Saturday, April 22, 2017


There was a time I felt ten foot tall, but now I feel ten feet small.

Back then, I had friends and people knew me. We talked, laughed, and shared our thoughts.

I walked with a pep in my step, a smile on my face, and with no concern for the days ahead.

Time had no meaning. Growing older and money were the least of my worries.

I wanted to see the world and I believed the world wanted to see me.

I hurried from place to place and wasted away the days as if they would never end.

It felt good to be young, unconscious of my surroundings, and negligent of my future.

Regret was a misunderstanding, not something to be dwelled upon.

It was good to be young, or so I thought.

Time relentlessly marches forward and as each year passes, I feel smaller.

My friends are fewer now and scarcer amounts know me.

I speak, but my words are not heard.

My pace is slower, I rarely smile, and I worry too much about the days ahead.

Weather and money is all I think about and time presses hard against me.

I have memories of the world, though many of them I have forgotten.

I no longer hurry, and I waste away the days wondering when my life will end.

It feels horrible to be old, conscious of the inevitable, and my fading future.

I am full of reminiscences, but many of them I regret.

Wisdom is on the rode less traveled or in a box of Cracker Jacks

However, it’s great to be old, because I have become a walking, talking genius of the world and humanity.

I can now babble on for hours about all the incredible wonders I have seen; weave an unbelievable tales and imbue them with inconceivable embellishments; and I can make bewildering claims of great achievements, because there is no proof of everything I have accomplished. I have become the master of lies and I will speak them without dispute.

Oh, there will be some who might try to refute my stories, but I will stand firm, using my oldness and wit to counter their Google master.

The information age is upon us and it searches for the truth in everything. Truth is just a fact, absent of personality and character never to be discovered, unless provided by an old person

Spreading the love to Poland, France, and Spain.

Be a colorful elephant this week!


Sunday, March 26, 2017

High School Dog Years

Back in 1971, I was a freshman in high school. One day, while sitting in study hall trying to figure out how I was going to survive the next 4 years and shortly after I heard about dog years for the first time, I cunningly devised a mathematical formula for my high school years. It was an amazing feat, considering how horrible I was at math. I called it High School Dog Years.

Before the phrase, ‘Thinking Outside the Box,’ ever became popular, I was already thinking outside the box – way, way outside the box. 

High School is 4 years, or 48 months, or approximately 365 days x 4. An eternity for a teenager. I gauged 1 month in high school to be equal to 1.5 years or 547.5 days, which at the time seemed about right. Life as a freshman whipped by awfully fast. After 12 months, a freshman would be a confused 18-year-old; after 24 months, a sophomore would be a convoluted 36-year-old; after 36 months, a junior would be a where did the time go 54-year-old, and a graduating senior would be a venerable 72 years young; the approximate age the average person would live according to what one of my teachers told me.

Ingenious eh?

A short time later, my constantly-thinking juvenile mind soon realized there might be a strategic and tactical purpose for this mathematical formula – it could serve as a defensive advantage with girls!!!  

How you ask?

Well, I’ll tell you how.

If I could convince a girl who I was dating for 4 months that in fact we were really dating for 6 years in high school dog years, it might work to counter her reluctance to go beyond just kissing. I heard, “We haven’t been dating long enough,” on many occasions, and thus I needed something to refute such a preposterous statement. Time is of the essence in high school and any wasted time while you are young becomes a life time of regret. My formula could speed up the process.

Unfortunately, despite how clever my formula appeared on paper, it never really worked out as well as I had hoped. I never considered or calculated into the equation how smart girls are and how determined they are to not give up the swag until they decide the time is right.

My sophomore girlfriend didn’t buy it. My 4 junior girlfriends didn’t buy it. But, at the ripe old age of 67 high school dog years, my sexy cheerleader girlfriend with her maple-syrup, brown eyes did think my mathematical formula was cute. I called her my Ferrari. Every old guy needs a sports car. Sadly, my Ferrari was way more than I could handle at my advanced age.

Yes, I was mischievous, conniving, scheming, devious, and creative when I was in high school, but only because of the 144 years I did in a catholic school. I was determined to do whatever it took to get to second base in high school. 

I did slide head first into second base once, and I got slapped hard for my effort. A slap I’ll never forget.

Regret is for those who never dared to realize their dreams. 

Spreading the love to every high school student around the world, ages 14-18; take it slow because time goes by fast.



Saturday, March 18, 2017

Spring Cleaning!

It’s that time of the year again we all hate, . . . sort through the old junk and hope we have the courage to trash it. It’s hard throwing away the things that remind us of the past, but in order to make new memories, it’s a necessary evil.

Let’s get to it!

Spring Cleaning is Fun!

I opened the door and bravely stared into the abyss of forgotten memories and good intentions, otherwise known as ‘the garage of hell’. I dreamed of being on a beach, sipping a refreshing drink, but then . . . reality slapped me in the face. My garage is a mess. Cobwebs, boxes of junk, bags of useless items, and a workbench covered with stuff that shouted, “This is a great idea and we’ll get started on it tomorrow.”

