Appliance Fallacy

Appliances have never starred well on my favorite gadgets list. Rectangular pieces of unemotional metal don't kindle my embers at all.

So it really messed with my mind when a svelt chick wearing a high voltage impeccable dress, gushed: "I L-O-V-E American appliances."

What's to love about a machine? Cold, impersonal machines? The only time they're even remotely interesting is when they develop little personality quirks.

The ice-maker on my fridge door is a case in point. It develops quirks. Normally, it spits zirconium cubes out perfectly. Until company arrives. Then it malfunctions. Acts as if it's a miser hoarding his frozen water. The moment the guests depart? It spews forth a river of icy shards.

If it doesn't like my choice of friends, it should just say so. Then get on with its job performance. That way when I offer my guests a dry martini, it won't be quite so . . . eh . . . dry.

Speaking of personality quirks, all appliances should come with health care plans. Not a warranty, mind you. Everyone knows warranties are useless. As the watch ticks, exactly 7 minutes after a warranty expires, the appliance gasps and sputters, calls for its priest to perform last rites, and dies.

No. Appliances need a health care plan. One which covers even the terminally ill. That way they wouldn't have to suffer a mechanic's wrench in their gut. It's important to have a bit of dignity in the last years, don't you think?

The cog in the grist mill of this suave chick's statement about loving American appliances, is she's way off base. I hate to pop her balloon but there's no such thing as an American appliance. Hasn't been for years. Not since Walmart encouraged local manufacturers to shop abroad for their parts.

What this snazzy dame L-O-V-E-S is a Made-In-China-Sold-In-America appliance. She should just say so. But then, riveting chicks can get away with a lot of hype.

Bet she'd get along fabulously with my ice-maker. Which would tickle my innards. Cause then, we could get a dry martini chilled to perfection.
Appliance Fallacy © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

David Challenges Goliath

A bunch of gangsters have a stranglehold on our nation. They are ripping away our civil liberties, spying on our bedroom activities, stealing our country's wealth and sending our children to near-certain death. They have nominated Alito for a position on the Supreme Court, so he can further enhance their power-grabbing policies, and only one man, so far, has stood front and center, demanding that this be stopped.

Others have talked about it; said they would give Alito's confirmation a down-vote. But only one man has called for a filibuster.

If Senator John Kerry was in town, I'd race the mile to give him a hug.

Kerry is a brave man who genuinely cares about the well being of our American people. It's comforting to know we have at least one honest man in government who will stride the extra distance to protect our rights and liberties.

For didn't he take giant steps from the Swiss Alps to America, recently, to do just that !!!

All Americans should applaud his actions. That's right. Stand up and cheer.

Or do you have mockery wrapped around your tongue like the Republican mouthpiece, Scott McClellan?

Ever notice that when folks have nothing worthwhile to say they resort to mockery and ridicule? Kinda shows you the caliber of the Bush administration and Republican senators currently in Washington, doesn't it?

Why am I praising Senator Kerry's virtues? Because he had the guts to call for a filibuster to block Alito's confirmation.

Since the Democrats are greatly outnumbered by power-hungry Republicans, Kerry's actions are worth a special accolade. He is David challenging Goliath.

And that takes real courage, folks.

In the same heartbeat, I was appalled by the democrat from Illinois. Senator Barack Obama publicly criticized the filibuster. Darn shame, too. Before his little speech Sunday, I thought he was a promising and noteworthy politician.

Do the Republicans really have the needed 60 votes? Today's tally will determine that issue. As far as I've been able to determine, as of yesterday, they only had 53 in their pocket. Maybe 54.

Of course, my bet is on Senator Kerry and Senator Edward M. Kennedy to magically pull an Easter Bunny out of the senatorial hat. Yeah, yeah. I know Easter is a long ways away, but the Easter miracle needs to occur earlier this year.

Women, minorities and any institution that still believes in the myth of honest government should cross their fingers and six of their toes that Alito's confirmation is blocked.

