Ordered My Jimmy Towel

Not only is this a great idea, but it is the brainstorm of a couple SLO Leadership Grads. Way to go guys.
Jimmy Towel

It's Friday (A work of fiction)

It’s Friday.

 

Mark likes wine. He sits on the shady corner of the patio talking to a minimal audience about his “script”. It is a piece “reflecting the interminable chasm of pandemonium in today’s digital world. Yet, it all makes complete sense, you know! There is order in the milieu. But that is also the peril!”.

 

Liz stares back at him, “It’s called The Matrix. Hello!” She adjusts her semi-transparent white blouse and looks around for another conversation to join but settles on the music, a specific Euro beat reflecting the walls of grey and green. She thinks Tom Waits’ music would be out of place here. M83 is a much better fit. Too bad, she laments.

 

And then there’s Sabrina, solitary at the central bar pretending to know her wine. Her intemperance, bright red lipstick, and haughty perfume hints of industry rookie and matches the green walls better than her charisma.

 

Leaning up against a post, palming a white wine glass to warm it a bit, Michael’s round specs reflect the light coming through the roll-up garage style doors. He’s wearing that black beret again making him look more clownish than Samuel L. Jackson, although his reference to Terret Noir catches a few nods from his group(ies). Michael is no clown with blending, or so it is told.

 

Being Friday, Kelly is in control of the bar and hooks me up with a perfect pour of Spanish rosé. She winks and lets the remnants of the bottle drip into my glass. I’m going to miss her if she ever ascends her way up the industry chain and lands in Napa or, more to her style, France. Besides her beauty, ambition is her best asset, as is the black tshirt/uniform.

 

Jake and Cynthia are rather loud assholes, being well read up on existential crap. They are appropriately absurd and talk in circles of intense nothingness. Though, it is amusing to note their cats are named Nietzsche and Sartre. They drink beer in a wine bar. Go figure.

 

Andrea is preposterously stunning, dressed as an affluent Santa Barbara woman just off a chic horse outing. She pulls her blonde hair off her shoulders and hugs Michael, hinting toward some deeper level as she inquires about a private dinner served family-style in a newly renovated barn.

 

Tai is an engineer and silently knows more about wine than most of the industry. He smiles naturally as he eavesdrops on the conversation next to him at the stainless steel bar.

 

Look at these people. Watch all these crazy, driven jesters with their aptitudes and criticisms and philosophies and inhibitions and crap. Who am I to judge or criticize? I’m not much different with these rosé glass goggles on, uploading balderdash into a smart phone like I’m important enough to be busy in an actual social setting. The reality is, as I shift on this bar stool all satisfied and happy and in my own state of veracity, I’m not any different. Maybe Jake and Cynthia are on to something. We’re just a group of troubled, disheartened, driven oenophiles finding ourselves in this wine bar for the same reason. It’s Friday.

From Where She Comes

Nearly two months ago my daughter and I submitted poems to the local paper for their Poetry Month competition (From Soul to Paper). My submission was not selected this year (though I have placed it here). Mallory's was published. I am so proud of her.

Where I am From

Mallory Jaeger, 14, Atascadero

I am from marketers,
from dead winters and dry summers.
I am from grandma’s green beans
(buttered and sprinkled with breadcrumbs)
I am from the birds chirping, the dogs barking, whose voice echoes
throughout the neighborhood, bouncing off of garage doors.
I’m from possums and wine,
from Cuba and Germany.
I’m from the “leave me alones” and the “you don’t understands,”
from earthquakes and droughts.
I’m from the In-N-Out Burger
with the smell still lingering, attached to my tongue.
I’m from charm bracelets and notebooks,
classic rock and Jason Mraz.
From my father’s famous hand flip,
my mother’s fingers tapping a keyboard.
In the back cottage is a bookcase,
filled with notebooks and old memories to reminisce everyday.
I am from those journals —
wrote into my life —
I am the last entry.

Read more here: http://www.sanluisobispo.com/2013/04/26/2485885/from-soul-to-paper-a-celebration.html#storylink=cpy

Silence

Quietness echoes in soft morning light,
Showing the coming day with stoic poise.
Appearing cautiously not to excite,
This time is not about clamor and noise.

Silence is water and hope and routine,
The practiced calm of one's personal space.
Stillness is self-sought solitude. Serene.
A landscape and comfortable sense of place.

At an unpretentious level, one asks,
Might I ought to be getting on with it?
Successful men's days are raucous with tasks.
Captured noise is defiantly earsplit.

True silence is found in the ability,
Of claiming elusive tranquility.

Mondegreen

I learned a new word today. It is a noun: "Mondegreen". It means a word or a phrase resulting from mishearing another word or phrase. Specifically, I put this with lyrics. For example, I've always loved the rock band, The Who. One of my favorite songs is about a doorman named Milo ... "Let Milo Open the Door".

 

Now there is a term for it. Mondegreen. Here are a couple of other Mondegreens of note:

• The Police still sing, "A year has passed since I broke my nose."
• The Beatles wrote, "The girl with colitis goes by."
• CCR sings, "There's a bathroom on the right" instead of "There's a bad moon on the rise."

 

What are your Mondegreens?

Apples and Oranges

Often I find myself using the "Apples and Oranges" quote in explaining the differences in things. The idea is that you can't campare the two.

 

But why the hell not? Both are round. They are edible fruit. They both grow on trees. And, when necessary, they make great things to throw at argumentative people.

The Heart During Winter

In Winter, the heart holds reflection,
Knowing the solitude of self-determination.
It looks for echoes and significance,
In the exchange of a familiar hand.

Yet, wintertime draws one inward.
Beckoning firelight warms a hope within.
The winter heart lies snug inside,
Revisiting a day’s sunny ski slope.

Now is the time to discover meaning.
Defying control. Fostering consciousness.
Lifting viewpoints. Raising awareness.
Assessing plans for the future.

The heart in winter longs for rebirth,
To peer through the dark for a reason,
To ask and question. The Why.
To seek out a coming season's identity.