Author, Computer Scientist, Musician, and Photographer
A winter finch appears,
Upon my windowsill,
In the soft July light,
Trilling tunes, so bright.
A winter finch, so spry,
Skipping a sprightly jig,
Such joy it brings to life,
To witness its cheerfulness.
A winter finch, adorned,
In plumage warm and rich,
Roasted almond feathers,
With hints of milk chocolate.
A winter finch, beloved,
Mum welcomed in her hedge,
Perhaps her spirit visits,
Perched upon my ledge.
I know some people have juicy secrets, but mine are more like pulp or a dry wine—an acquired taste. I try my best to be an open book because, well, I like books. Seriously though, my honesty isn’t always appreciated. But that’s fine because I don’t always appreciate other people’s dishonesty either. And don’t get me started on white lies—those are like gateway lies. Before you know it, you’re dealing with black lies, chartreuse lies, elephant’s breath lies, and even drunk-tank pink lies.
First off, a black lie is like a white lie’s evil twin. It’s when you’re lying to deliberately hurt someone’s feelings. So, what the Dickens is a chartreuse lie? Well, it sounds like something out of a Charles Dickens novel, but it’s actually when you say, “Sure, truce,” and then sneak in a win. Very sneaky.
Now, addressing the elephant in the room—or should I say, dressing the elephant: What exactly is an elephant’s breath lie? Well, “elephant’s breath” is an actual color, named by dressmakers in the 19th century. So, an elephant’s breath lie is when a dressmaker says you look good in a dress but mutters under their breath, “For an elephant.”
And a drunk-tank pink lie? That’s what happens when you’ve sampled one too many dry wines, made a fool of yourself like some character out of a Dickens novel, and ended up in the drunk tank at the police department. The next day, you tell everyone you only had one drink, and they’re all tickled pink.
A while back, I worked in the paint department of a home improvement store. One day, an elderly lady asked if we had cardinal red paint for her birdhouse. I told her we didn’t have anything specifically named that but showed her a paint that perfectly matched the color. I even held up a picture of a cardinal to compare. She wasn’t convinced and kept arguing that it wasn’t called “cardinal red.” Eventually, in frustration, she decided to go to Hobby Lobby instead. She was so angry; it wouldn’t have surprised me if she got into it with her husband later when she went home. I bet if he gave her any lip, he ended up sleeping in said birdhouse, whether it ended up painted cardinal red or not. Looking back, maybe I should have just told a cardinal red lie and changed the label. It could have been my little pulpy secret.
I find it humorous when people say, “He’s not a happy camper.” Honestly, what camper is ever happy? First off, you spend an inordinate amount of time becoming best friends with the local mosquitoes and ticks. Forget about insect repellent—it’s more like insect perfume. Instead of repelling them, it attracts them even more. Believe me, the last thing you want is a bug finding you irresistible. Next thing you know, they’re nibbling on your ear and neck like they’re at a gourmet buffet. And along comes a spider to ask, “Who’s your daddy longlegs?”
Then there’s the wildlife. Lions, tigers, and bears—oh my! Okay, maybe not tigers, unless one has escaped from a traveling circus or a box of Frosted Flakes. Let’s be real, you’re more likely to encounter the latter. There are millions of Frosted Flakes boxes out there, and Tony the Tiger is just waiting for his chance to escape. To be on the safe side, you might want to stick with Cheerios—at least the worst the Cheerios bee will do is call you “honey.”
As for lions, you’d think you’re safe unless you’re camping in the Serengeti. But with today’s technology, who knows? Maybe some tech-savvy lion has booked an Airbnb in your campground. Imagine waking up to a lion lounging on your picnic table, looking at you like you’re the room service breakfast.
Even with tigers and lions off the checklist, you still have to worry about bears. And I’m not talking about Yogi Bear, Paddington Bear, or Winnie the Pooh. Real bears don’t wear clothes, but they do have a penchant for honey and picnic baskets. You know what else they probably like? Frosted Flakes.
It’s definitely hard to be a happy camper if you were just that—a trailer camper. Imagine trying to feel happy, or anything at all, without any emotions. Unless, of course, we’re in a Pixar movie like “Cars,” where even trailers have personalities. But we’re not. I’m not trying to be campy, but maybe we should all strive to be happier campers.
What do you call a magician who is sick? An ill-usionist. If a great magician is feeling under the weather, shouldn’t he be able to levitate above it? But if he truly had magical powers, he’d make the common cold disappear. Until then, he’ll just have to use that ridiculously long handkerchief from his sleeve to blow his nose.
