Sharing the World with the Undead

Today’s haiku:

Expiration date
Call it “Best by” but in truth –
At some point it’s done.

Jocelyn Turner

In food and in life — it’s important to recognize that, whether you call it “Best by” or Expiration date,” everything in the universe will end, including the universe itself. And printed dates cannot always be trusted. “Best by” can be especially tricky. How funky does a chip have to be before the bag deserves to be trashed?

Why does this matter? Because expired means expired, and even “best by” bags eventually move beyond funky to become growth media for alien and other lifeforms. Edible time can only be stretched so far.

From “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension:”

• Lord John Whorfin: Curse-a you, Banzai! Don’t you realize what-a you saying? You’re whole planet’s a-gonna be destroyed and you sit here wasting-a time?
• Buckaroo Banzai: Time? I got nothing BUT time.

Ummm… No, Buckaroo. You don’t. And on a less galactic scale, the cream cheese with fuzzy green spots has run out of time, too.

Suggestion for today: Most people automatically chuck green cream cheese. But some of us pull out the leftover soup and think, “Hmm, it’s pretty old.” Then we put the pot back in the fridge, planning to decide later if it’s TOO old. That’s pure 8th dimensional silliness: The soup you don’t want on Tuesday, you definitely won’t want on Wednesday.

LET IT GO — a good philosophy for old soup and lots of other life dramas.

Zombie phrase for the day: If he wasn’t a good guy before he became a zombie, he’s definitely not a good guy now.

Ihhhhvvveee wuhhhzzznnnuh guhhhh gahhhh ahhhorr eegaym uh dahmbee, eezz dehhlee dahd uh guhhhh gahhhh dowuh.

Sigh. If we are looking for an operational definition of entitlement… Those coughing people who anonymously plunk themselves down, face uncovered, in the midst of crowds provide a perfect definition.

My plea for today: All you coughing people (who do not suffer from a chronic medical condition that causes your cough) — STAY HOME! Or at least put on a mask. Masks are everywhere today. You might say, “I’m not sick.” But don’t leave that unexplained cough out there to be a mystery.

I cough a lot myself — allergies, annoying postnasal drips, reflux, etc. But lately I am trying to reassure the audience. Saying “allergies” or “asthma” helps people relax.

And if you think you might be sick? Stay home, PLEASE. The world’s become sadly much scarier than it was before 2020.

I tried my hardest

Inside a little slivver

Of too tiny time.

Zombie phrase of the day: Time is a Godzilla. Diyyybb ihhzzzz uhhhhggggzilllahh.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
To-do lists are written expressions of good intentions.
Therefore it follows that:
The road to hell is paved — or at least ornamented — with to-do lists.

Jocelyn Turner

I’m thinking of putting the lists down.

Except for the good ones, of course. The below was worth my time and maybe worth a reader’s time. Check your spoons. Make mobiles (watercolors, clay pots, blueberry scones… whatever) while avoiding the news. This list also covers one of the few justifications for to-do lists: tracking websites and other references that might accidentally be washed away by time without some physical reminder.*

But the list that says “return sink strainer, buy beach towels, find blue shoes?” Do you want to waste minutes staring at screens of Amazon strainers, rummaging through closets, or wandering plumbing aisles? Wouldn’t you rather bake cookies? I have found that when I don’t sit down to make a list, somehow the critical items happen anyway, and I don’t end up with superfluous, turtle-covered beach towels. More importantly, when I do sit down to make the list, I often run out of time to make cookies.

*A last thought: Yes, you can put lists into your phone, even repeating lists with alerts. Personally, I find it too easy to ignore my phone’s good intentions. I strongly recommend journals instead. To paraphrase J.R.R. Tolkien, “You must understand, young Hobbit, it takes a long time to say anything in a paper journal. And its best never to say anything unless it is worth taking a long time to say.”

Zombie phrase of the day: I like to listen to Stephen King novels. Ahhhhhh luhhhggg auhhh ihhhhdehhn duhh deebehn gingg dahhhbuhlz.

Starbucks has had a quiet win that hasn’t gotten much notice in the press. The “pup cup” is a small, 2 ounce cup of pure whip cream, its size varying a bit depending on how the barista adds that white peak on top. Pup cups are free.

For anyone who is wondering why Starbucks would hand out free whip cream, I’ll offer my own explanation. I view the pup cup as a stellar move on the part of sales and marketing execs. It’s perfect for knocking a tired woman off the fence.

Lets look at a scenario:

Lady puppy and I are driving back from our walk around the lake. We are nearing a Starbucks with a drive-thru. The drive-thru is essential. I don’t want to leave the dog in the car while I go into Starbucks, especially once the weather is warmer. I also want to relax. That lake has built up my biceps and triceps enough; my girl is still learning to heel, and she is not a natural. I’m dog-tired. Even Lady puppy appears to be tired.