The reason? Shucks now, it should be plain for all to see. The Supreme Court should be peopled by honorable men and women, not by political gangster's appointees.
David Challenges Goliath © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XVI

Thankfully, life has not demanded memorization from me.

Instead, it has admonished: Think it through. Reach a logical conclusion based on facts, not gossip nor heresay.

Meet and greet people and situations and glean firsthand information, then base your conclusions on what you believe to be true without being unduly influenced by what others tell you is true.

For they may have learned to see all life situations as a Blessing or they may see mostly problems. Notice carefully what they are saying before you place value in their judgement.

When they speak of others, do they refer to another's qualities as: kind, considerate, gracious, loving, good, compassionate, truthful and honest, intelligent, brave, generous and courteous?

Since life is a mirror image, they are seeing qualities of themselves reflected in others.

Do they speak of others in this fashion: mean, dumb, unkind, inconsiderate, hateful, liers, cowardly, stingy, rude, dishonest and arrogant?

These, too, are their own qualities reflected in life's mirror.

Know that as one speaks of another, they are describing themselves.

Know, also, that what you put into your mind is most often what comes out! If you read books describing sordid affairs or watch crime shows or movies depicting the baser elements of life, you will scare yourself into believing that we live in a similar world.

I have a hunch that Thomas Edison, Sally Ride, Bill Gates and other achievers spent little, or no time at all, filling their minds with such negative concepts.

Yes, thankfully, life did not give me a parrot's role, destined to repeat what merely has been memorized, but rather it taught me to listen, analyze, study and choose my sources well.

I am grateful that this is so.
Chae

A Pinch Of Salt

We were eating supper one night when someone spilled the salt.

"Gadzooks! Quick! Throw a pinch over your shoulder."

The culprit tried to comply.

But Great Aunt Mortance leaped and cavorted about in midair. "No! No! Use your right hand. Throw it over your left shoulder."

Would you believe it? There's an art to throwing salt on the floor.

Years of admonitions: Chew with your mouth closed, Hold your fork properly, Don't spill stuff on the floor, were completely undone by Great Aunt Mortance's drama.

"Quick child. Throw that salt on the floor before the Devil sneaks up behind you and brings bad luck."

Who can compete with the Devil? For months there was salt on my floor while the kids merrily kept the Devil at bay. Salt gritted under my feet. Tracked into the livingroom carpet. Holed up in the cracks and crevices waiting to salt my wounds.

What is it with salt, anyways?

So. Ok. It's been around at least as long as the Romans and Greeks for they're the addlepated thimblewits who started this superstitious nonsense of messing up a perfectly clean kitchen floor. They used to throw salt in your coffin, too, but that's not the point.

The Romans and Greeks believed that those little white crystals with the sharp tangy taste were holy, incorruptible, and had the power to chase away the Devil who does not like salt.

Balderdash!

That's as nonsensical as believing that my dog's toenail clippings will chase away cockroaches if I scatter enough of them on the linoleum.

It's a bunch of hooey.

Now, since salt is preordained to spill, I had the perfect opportunity to prove my point a few days later. It was suppertime and the salt up-ended. Truly, quite by accident, I assure you. My elbow knocked it over.

"DON'T TOUCH IT," I shouted as forty right hands prepared to pitch salt on the floor.

More calmly, I continued, "This salt throwing has to stop! It's a silly superstition. And just to prove it, since I'm the one who spilled it, I'm going to defy the Devil and leave it right where it is."

"You'll be sorry," One child said ominously.

A couple of days passed peacefully and I gloated. Used every opportunity to say: "See! All's fine and well. No Devil. No bad luck."

Then, for no reason at all, the fire extinguisher bracket broke. The cannister of flame deterrant dropped to the floor, bounced, arced through the air, landed on my favorite Dresden china figurine, Saint Anthony to be exact, and smashed it to chips and splinters.

