - what if "GEE" was G? And what if "Cleffs" was instead, Clef's? Now you have G. Clef's. And now, with a little help from your local visual artist, you come up with a character named, G. Clef! He's all over your promo stuff, he's on your shingle, and he even appears in whatever lesson material Kristen makes up. I forget what you call characters like "Mr. Clean," and "Mrs. Butterworth." But whatever it is, that's what G. Clef could be. MUSICAL ANIMAL - Ok, same idea, different theme - e.g. "The Singing Swan," "The Tuneful Turtle," The Musical Mastodon," what ever. Remember that as dumb as this idea is, the air waves are choked with these annoying little corporate crawlies. Explain to me the success of the "Geico Gecko" - I can't! In this case, however, it only works up to a certain age group. Throw a picture of "Ollie the Operatic Otter" in front of a fifth grader, and your house gets egged that night, you may depend on it. JUMPING OFF A CLEF - This is cool. You just have to make sure there are no survivors of suicide victims in the community. CLEFF CLIMBING - How to take a bad joke and make it into a halfway decent suggestion. (Ok, I said halfway!) CAR TUNES - I was trying to come up with something that suggested the school and the fact that you drop the kids off. I think this'd be better for a car stereo place, though. Maybe if it were spelled "Car/Tunes." THE MELODIAN - Another one where you have to take out the ol’ "hip-o-meter" and apply it to your crowd. Obviously you know that the melodeon is an instrument, but will they. And then, maybe, is that important? THE MELODY HOUSE - Kind of in the same vain as Music To Market Road. This worked for a coupla' record stored I used to know. Will it work for this? You tell me. BUT - You could make it Melody's House, come up with your little character again, and there you go! Potential downside: People start to call Kristen "Melody." THE RIGHT KEY - I JUST thought of this one just now!!! How did I come up with it? My mind went from "Melody," to "Me-LANIE," to "Brand New Key!" And now the word "key" becomes yet another route you might want to take. Isn't this fun? Now, you try! KEY WE - See? IT'S INSTRUMENTAL! - Personally, I find the gratuitous exclamation mark really irritating, but they use it the frig all over. I just wanted to make my position on that clear! THE MIND SPRING - You know, in some ways, this is my favorite one - a place where kids go to get knowledge that springs up from within them - a spring of music - springing up from a well - the mind as a spring, and so-forth. Problem is, it sounds like a place up New York State called Omega Institute. Don't know what that is? Look it up and take your mind out of the conservative trough for a change! Enlighten yourself, for God's sake!! Jeez!!! So - that's all I have for now. But you see how this works. I mean, from just these alone, you should be able to come up with something that works for you, even if you use any one of them as a jumping off point. I'd be tickled if you used any of 'em, but it's absolutely fine if you don't. Just make it creative, please. Do me a favor - if after all this, you settle on Kristen's School, don't tell me. I'd weep. Peace, Moi PS: If I think of anymore, I'll either IM 'em (IMM?) tomorrow or I'll just shoot 'em over to you as quick e-mails without explanation.  Creativity will out in the oddest places some times. In this case, Harold gave me what amounted to an assignment. I was happy to oblige. Same church, different pew.  Every once in a while, someone you deal with in business crosses the line into friendship. Such was the case with our excavator, Jim Scott. Jim died back in October, and it prompted me to write this piece. To give just a little back-story on our connection to Jim, I'll preface the poem with part of an e-mail exchange I had with one of Jim's neices. "The thing about Jim was that you felt close to him even if you weren't. I mean, as many times as we wanted to socialize, it never happened. And when we talked, it rarely got intimate, the way close friends get. This was a guy who had a hand in building our house along with a small crew of other guys. But Jim rose above those, not with effort, but with pure unpretentious goodness -- like a glass of mountain water. I just wanted to clarify our relationship with him. It's not everyday that one feels like this about on of one's contractors. That, I think, is the testament to Jim's way. Knowing him to our degree was like seeinga fox -- you'd like to see it more often, but you are happy for the momentary privilege of catching a glimpse of its beauty." May 2, 1948 - October 10, 2006 he was nineteen feet tall and his arms spread out into tuesday his white hair gave his rosy cheeks a little more rose his rosy cheeks gave his white hair a little more white he was not old his smile was as broad as his shoulders looking at him made you feel like everything was going to be fine he was a real southern gentlemen though he was an upstate new yorker born and bred his name was short and simple like a daisy and suited him to a tee rudolfo just wouldn’t have worked he managed to be macho and gentle don’t ask me how he ran a bulldozer but he was never pushy and his dump truck carried dirt and mulch and goodness his idea of raunchy was PG-13 he overworked and undercharged and could no more do a bad job than speak ill of someone occasionally he’d malaprop and it was charming i saw him duck into the catholic church one sunday morning but he never preached to me and when one day cancer as it will from time to time said to him i want your body it’s mine now it seemed as if he was fighting it and yielding to it at the same time like a parking ticket it seemed almost as if the illness received the same courtesy that he gave everyone else last week it took up permanent residence and I’ll miss him like summer Go back to A.J. 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