Hopefully, it’s just a cold and not a fever. He should probably check his temperature with his magic wand. I can almost hear him now, sniffling, “And for my next trick, I will be sawing my assistant in half… but first, abracadabra. Does anyone have any aspirin? I’ve got a splitting headache. Alakazam. Or some Alka-Seltzer Plus? What? Did I forget to say the magic words? Alright then. Pretty please?”
Maybe instead of pulling a rabbit out of his hat, he can pull out a bowl of chicken noodle soup. I know magic is mainly smoke and mirrors, but all that smoke can’t be good for congestion. He should try using a Vick’s Vaporizer instead. I feel bad for the audience member he’s going to call on stage because they are probably going to catch whatever he has too. “Pick a card, any card. Okay. Good. Now give me a card, any card of a physician because I’m really sick.”
Between illusions, he starts to reminisce about his mentor, the great Houdini. “You know,” he says, pausing to sneeze, “Houdini could escape from any locked container. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to escape from this flu.”
In an attempt to redeem his act, he tries to make a bouquet of flowers appear in his assistant’s hand. With a grand flourish, he waves his wand, but instead of flowers, his assistant just starts sneezing uncontrollably. “Bless you,” he mutters, fumbling with his handkerchief again.
The grand finale is meant to be spectacular. He gathers all his energy, waves his wand, and with a loud “Hocus Pocus!” tries to produce a dove. Instead, a pigeon appears, looking equally as miserable as the magician. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says with a weak smile, “I present to you… the common cold. You’ve been a great audience this evening. Come back and see me when I’m better. Don’t forget to tip your waitstaff and wash your hands. Goodnight!”
As he shuffles off the stage, he mutters to himself, “Next time, I should probably conjure up some chicken noodle soup before the show. Or maybe just a good doctor. Now, where did I leave that magic wand-thermometer?”
I scream, you scream, we all scream for… The Boogeyman. Everybody knows The Boogeyman lives under your bed, but can anyone tell me what he looks like? I mean, is he supposed to look like a mummy wrapped in ancient bandages or some kind of flashback disco Casanova with bell bottoms and a medallion? And speaking of mummies, do you think there’s a Boogeylady too? What does she look like—just like The Boogeyman but with a bit of eyeliner and lipstick?
Next thing you know, I’ll have a whole boogey family living under my bed. Now that’s a scary thought. I don’t have room for them; I already have a whole colony of dust bunnies squatting down there. They’re like the uninvited guests who overstay their welcome, multiplying faster than rabbits. I wouldn’t mind that so much if they could do any other mathematical calculations like statistically predicting the winning lottery numbers, so I could, you know, afford a maid.
And where there are dust bunnies, dust coyotes can’t be far behind. Dust coyotes are like regular coyotes, only they make you sneeze uncontrollably. Just imagine me, already terrified out of my wits by The Boogeyman, now dealing with the spooky, sneeze-inducing howls of dust coyotes. It’s a wonder I get any sleep at all.
The only way to get rid of dust bunnies is with a Dirt Devil. I mean, how sinister does that sound? Dirt Devil. It’s like a vacuum cleaner possessed by dark forces. I’d hate to have to call an exorcist for my vacuum cleaner. Just imagine that conversation: “Hello, yes, I need a priest. My vacuum cleaner is possessed.” It’s starting to sound like the premise for a Stephen King novel. Maybe I should just get rid of my bed entirely. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about The Boogeyman, dust bunnies, or demonic household appliances.
But then, where would The Boogeyman go? Maybe he’d relocate to my closet, hiding among my clothes and shoes. Or worse, he’d take up residence in the attic, joining forces with the phantom creaks and groans that already haunt the place. Perhaps he and the dust coyotes would form an unholy alliance, plotting their next move to scare me senseless.
In the end, it’s a no-win situation. Whether it’s under the bed, in the closet, or up in the attic, there’s always something spooky lurking in the shadows. So, I guess I’ll just keep my bed, and my Dirt Devil, and try to make peace with the fact that my home is a haven for boogeymen, dust bunnies, and all manner of imaginary (I hope) creatures. At least it makes for an interesting bedtime story.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and my mouth is so dry that I would swear I ate a desert instead of dessert. It feels like my tongue has transformed into the Sahara, with a camel caravan led by a sheik desperately seeking “Midnight at the Oasis.” I’m not sure which sheik, but honestly, any sheik will do in this predicament.