Naturally, there were witnesses.

Eighty pairs of eyes, accusing eyes, swiveled in my direction, boldly trying to stare me down. I heard a mutter or two. Devil and salt were hot on the lips of several.

"Pshaw," I said loudly. "It's just a defective bracket. Has nothing, whatsoever, to do with the Devil."

A few days later, I tried again. It was suppertime and the salt spilled. Quite by accident, you know. The shaker sort-a slipped out of my fingers. Left a pile of small white crystals near my plate. "Don't touch that! We're going to lay this salt myth to rest here and now."

"You'll be sorry," one of the children said. It sounded as if he was already measuring the salt for my coffin.

The next day was perfectly peaceful. I gloated. Couldn't help myself. Said: "No Devil. No bad luck."

Then, for absolutely no reason at all, firecrackers stored in a tin in the corner detonated. Blew the lid right off the metal can. Dante's inferno couldn't have been worse than that combustion of sound. Roaring CRACKS. Booming B-A-N-G-S !!!*%&#! Thunderous, cannonading noise. And Saint Elmo's Fire couldn't have competed with the ball of light which sped around the livingroom. Suddenly, all was still.

Of course, there were witnesses. I heard dark and ominous mutterings about the Devil and salt. One bright cherub owlishly voiced his newly-formed opinion that firecrackers were the devil's tools and if I wasn't mighty careful that ole Devil would surely put me in an early grave.

It was a week before I regained the courage to try and prove my point again. I don't need to tell you it was suppertime and there was an accident involving the salt. Bravely, I said, "C'mon kids. It's a superstition. That's all it is. A superstition. Just wait and see."

"You'll be sor-ree . . . ."

"Don't you dare say that," I interrupted. "There is no Devil, superstitions are silly sayings used to scare people, and we are not going to allow our lives to be controlled by fear."

One day crawled by.

Then two. Then three. We tippy-toed around the house expecting the worst. The slightest noise, and we all spooked, cracking our necks as we looked behind us with apprehension for we all suspicioned that daring the devil was risky business.

Those first three days reluctantly gave way to more. One shoelace at a time. A week passed. Finally, a month was nigh and gone.

Nothing unseemly occurred. The last fire extinguisher never dropped; there were no more fireworks.

Still . . . .

I decided it was the better part of valor to remove all salt shakers from the house. Gave every last one of those little white crystals with the sharp tangy taste to my neighbor.

I would have told her, of course, that they were holy and incorruptible but she mentioned that her great grandmother was coming for a visit and I figured that, soon, she'd have enough pinches of the stuff scattered on her floor to chase away the Devil.

After all, salt and superstition is a generational thing.
A Pinch Of Salt © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Pins And Needles

To be downright truthful with you, I can honestly say that my ears don't itch.

They screamed in pain, once, when they were pierced. But they have never . . . itched.

Which is paradoxical. For as many will tell you, I am a newshound who needs my daily fix. What's going on in the world? What's the scoop on Sharon? Is he out of the coma yet? Or still slumbering peacefully, letting the Palestine elections take care of themselves without Israeli input? Speaking of Palestine -- did Hamas gain a foothold or merely wet their toenails in the elections? What's happening on the Alito front?

Yep. I am absolutely eager for news.

But my ears don't itch.

Which brings us to a question. Is the expression: "If your ears itch it means you are anxious for news", a myth or a maxim?

It would be nice to know more about itches. For instance: if that condition affects the palm of the hand, is money truly coming our way? And what about the bottom of the feet? Is it just dirty socks? Or are travel adventures actually slated to occur?

My research on the persistent desire to satisfy the prickling-skin syndrome has merely scratched the surface. But you know what? While I'm scratching around for more information on this fascinating topic, if someone would scratch my back I'd be eternally grateful.

Lower . . . um, lower. Now, over to the right a little bit. No lower.

