Everything is GO!

How lucky are we?

The tremendously talented Michael Fleming sent us this wonderful illustration on the back of a postcard from England.

Much too precious not to share.

Taste buds in hiding. ;^)

Visit → Tweedlebop! The Art of Michael Fleming

As I type this, the Wife is lying on the bed reading a recipe for roasted beets with her dirty, stinky feet on the pillow I place my head upon every night.

Once upon a time, I was the most popular poet in all of the fourth grade.

It seems I had a gift of which my peers quickly took note.

My rise was swift and loud, soon I was their champion.

My masterpiece was even printed in the local paper.
Why it wasn’t picked up by the nationals is anyone’s guess.

My discovery came out of a simple enough assignment: write a poem.

We had been given five minutes to express ourselves with the written word.
For some this was too little time, for others: a lifetime.
For me, it was just right.

While the other children were writing of “falling leaves” and “waning moons”, I got to the core of what every fourth grader was really thinking… and FEELING.

Mrs. Roberts had us pencil down and one at a time and alphabetically, begin to read.

The poems brought forth not joy nor pathos, no awe nor ridicule.
Each poem created the same effect: silence.
As poem after poem entered the room, one thing became very clear: these poems sucked.

I was, and still am, not much of a public speaker, but that day, that day I was gold.

I read my poem, and there was silence, but it was soon followed by an explosion of sound.
I had both stunned my fellow students, and set them free.

I was their King.

I present that poem for you here, now:

It’s a pain
for it to rain
at a soccer game.

Good stuff, huh?

I was a rock star and super hero.
I could do no wrong.

Soon, EVERYONE was clamoring for more.

And I gave it to them:

It’s a pain
for it to rain
at a baseball game.

Again, they loved me.
It was all chocolate milk and gold stars.

But there was more:

It’s a pain
for it to rain
at a football game.

Shazam.
I was legend.

And then the inevitable happened, I flew too close to the sun:

It’s a pain
for it to rain
at a hockey game.

Some of you may not understand.
For my fellow fourth grade Californians, it was crystal clear.

“How can it rain at a hockey game if the games are indoors?”, they bellowed.
“What’s hockey?”, they cried.
“Jesus H. Fucking Christ, he’s been using the same Goddamn Fucking first two stanzas again and again!!!”, they screamed.

It was all true.

The underlying meaning wasn’t about the future reigning down upon the present.
Nor was it about the journey each child must make from fun and games into obligation and responsibility.

It just rhymed.

Ps. I’m writing this while drunk!