Unfortunately for our nameless sheik, every oasis he thinks he sees turns out to be just a mirage of the band that sings “Champagne Supernova.” You know, if I were that sheik, I’d definitely prefer a mimosa supernova—more refreshing, minus the champagne. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about being “caught beneath the landslide,” but rather just caught in a sandstorm, which frankly, isn’t much better.
Now, how do you end up with a sandstorm in your mouth while you’re sleeping? If I had to hazard a guess, I’d blame the Sandman. But what’s his deal? Is he moonlighting as a desert tour guide now? I mean, if he’s going to be putting sand in my yap while I’m sleeping, I’d much prefer it be from a tropical beach, not a barren desert.
Perhaps this is all an elaborate revenge plot by my taste buds for that time I tried wasabi-flavored ice cream. Or maybe it’s a sign that I really should stop eating ice cream sandwiches before bed. Those deliciously deceptive treats lull you into a false sense of security, whispering sweet nothings about creamy goodness and then, bam! Desert mouth strikes at 3 a.m., leaving you to stagger to the kitchen, desperately gulping water like a castaway who just discovered a hidden spring.
It’s almost like a nightly adventure, minus the fun. I guess if there’s one thing to take away from all this, it’s that hydration is key, and the Sandman has a twisted sense of humor. Either that, or I need to start dreaming of waterfalls and rain showers instead of desert landscapes and wandering sheiks.
There’s an old wood bridge where we’ve yet to set foot,
Beyond it lies a path, by time’s gentle hand put.
Would you want to travel it with me, if you could?
Together we’d uncover wonders, in every glen and wood.
There’s a hidden river we have never waded,
Its waters sing a song in a sun-dappled glade.
Would you cross that pristine stream with me today?
Hand in hand, we’ll dance where the currents sway.
We come upon meadows where berries wait to be eaten,
Their sweetness, a taste of paradise like Eden.
Would you indulge with me in this enchanted place?
Under skies that blush with the sun’s warm embrace.
Gazing upon blossomed mountains we have yet to climb,
Each peak a story, waiting for its time.
Would you write it with me in a serene rhyme?
In verses as timeless as the mountain’s prime.
I wish I could give you the rings of Saturn,
A cosmic gift to adorn your hand.
For your wrist, a Milky Way bracelet,
Bathed in starlight, its shimmer grand.
A pair of earrings as flashy as comets,
Dancing around distant planets.
A necklace of nebulae to grace your nape,
Swirling colors that enchant the heavens.
In the quiet of the morning, whispers of dawn break free,
Broken waves shatter the shore from a roaring sea.
A lone gull’s cry echoes through the misty air,
As I stand here lonesome, misty-eyed without you near.
Beneath the weeping willow, shadows softly dance,
While drops of dew from leaves drum a gentle cadence.
The world awakens slowly, wrapped in nature’s song,
Each petal unfurling as daylight grows strong.
The day is fresh and new, yet I’m still without you,
Though the sun shines brightly, my heart feels the dew.
You weren’t Mother Nature, but you were mother to me,
In your embrace, I found solace, safe as can be.
I still hear you singing lullabies like wind through the trees,
Your voice a gentle melody carried by the breeze.
Entwined in every dawning sunrise, I sense your love’s reprise,
A tender reminder that your spirit never dies.
I waste a ridiculous amount of time worrying about grammar. It’s not like I’m going to win a Grammy for it. This got me thinking: what kind of prize do you get for winning the Scripps National Spelling Bee? A lifetime supply of Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm? That would make sense, considering your lips would probably get pretty dry trying to spell words like “hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia,” the second-longest word in the dictionary, which ironically means a fear of long words. I don’t even know how to pronounce it, let alone spell it. Honestly, I would’ve assumed it means the fear of going to the optometrist if you’re a hippopotamus.
If you were a hippo afraid of opticians, you probably wouldn’t want anyone to know. So, if someone starts questioning why you’re anxious outside of LensCrafters, you could just tell them to mind their beeswax—which, luckily, you just got a lifetime supply of from a spelling bee. It’s unfortunate because I feel like if more hippos had glasses, they would stop confusing marbles for food when playing Hungry Hungry Hippos.
As much as I fret over my grammar, a lifetime supply of Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm isn’t enough to make me want to learn how to spell “hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.” The only way I’d probably ever spell it is if it were on an eye chart in an optometrist’s office. Now I’m starting to wonder if I have that phobia too—not the fear of long words, but of optometrists. And wait, what did I just swallow? Was it a marble?