Ah . . . Yes! That's exactly where it itches.
Pins And Needles © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Ad Slots

It's a chore watching TV. Real finger exercise. How much exercise depends on the type of remote control used. Mine is the old fashioned kind. To change channels, EACH NUMBER has to be PUSHED instead of tapping an instant quick view selector.

TV producers should take that into consideration when they allocate advertisement time slots. I imagine they lose a whole segment of their audience who, trying to avoid bad ads, skip to another channel.

They've lost me a couple of times. Due to digital impairment. It's hard work operating the remote. The buttons are so small that one misplaced finger sends you to a channel in the outer regions of Twilight Zone.

If news shows are your bag, you're in for a world of hurt. Face it, no one can cover world news in the 12 minutes alloted by the major networks. Only major disasters can be squeezed into 720 seconds.

And when they promise extensive coverage? Forget it. The networks are shooting you a line.

Try naming a mere thirty percent of the world's countries in twelve minutes! Even a glib speaker will trip over his tongue. So where does that leave world news coverage?

Which is why the news shows select one or two major events and milk them to death, giving us nightly postdates FOR THE NEXT THREE TO TEN WEEKS. Longer if they can get away with it.

It wouldn't surprize me a bit to tune into: Today's News Coverage, and hear: "Tonight folks, we're devoting the entire news show to a special update on the seedy atmosphere of the Crimson building on Plympton Street in the 1940's.

But I digress. The real issue here is slotting ad placement. Of every thirty minutes, EIGHTEEN are devoted to advertisements — which isn't my real beef. After all, rerunning Katrina every night takes money.

The real stickler is: TV producers think that anyone watching the news is sick. Needs medication.

The evidence is obvious. There are two hundred and sixty-three ads for pharmaceutical products between each three minute news blurb.

( Is this a new plot designed to discourage folks from keeping up with the Bush Administrations daily shenanigans?)

In any event, NBC, CBS and ABC "News" should be renamed. A title more appropriate for the half-hour's actual content. Something like: 216 Diseases You Can Acquire by Subliminal Programming.

Either that or the TV producers should reslot the pharmaceutical ads to shows where viewers need medication. Shows like CSI Miami would do just fine.
Ad Slots © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Wisps Of Mystery

Honey colors of the Arabian Desert entice the eye while nearby pyramids promise mysterious encounters. A camel, stopped momentarily in front of the pyramids, apparently wonders if he will amble over to the oasis a short distance away to quench his thirst. Then stand, perhaps, in the shade provided by palm trees loosely grouped together.

The eye travels further and sees the mystique of what could be the Orient, yet more likely, is a Egyptian town. Domed turrets perch atop sandstone dwellings. Palm trees and narrow obelisks are scattered carelessly about.

There are deep mahogany reds outlined by navy blues; both accent the hot, dry sands.

You won't get a McDonald's hamburger here, but you might find a cigarette. Turkish blend. Good, rich tobacco wrapped in fine white paper. A pleasure to inhale. A moment of savoring. Then, exhaling wispy puffs of smoke.

Ah . . . ! Satisfaction.

That cigarette is a useful tool to calm nerves shattered from stress.

It's a great delaying device when called upon to make an instant decision: "Well, let me light a cig and think about the pros and cons."

It's a wonderful ploy to stop a bully's verbal umbrage. Tamp one end, extend the pack and offer: "Want one?"

Stops the culprit midword, midsentence, either to accept your offer or explain why they don't smoke. A nice, clean, mannerly way to stop a bully's intimidation.

It's a fact that nicotine triggers faster thinking. Not that thinking slowly isn't just as good. It just takes longer to come up with quick answers.

Cigarette smoking, suddenly, is socially unacceptable.

Darn shame, too. Used to be you could pretty much figure out another's character by observing their smoking habits.

At least, it was easier to determine whether the fello with you was a country goober or a gentleman. If he offered to light your cig, it indicated he was a man of gentlemanly habits, would probably offer to open your car door, and more than likely demonstrate consideration in other actions as well.