Despite my desire to be somewhere else, I reluctantly entered the garage. I quietly walked toward the wall of boxes on the left. Fearing I might wake the demons that slept inside them, I gently grabbed the smallest box on top, opened it, and timidly peered inside.

“Ahhh! I remember this stuff!”

It was filled old query letters I wrote to publishing agents. I prefer not to read any, and instead I'll toss them in the trash. I opened a bigger box next. It was filled with empty coffee cans of depression and sleepless nights that I bought when I first got married. I saved the cans to remind me how blissful youth felt. I suppose I can finally toss them. 

Look forward, never look back is my new motto.

The big box, labeled ‘angry emotions’; ain’t gonna open that one. No reason to relive why I saved what’s inside. But, the box labeled ‘silly emotions’; now that box I’ll open. It’s filled with empty bottles of rum. Oh, the memories and the stories that this box contains are priceless and worthy of a future memoir to be written. Bah, no one would read it – trash. Box of my old military uniforms. Save.

Time to tackle the garbage bags of junk. A bag of silly idea’s. A bag of not so silly idea’s, but too lazy to do them. A bag of captured monsters that hid under my bed. A bag of T-shirts that people bought me. A bag of pennies to be used as ‘my two cents’. A bag of trivial thoughts. A bag of ridiculous comments. A bag of hare-brained schemes from my youth. A bag of things I never should have said. A bag of acquaintances that I promised to stay in touch with, and last but not least, the bag of things I wanted to do, but never did. Trash, trash, trash!

I can see the shelves now!

Look! My old train set. I wonder if the wife will let me set this up in the spare room. I doubt it. I’ll send it to the grand kids. Rock'em Sock'em Robots! To the grand kids. Old cans of paint. Yuk! Trash. Fishing rods and tackle box; I haven’t fished in ten years. Trash. Commodore-64 computer. Trash. A stack of empty coffee cans; good storage space for something. Save. Golf Clubs, . . . um, I might play again. Save. Spare tire from the 1975 Chevy. Save. BB-gun; definitely save for the evil dog lady. I suppose I should save the 4 ladders, 9 snow shovels, 5 leaf rakes, 7 umbrellas, 200+ brown paper bags, my wife’s 36 pairs of running shoes, 16 extension cords, 12 coolers, 2 broken chairs, 3 artificial Christmas trees, and 14 different sized pipe wrenches, though I do not know why.

This absolutely stays!

As for the junk on the work bench; I have to save that stuff for an idea which just might be the next big thing! 

My work here is done. Next week, Spring-Clean my office, . . . maybe.   

Be a busy blue spider or a lazy green worm this week.

Spreading the Love to Hungary, Poland, Ireland, France, and the Netherlands.



Saturday, March 11, 2017


What an amazing week!

It rained, it was hot, it was cold, and it snowed. I blame Global Confusion instead of Global Warming for the erratic weather. 

I decided not to attend the monthly meeting of Perpetual Procrastinators, but I did attend a garden party/ dinner fund raiser, hosted by the Insignificant and Irrelevant Society. (I was the guest speaker.) I spoke about sarcasm and how to tell and maintain a lie – no one paid any attention to my speech, which is equivalent to clapping at all Insignificant and Irrelevant Society gatherings.

Serious events require serious action

But seriously; why do writers, musicians, singers, dancers, and artist all desire to be taken seriously? I hear that expression a lot. “I want to be taken seriously as a _______.  Is being taken seriously a validation of success and subsequent acceptance into the secret society of serious people? Comedians, clowns, and cable news commentators are never taken seriously, but many of them are extremely successful and accepted as serious people.

Seriously, the last thing I want is to be taken seriously. I am happy-go-lucky. I don’t do serious.

 I write allegorical fantasy novels, philosophically, and even I don’t understand them. I can explain what I wrote, but I don’t recall writing it. I struggle to remember what I ate yesterday and what I did. My world is a constant blur of obscure thoughts.

The world (humanity) is currently waaaaaaaaaaaaay to serious. Safe Zones. Sanctuary Cities. Scandals. Vegan or not to be Vegan. Bad Words. Acceptable Words. Violence. Etc. Etc. Etc. Oy Vey!

Pharmaceutical companies need to start making ‘Chill Pills’ and stop making pills with 7,000 side-effects and only hint at curing what ails you.

Money and Laws are two very big-ticket serious things. If we eliminate them, we would be less serious. Without money and laws, the world would be chaotic. Chaos is never serious.

Seriously, is there a switch that goes off in a person’s head to suddenly force them to be serious.

I think people confuse passion with being serious. You can be passionate about something without being serious. It’s called compromising your perception or position. To many people, and way too often, compromise is considered a bad word, but in order to eradicate serious, compromise is a necessity.

If you hear a word or see an event that makes you seriously angry; compromise by laughing, smiling, or you could even lay down and think about happy-go-lucky thoughts.

However, I am sure glad there are serious people in the world, otherwise we'd all bee buzzing in serious trouble. I seriously mean that.

I seriously need a drink. I seriously need to sleep. I seriously need something else, but seriously, I forgot what it was that I needed.

Spreading the Love to Canada, Germany, Slovakia, Poland, France, and Italy.

Be a compromising purple dove or a giant red otter this week.