SITTING BY THE BAY

Greetings Hairballers,

It’s Memorial Day weekend, the official start of summer, unless you count the solstice, which I do.  In an attempt to commune with nature (a place to which I am allergic), I walked over to the waterside of my complex to sit by Tampa Bay.  I’m inside now with the air conditioning blasting and the Yankees winning on TV--back in my comfort zone., it's 90 degrees.

Here’s my experience:

SITTING BY THE BAY©

         FMHorner

A pelican lands on the pilings

looking bored as he

stares over the water

a woman comes by

with a yappy little dog

straining at the leash

the pelican takes flight

the dog keeps yapping

as they move on

a blue jay replaces the pelican

calling out to his mate

who is off foraging

then a fisherman appears

with pole, tackle box, bucket

and battery radio

I hear the strains of

honky-tonk laments

the blue jay retreats

so do I

nature is

very noisy

Hairballs,

f

OMG OF THE WEEK

Marco Rubio is running for president and doesn't believe in climate change.

Will his campaign slogan be--"SMOKE STACKS ARE US?"

Coughing up hairballs,

f

Off Rt. 19 in North County

Greetings Hairballers,

Seems I’ll be moving, yet again, in December when my lease is up.  This place is getting weird and expensive--not a good combination.

I’ve been in Florida almost 13 years, not counting a year back in DC because I was homesick.  The first ten were spent in the suburbs.  No, not the charming little towns like Dunedin and Tarpon Springs in Florida or Chevy Case and Bethesda around DC, the burbs. The main drag out there was Rt. 19, a cross between the Jersey Turnpike and Rockville Pike, populated by car dealerships, pawn shops, auto body works, chain restaurants, etc.--no trees or grass.  There were miles of housing developments, where the homeowners associations kept everything same, same, same.  If someone came home drunk, they probably had to sleep in their car because they couldn’t identify their house. 

I like being in the woods, at the beach or in town.  I’m a square peg anyway but especially in the burbs with all the school buses and Wal-Marts.

Here’s my take on it--

Off Rt. 19 in North County©

         FMHorner

Roots never grew in

the shifting sands of that polyester paradise,

where all was illusion.

A façade that lured the speedo-wearing tourists,

seeking sun and sand,

but who never saw beyond their beach hotels or Spanish moss.

What allure the plastic palm adorning the Jiffy Lube,

or the cardboard Elvis by the entrance to the bingo parlor

in a shabby strip mall next door?

The tropical beauty stayed hidden behind the walls

of gated communities and private estates with signs

that read:  Private--Do Not Enter Here

Hairballs,

f

DUMB BASTARD AWARD April 2014

Greetings Hairballers,

I’m late on this.  There has been so much awfulness in April that I’ve had trouble picking a winner without being preachy.

The award goes to:  Mayor Rob Ford of Toronto and anyone who votes him back into office.

Ford has taken a leave of absence to deal with his alcohol and cocaine addictions yet he is still running for re-election!

Are you going to put this cartoon character back in office Toronto?  No, you can’t have Yosemite Sam, he’s already a member of the U.S. House of Representatives.

Hairballs varmints!

f 

Goodbye Mike Kelly

Greetings Hairballers,

No warm fuzzies today.

Afghanistan has taken center stage in the news again, which is extraordinary given the state of things.

Here is something I wrote in April 2003, when a friend and former colleague was killed--that’s eleven years ago, when it was Bush’s war. 

Goodbye Mike Kelly©

         FMHorner

At the office, your desk

was littered with papers and toys,

crime scene tape draped around the edge.

When our group gathered at the “club,”

you regaled us with stories

while making calls on other’s cell phones.

A wise and talented man,

you wore the mask of a middle schooler

just to throw people off guard.

Truth and harsh opinions

were your stock in trade,

and even when I disagreed, I liked you.

What a funny man you were

always something to make us laugh

and keep us sane.

You made a choice,

you asked to go

it was your duty to record,

and now you’ve gone

and died on us

out there in a ditch in the desert--

no more laughter,

just silence

and it breaks our hearts

Hairballs are not enough.

f

The Manager

Greetings Hairballers,

Today we have a short story by our guest blogger, George Gracie.  Hope you enjoy.

The Manager©

On the day before she was fired, Stunada stood and surveyed her domain, marveling again at her good fortune.  Corner office with a water view--yes.  She wobbled slightly on her 5 inch red high heels (those shoes said it all) while holding the doorjamb to steady herself.  Yes, this was her job--the manager.  Wiggling her way into the promotion had been worth it and, perhaps, he’d actually leave his wife.  Then, she wouldn’t have to work at all.  Even she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

        

He hadn’t told her of his transfer to California.  What was with that?  Maybe giving her this job was his way of taking care of her before he left.  She’d be great in California, though.  Stunada was young, shapely and trendy.  A California kind of gal.

        

She was bothered that he barely acknowledged her at his sendoff party last night.  Of course, his wife was there wearing her proper little suit and patent leather pumps--hardly a head turner.

        

Whatever, she thought.  She could always find someone else.  She didn’t need him any more.

        

Right now, she had this divine job unlike her cousin, Carol, with her big deal law degree.  While Carol slaved away every night with her legal stuff, Stunada was visiting the bars she recommended on the apartment website.  Everything for her was on the house and she was a celebrity, welcomed with open arms.

        

There wasn’t a lot of heavy lifting to do.  The maintenance guys fixed anything that broke or replaced it.  The rental agents dealt with the tenants.  God, those tenants, they always wanted something.  What a bunch of losers.  Wasn’t it enough that she posted on Facebook when it was going to rain and just yesterday, she had a whole spread on National Sticky Bun Day?  Plus, she got them discounts at her favorite bars.

        

Then there was that bitch in the other building, who said it was against the law to give out people’s personal information when she posted birthdays. Stunada showed her, she started posting only first names with the birthdays so no one would know who it was.  She also changed the Facebook page so the bitch couldn’t comment. Stunada wanted only likes and praise.

        

She left the office and walked over to the sinkhole by the pool thinking the maintenance guys ought to fill it up with dirt or something. It was lunchtime by now so that thought would have to wait ‘till later if it resurfaced at all.

        

People were moving out like it was a hotel.  No biggie.  The investment company didn’t want people to stay.  They made more money renting vacant apartments where they could double the rent.  Besides, the young and with-it tenants tended to move on and they were the sort the complex wanted.

        

She sat for a while in her office pulling a strand of hair across her face, wondering whether to add blue streaks to the fuchsia ones.  She then shut off her computer and left for the day.

        

Little did Stunada know that in less than 12 hours, she would be packing up her ruby slippers, blue streaks or not, and moving back in with her parents.  The new female vice president, who replaced her former benefactor, had other ideas.

George Gracie