Now, with the banning of cigarette smoking in public places, how in the world are we going to learn so much, so quickly, about the habitual tendenacies of another's personality?

Guess I'll have to give up the habit since it's socially unacceptable.

Darn shame, too. If I quit smoking, I can't very well carry a pack around with me, huh? Take it out of my pocket occasionally and study the packaging. The Arabian Desert and pyramids on the front, Egyptian cities and golden-domed obelisks on the back.

I'll probably be able to breathe again. But darn it. I sure will miss the allure of that mystique.
Wisps Of Mystery © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XV

The unicycle was shiny and new. It had one wheel, two pedals, a seat and no handlebars.

When I clapped eyes on it, my first thought was: How hard can it be? I knew I'd be pedalling this around the block in the swish of a horse's tail.

However, after several attempts, it occurred to me. Driving a car without an engine would be easier than learning to ride this monstrousity.

Many years later, looking back on the fiasco, I realized there are two requirements needed to master the art of riding a unicycle. Balance and patience. With a bit of determination thrown into the mix.

The key ingrediant, of course, is balance. Don't lean to far to the right. Don't overcompensate and tilt too far left. You can lean forwards, but only a little bit. Don't throw your shoulders into reverse and fall over backwards.

Balance.

We could laugh out loud at this one-wheeled bike. It's a strange contraption.

Yet, as we chuckle merrily doesn't it just hit us in the forehead like the palm of a hand smacking sense into our skulls. Duh. Life is a unicycle.

Guess I'll dig that truncated form of a bicycle out of the closet. It's hidden in there somewhere. Renew my efforts and learn to ride the darn thing. The only thing I need is balance. And patience.

And yes . . . guess it wouldn't hurt to throw a bit of love into the mix.
Chae

Jet Lag

Who's fooling whom here? I mean, coming in the front door when the back one is available is a new strategy for the Bush administration, isn't it?

After all, as has been evidenced lately, clandestine domestic spying, a back door activity, is the modus operandi of this regime.

Knocking on the front door with phony excuses is not their style.

Or is the Google case just a matter of jet lag? It was a year ago when the scenario began to unfold.

It is publicly known that Bush's Bullies have subpoenaed confidential records from companies across the United States. It is equally well known that they forced gag orders on these companies. "If you tell anyone what we are doing here, we will retaliate."

( Label you a terrorist sympathizer, levy fines which will bankrupt your business, put you in jail -- you know, minor consequences like these.)

So the fact that Bush's Bullies actually made up an excuse to requisition the Google database caught my attention.

Can't you just see the plot unfolding? Probably went something like this:

At a Private Conference
One Bully Cohort to Another: "How are we ever going to sell this bill of goods? "

Cohort's Reply: "What about protecting the public from terrorists? That line has been working pretty well for us."

Third Bully Cohort: "Let's not overuse it. If we get into a fix later, the terrorist ploy will work better if it's not shopworn now. The smut angle aught-a work here. Attack the porn law and we'll have the public eating out of our hand. We've fooled them with our smut attacks before and they'll be just as gullible now."

Email Resulting From Private Conference: Bush's Bullies to Google:
"Ah, honestly! fellas, it doesn't matter what the Supreme Court says. They were a bunch of dummies to strike down the porn law. Now, as you know we, over here in the President's Office, are above the law so here's what we're going to do. Google, you give us your database so we can go out there and kill those dirty porn dealers."

Google's Email Replying to Bush's Bullies':
"Yo! There's ethics involved here. Violating the privacy rights of our users is unethical. Unconstitutional, even. Robbing folks of their civil liberties is against our company policy."

Reply from Bush's Bullies:
"Hey, listen up fishbait, we're the kingpins here. There will be dire consequences if you don't comply. Catch our drift?"