I could go straight home. Home has cold brew, coffee, tea, matcha and chocolate. But I am ready for a treat. I could have my cold brew RIGHT NOW and my puppy adores those tiny cups of cream.

Will I drive on and save my $5.00? Lady puppy may be the deciding factor. She will be so happy if I pull into that line. Every time I pass a Starbucks, she adds a silent vote in favor of excessively expensive coffee.

Pup cups are catching on, too. Dunkin handed me one recently and so did McDonalds. I didn’t think to ask. Smiling clerks asked me if my dog would like one, and, uh, duhh! Yes!! I’ll go back to those fine establishments, too.

For readers who frequent drive-thrus and have not stumbled on pup cups — those who aren’t dietary purists, anyway — I suggest the next time you swing into a line, ask the question: “Do you have pup cups?”

Update: Dunkin is now charging a dollar — (!&$!#*$!) — although they give you an 8 ounce cup instead of a 2 ounce cup. I’m not happy about this. Two ounces is a treat. A full 8 ounces of whip cream feels like poor puppy parenting, not to mention a source of possible potty training accidents.

Zombie phrase for the day: Whip cream is probably better for dogs than McNuggets.

Ihhhbbb greebzzz prahhly behhddahhhh bohr dahhh dahhhnn bihgduggguhzzz.

A small play, offering a slice of life in Turnerdom. In this trenche de vie, Shasta and Mommy are sitting on the dead couch. The new puppy has been having fun with the couch, already used as a cat tree by Whiner cat and a launch site by the younger Ginger puppy. The new puppy Lady has been trying to dig into the stuffing, and has been pulling out stuffing along an already broken seam. Towels and sheets have secured the stuffing but this is an ex-couch. To paraphrase Monty Python:

Jocelyn T: I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, my lad. ‘E’s dead, that’s what’s wrong with it!

Albert T: No, no, ‘e’s uh,…he’s resting.

Jocelyn T: Look, matey, I know a dead couch when I see one, and I’m looking at one right now.

Albert T: No no he’s not dead, he’s, he’s restin’! Remarkable couch, the Brown Hulk, idn’it, ay? Beautiful leather!

Mommy is comfortable in her gray, cotton Severus Snape t-shirt with her Target jeans. Shasta, the giant, invisible slug, is settled against mommy, her head on mommy’s knee. Shasta’s brown slug body is covered by an indigo blue and forest green cloak, the colors interwoven into a soft plaid with long, blue fringe at the bottom and a tall indigo collar above a tied, blue-green bow. For Shasta, she is conservatively dressed. Her eyestalks are covered with black goggles attached to the collar of the cloak.

Mommy: OK or perhaps OMG or WTF. ADIH? IDC? SSDD.

Shasta: ADIH? IDC? What do all those letters mean?

Mommy: Another day in…Hades. I don’t care. Same s***, different day.* One of those days, darlin’.

I found the heater was out when I woke up, a bright red panel on its metal body saying, “Stand by” and the more ominous “HELP.” The 24-hour appointment line for Perfect Temperature Control was not working.  Their perfection is in doubt, especially since they sold us the regularly crippled boiler and then the extra “boiler buddy” to fix the boiler’s quirks. But I suppose a name like “Intermittent Temperature Control” would not work for them, accurate or not. I photographed the water puddle and sent the photo on.

Shasta: Not good.

Mommy: Nope. My cyborg boiler appears to have peed on itself in the basement while pleading for help, and that help certainly won’t come free.

Shasta: (Knowingly) Even white knights charge for their services, don’t they?

Mommy: (Smiles) Even white knights have to pay for their groceries and lodgings, sweetheart.

Shasta: And this water puddle is a big problem?

Mommy: Unfortunately, the water’s supposed to be inside the boiler, not out, Shasta. No one will fix that with a quick wave of a wand over the control panel. I see green rectangles with Andrew Jackson’s face on them flying away en masse.

Shasta: Flying to Something Temperature Control.

Mommy: Yes. I do trust those guys. If you could see all those old pipes down there… That radiator system is nightmarish and the Temperature Control people did not put it in. But long ago, they were the first firm that managed to figure it out. Old houses and old hotels. It’s no coincidence, Shasta, that “The Shining” ended with a boiler explosion.

Shasta: (Doubtfully) Umm, mommy…

Mommy: So you want to hear the latest? Lady’s last intermediate training class was this morning. Oops number #2,304 for April. The Acura battery was once again dead as a coffin nail, deader even than the couch. I transferred Lady dog to the Toyota van. Backing out, I hit the garage door somehow, a painful, grinding metal scream. The door had stopped more than a foot below the top of the garage. Yet the garage door is working. Minimal damage to the rack on top of the van, I suspect, but nothing that stands out. And Lady passed Intermediate puppy class. Still, if one worries about threes, this might have been the place to shut down the day’s adventures — park the car and go pick up my book.