Yep! That's just how the plot unfolded, all right. By the time it hit the Press a year later, all was said and done 'cept the shouting.

We gotta give Bush's Bullies some credit, though. For being flexible. Heck, if entering by the front door doesn't work, they'll creep around to the back door and enter there.

It's the screen door that will eventually give them problems. You know, the smoke screen variety. The Bush's Bullies' vaporous smog is already so thick that the gullible public is beginning to question their motives.

It won't be long at all til folks realize: Where there's smoke, there's WMD's.

Oops! Sorry about that. For a minute there smoke got in my eye. That's actually WMAD's. Weapons of Mass American Destruction.
Jet Lag © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Supermarket Mishap

He looked down his long bony nose at me. From where I sat at his feet, he seemed exceptionally tall. His black trousers traveled upwards five hundred yards or so, stopped by a belt buckle sized to fit the bottom of a galvanized bucket. Above the buckle a plaid shirt stretched fifteen hands high. Only a buttoned-down collar could have stopped that shirt from laddering through the roof.

Yes. Viewed from the floor, this man seemed eye-poppingly tall.

And dour, too. His voice rasped like a rawhide strap across my frayed nerves and rapped my knuckles with its imperious tones of authority. "What happened here?"

My fingers gently steadied the tottering stack of green beans before they could roll under the bottom shelf, tenderly patted the large dent in the can of tomatoes and deftly caught the small tin of kippers hurtling from above, laudibly stopping its crash to the floor.

I gazed at the wreck of damaged goods surrounding me then raised my eyes along the length of the man, noticed by his name tag that he was the store manager, and replied meekly: "I don't know."

His arms, several kilometers in length, swung towards me. He must-a been ambidextrous for both of his hands grasped mine as he drew me to my feet.

We stood, side by side, and surveyed a thousand cans of candied yams scattered haphazardly along the aisle. All were dented, smashed, scared, scratched, blistered; some were twisted and kinked.

A crowd assembled to help us look at this unnatural disaster.

That's when a petite brunette remarked: "Oh look! The shelves have caved in. Some heavyweight must have stood on them."

Eyes swiveled in my direction.

At five feet and one-half inch, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, I stoutly maintain that I'm not a corpulent person. My height just hasn't caught up with my weight.

The manager raised an eyebrow.

"Well," I mumbled, "the cart kept moving."

"You rammed the shelves with the cart?" The manager's tone held that note of incredulousness that only the stiff necked can perform with credibility.

"No. I tried to stand in the cart. In order to reach a package of kohlrabi sauce. If you're going to put stuff up there near the ceiling, why don't you supply ladders?

"Because customers don't buy the products which are on the top shelf." The manager gestured smugly at the items lining the top row. They were covered in a layer of dust.

"Of course they don't, you silly goose. They can't reach them."

The petite brunette nodded. "I haven't a clue what's up there."

The crowd started drifting away. No one had a pad and pencil out ready to record their names and opinions, but watching a disaster is far different than getting involved in the aftermath. Melding in with the departing crowd seemed like an excellent opportunity to make my escape.

I stopped at a safe distance away and glanced back. There were a few people still milling about including the manager, of course, who would never need a ladder to snatch kohlrabi sauce from a shelf located in high altitude regions.

I couldn't help but wonder: Why is it when an embarrassing moment occurs, there are always witnesses?

Wouldn't it be nice, when a dozen items plan to tumble into the aisle, if the only decision needed is whether to slink away unnoticed or round up a clerk and complain that this mess, created by someone else, needs immediate attention . . . .
Supermarket Mishap © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Down And Dirty Rules

In her book, Tomorrow Is Now, Eleanor Roosevelt quotes Benjamin Franklin: They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.

We notice when President Bush defended his unlawful authorization of domestic surveillance, he excused his behavior, stating that he was providing the American public safety from terrorists.

At what cost?

Is the cost of giving up our civil liberties, guaranteed by the Fourth Amendment, worth a little temporary safety? Have we become such craven cowards?

Before communism crept into the Soviet Union, the concept of civil liberties was just as murky. The Russians did not have a Fourth Amendment. They did not understand that under communist rules if one brother spoke of dissatisfaction with the government to another, they would be hauled away, literally in the dark of night, by the KGB. Imprisoned indefinately because they were dissenters.

Today, the Bush administration's definition of dissenter is terrorist. Listen up folks, a dissenter is exactly equal to being a terrorist in President Bush's dictionary.

And the parallel in history should terrorize you far more than any illusive terrorist for under the Patriot Act our FBI has the same authority as the KGB to haul you away and hold you indefinately, without trial, in a prison of their choice.

"Ah," you say, " I have nothing to worry about. I am not a terrorist."

That's exactly what Russian citizens said before the communist takeover.

Listen to Al Gore when he states: "The executive branch of our government has been caught eavesdropping on huge numbers of American citizens and has declared that it has the unilateral right to continue without regard to the established law enacted by Congress to prevent such abuses. American liberties have been placed at serious risk.

If you won't listen to Al Gore because he's a Democrat, perhaps you will listen to Benjamin Franklin?

They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.
Down And Dirty Rules © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Apology

There was a helluva big fight last night.

Someone threw a punch in space
And I let it land upon my face.

Another punch the air did spear
I let it land upon my ear.

The wind did whistle as the next fist closed
This swipe landed upon my nose.

An undercut chopped the breeze too high
Managed to blacken my left eye.

Another jab went slightly south
Still the thrust did find my mouth.

I didn't sleep a wink last night
I was too busy overseeing the fight.

As my arm delivered a roundhouse blow
Myself dived in front of it refusing to forego

The pain felt as I beat myself up.

It all stemmed from words I never intended to say
I should have been smart enough to hold them at bay.

But no. On the spur of the moment without a thought
Not of the pain nor distress unintentional words can wrought

I mimicked a habit of someone I love
Must-a thought he'd been kicked by a portsider glove.

I shouldn't have said that, I take it back
He didn't deserve such negative flack.

My only excuse is that I'm still learning
To keep the chickens on the roost without feathers churning

And the tongue's door shut before heartburning
And with that said, I am now adjourning.
Chae

Cough And Sneeze Please

Forky Spoonsbotom stopped by last week. Said he planned to go calooping with his new girlfriend. Asked for some tips as his romance record's stuck in the grooves between failure and dismal failure.

"Well Forky, if you're going courting, dining out is a nice touch."

Forky scratched the stubble on his jaw. "You talkin' about a donkey roast or a mulligan joint?"

A formal banquet seemed more romantic than a mulligan mixer serving up stew, so I replied accordingly. "The donkey roast would serve your purpose better."

Forky snapped the strap of his red suspender against his chest. "Yeah, but that means we'd have to get all tizzed up."

I nodded in agreement. "Getting gussyed up wouldn't hurt your appearance any at all."

"Humph," Forky said. "Most nights I eat tommy brown and snags. Wouldn't know what to order at a highfalutin donkey roast. Bessie probably wouldn't know either.

"Like you say, brown bread and sausages are a fine meal at home, but I'd suggest you start with hors d'oeuvres at the restaurant."

Forky brushed farmer-calloused fingers through blond woolly curls, then tugged on his sideburns. "I don't know. Ordering horse's ovaries and having to get all tizzed up isn't really my style. What if I just take her out to tiffin?"

Brilliant idea. Going out for a simple breakfast cut down the probabilities of mischance. What could go wrong?

We agreed that breakfast at the local cafe would be a romantic way to start a day and Forky left, hands jammed into his trouser pockets, whistling a jaunty rendition of The Lion Sleeps Tonight, relieved now that he had a game plan firmly in place.

Several days passed before Forky shuffled through my screen door, scraped the old wooden chair across the linoleum floor and scrunched down in it at the kitchen table.