Shasta: But you didn’t stop, mommy. You never do.

Mommy: No, I couldn’t, and I think we lucked out. The third misadventure may be behind us.

Shasta: (Nods vigorously) I saw Daddy Albert.

Mommy: Yes, Daddy Albert had a hair appointment with Anatoly at Oscar’s (Intermittent) Hair Salon. I think Anatoly might have been upset that daddy was late. Hair was flying everywhere. Anatoly left poor daddy a hairy mess. He had more hair in his lap than on his head. Fortunately, cat rollers are everywhere in Turnerdom, thanks to Tiger Cat and Lady Dog. I am a master of hair disposal. And with luck, I am free of the Russian Strip Mall Barber! Great Clips would have done better for less than half the money. Hell, I would have done better.

(Shasta giggles.)

Mommy: (Grinning) Scary thought, huh?

Shasta: Oh, mommy, it sounds like a bad day.

Mommy: Yes, and meanwhile, the dragon journal has disappeared. I have walked most of the house. I pulled out drawers. Looked on top of things and inside and under the bed. It’s still missing.*

Shasta: (Supportively) You’ll get there mommy. You will find it.

Mommy: Next year in Jerusalem. (She sighs.) Me and all the other pilgrims looking for our journals.

Shasta: Well, organization is the Empire’s weapon. The Rebellion kind of sucks at it.

Mommy: (Wry smile) True.

Shasta: Mommy, do you think organization itself leads to the dark side?

Mommy: (Nodding agreement.) Good question. Maybe it does. Yet organization has much to recommend it. We can’t always blame weapons malfunctions or large, dangerous reactor leaks, and we can only shoot the intercom so many times.

Shasta: We can try, mommy. We can try.

Mommy is not sure if Shasta means try to organize, or try to keep blaming reactor leaks and weapons malfunctions, but she sets the question of organization aside for the moment.

Mommy: Let’s just watch our show. We can tackle the big questions later.

Shasta and mommy watch “The Player,” a fine, 1992 film that explodes with cameos.

(Our play ends as Shasta settles down for a nap and Mommy goes to heat a pot of delicious homemade chicken noodle soup, thick with sturdy noodles, carrots, celery and big chunks of chicken. Mommy knows that Monday will be eaten by the Aged Fiona, the dead Acura who must be fixed, but Fiona comes later. That car is in its own malignant, battery-sucking time loop, a loop that is not Fiona’s fault. When 180,000 miles you reach, run this good you will not, she thinks, channeling Master Yoda. Mommy stirs the soup.)

*The journal was located hiding in the car eventually.

Radioactive

Monsters attack en masse

Not all rockets win.

My little haiku captures a truth worth remembering. Sometimes the good guys lose. Sometimes identifying the so-called good guys can be tough. Who is inside that rocket? Is Godzilla defending his home? His culture?

That last year teaching, teachers used to look at me. Say something! Their eyes said. But I was done. Crazy is crazy and does not respond to reason. Sometimes the good guys lose.

I feel the same way as I watch politics now. My ballot is in. I retweet to help certain candidates. But if you are waiting for a secret microchip to kill your vaxxed relatives, I have nothing to say to you. You missed a boat somewhere so long ago that I doubt you know what a boat even looks like now.

Still I wonder — what happened to actual thinking? There’s a great scene in the old film “War Games.”

Stephen Falken : But does it make any sense?
General Beringer : Does what make any sense?
Stephen Falken : [points to the screens]  That!
General Beringer : Look, I don’t have time for a conversation right now.
Stephen Falken : [Falken speaks as he approaches]  General, are you prepared to destroy the enemy?
General Beringer : You betcha!
Stephen Falken : Do you think they know that?
General Beringer : I believe we’ve made that clear enough.
Stephen Falken : [face to face]  Then don’t! Tell the President to ride out the attack.
Colonel Joe Conley : Sir, they need a decision.
Stephen Falken : General, do you really believe that the enemy would attack without provocation, using so many missiles, bombers, and subs so that we would have no choice but to totally annihilate them?

What are we to say to people who think their own government is preparing to wipe out millions of its own citizens using mysterious nanotechnology? To wipe them out for doing what the government tells them to do no less. That’s not to say we should buy everything the government says or does. It’s reasonable to have doubts about new science. But…

Damn, there is a lot of crazy out there right now.

Zombie phrase for the day: Elon would be delicious with sriracha sauce. Eeeewahhn ooohhd eee wishshhhuhhs wihd reerahzhaah zahhhzz.

2018: Reflections on Me and Dad, sandwiched between random thoughts, while Dad Explains the Universe in Red, Redder, Reddest Sound Bites

(That’s not Commie Pinko Red, that’s Republican Red. This man was meant to take his guns to rural Montana or Idaho, closing the chained gate behind him.)

Old. So old, my dad. Anti-Trumpers? EVIL. Shoot them? He’s not quite sure yet. Incarcerate them? If they get in Donald’s way, then…  Whatever. Deport them. Bleach them. Let the zombies have them. Dad Limbaugh Hannity’s on, explaining life inside his bubble.

Mom: Quiet. Small words. Short thoughts. Peace and ice cream. Red velvet muffins. Cookie trail crumbling across ancient threadbare carpets. Smile. I’m here. Gloats zip by, forever monologue. White noise world.

Morning. Porch. Bricks hold the door. Nuclear heater blasts silent heat. Solar sun-catcher pilgrims wobble wobble wobble. Radio NOISE. Breadcrumbs. Woodpile. Squirrels, and probably racoons and big, fat Norwegian rats; shred more bread. We don’t waste food here. Seagull. Crows. He holds out his hand. Vitamin C, C, C. The crew of the Good Ship Tacoma House may go deaf from that radio, but no one will get scurvy. Pliers. Why? (Jocelyn: very old dog.com/net/org attempting new tricks) Drip drip drip; dad monologuing endless politics in the dark. I get him more coffee; I wish I could drink that much coffee.

Meanwhile, I think rest, teaching, students, friends, randomness and projects. Endless open lakes, dragons, unknown games and gamesmanship, ice cream (one whole freezer, full), ears, white noise, tinnitus, blah, blah, talking, without even knowing the way, open tired, Priscilla, Samuel, Ben, Shaun, Dan and Mike, Ginger, Jason, Ronnie, boxes, box cutters, way finder, any finding, days, sweats, cotton, stuff so much stuff, panic, pressure, release, freedom, Jon Kabat Zinn, feet, therapy pool, massage, nails, hair, lips,  blankies, mommies, time, time, time, zebras, hoofprints, trackers, zoos, zombies, freedom, bleach, bleach, spray nozzle, dead ants, roaches in boxes, education, permutations, emasculations, desecrations, footwear, bona fides, authenticity, forcefulness, use the Force, Luke, find the tomatillos Luke, faces, races, where will it take us? Darkness, I-5, bears, pain, fix pain. No gain. Time inside out.

Later, lovingly, I will doordash my aging parents the shrimp fried rice they love. Or maybe a sausage omelet with extra gravy on the hashbrowns. I go to check the coffee pot, then cut mom a delicious chunk of Costco chocolate muffin.

Zombie phrase of the day: You can make a brain latte with a blender. Ooohhh gahhh bahhhgg uhhh bain ahhhattay ihh uhhh behhhdehrr.

Only three masks here

A church manifesting faith

I’m not sure in what.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Covid has come and seemingly gone, though it remains to offer an occasional lesson. Here is mine for today: When someone posts on social media to say, “I have Covid, please cheer me up,” the right response is not, “I had it. I still can’t hear or taste although taste is getting a little better. The big problem is I am still foggy and can’t think.”

That’s an ironically non-thinking response or perhaps a narcissistic one. I immediately thought of pregnancy disaster stories. “My sister had to be life-flighted to (Big-City-Here) because she was hemorrhaging so badly. No one thought either one would survive!” is not an appropriate share. Not even with best of intentions. Not until well after the baby is born. Maybe not even then.

Here’s a question to start with before speaking or hitting the send button: What will make my friend/acquaintance feel better right now?

Yes, we all screw up in conversation sometimes, especially when we listen in order to talk, rather than listening so we can learn. But sharing with a kindly purpose in mind, instead of a desire to rack up “likes” or other cybertokens of popularity, can help this one-upmanship from blasting off in a blaze of misplaced self-aggrandizement.

Another starter sentence:

How can I help him/her/them/ze/per/this person?

As we story and journey, sometimes it’s good to just gobblefunk a little with words.

Reader, maybe make a list of words that capture how you feel right now. I’ll start:

I feel like an armadillo (got to get across the road but somehow that sense of urgency is just not there…)

a message in a bottle bobbing down the the time stream

weary pilgrim, tired of lifting my heavy staff

slug giving virtual hugs and advice to overly complicated vertebrates

ent staring up into the rushing waters

astronaut mouse tethered a tiny spaceship staring at billions of stars

magnifying glass watching the sun turn paper below me into a soft shade of brown

cork-stopped jar etched with a fairy whose lantern is waiting for a match

thin voice dissipating in an expanding political void

secret dancer straining to hear the music, making up new lyrics as she goes.