When a husky man scrunches, you can pretty well guess things aren't going well for him.

I approached the issue straight out. "How did it go at your breakfast tête-à-tête?"

"Not well." Forky said glumly.

"Oh come on now. It couldn't have been that bad. What happened?"

Forky played with the handle of the coffee cup I'd put in front of him as if organizing his thoughts. "It was a nice morning so we drove over to Williams, the college town about twenty miles from here. Everything was fine til the waiter took our order. That's when the romance ended."

I was genuinely puzzled. "A waiter? Usually bohunk cafes hire waitresses."

"Wasn't no bohunk cafe. Chose the glitz and glamor instead. The Hilton. So the waiter takes her order first and she asks for coffee. Nothing else. Just black coffee."

I nodded. Nothing wrong with that. "What happened next?"

"The waiter took my order."

"And . . . ?"

"Well, dang blast it, I was hungry. Ordered a rasher on a doorstep with cough and sneeze on it. Told him I didn't want none of his fancy tiger just plain doorstep and that I'd have some Munster plums with plenty of cow's grease and a short stack of saddle blankets on the side."

After forty years of friendship, I had no trouble deciphering Forky's order but I could see where the waiter might have been confused.

"So let's see now," I mumbled, "you ordered bacon on a thick slice of bread with cheese, potatoes with plenty of butter and a short stack of pancakes on the side, and you specified you wanted plain bread, not fancy French bread, under the bacon. Simple enough. What happened next?"

"The waiter got all huffy. Said this was a five-star restaurant. That rules and regulations prohibited them from coughing and sneezing near food. That it was unsanitary."

"And . . . ?"

"I told him I didn't want mutter and stutter on my doorstep. All I wanted was cough and sneeze."

"Um hum . . . you didn't want butter, you wanted cheese."

"That's right. Well, this waiter fella's mouth pursed up real small, his cheek developed some kind of a tic and he asked us to leave. Said we were trouble makers."

"So you left?"

"Yeah. Bessie started crying. When we got out to the car she said I'd done that on purpose just to embarrass her and she never wanted to see me again. Guess I should have just ordered coffee, huh?"

"Might have been safer."

Forky and I chewed the fat for awhile, til the sun slanted through the windows at a forty-five degree angle and I figured it was time for lunch.

That's when someone pulled the lightbulb cord and a smarter-than-usual idea blinked on and off in my head.

Slammed my hand down on the table making the coffee cups skitter nervously. "Forky! I've got it!"

He looked at me owlishly as if he wasn't sure he was ready for more of my dating tips. "Yeah . . . ?"

"Let her do the ordering next time. Say you have to make a phone call. Tell her to order while you're gone. That you want a full monty."

"What's a full monty?" Forky asked.

"That's the beauty of it. It means: everything. Tell her that when she asks, then beat a hasty exit."

Last night my phone rang. It was Forky. "OK. So what do I do now?"

"What do you mean, do now?"

"We're at a restaurant and she's ordering the full monty and I'm on the phone like you said. But you never told me what to do next."

Instantly alert, I glanced at the clock. Kept Forky talking long enough for his date to place the order but not long enough to stress her out by his absence. Told him to go enjoy his meal. Assured him: NOTHING COULD GO WRONG."

After we hung up, I thought about this for quite a while: nothing COULD go wrong, could it?
Cough And Sneeze Please © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Ordained

She wore the type of skirt that demanded attention. It was leather. Red. And probably made from the tanned hide of a small rodent or a cow too lazy to extend itself.

Her boots were the next item that caught the eye. They started at the bottom of her feet, crept past her ankles, shot up her calves, climbed over her knees, mounted her thighs and finally stopped just short of . . . ah . . . her skirt.

Her white silk blouse looked normal enough, except for the egg-shaped stain spotting the front an inch below the third button.

Maybe she hoped the leather vest would cover the stain. Or maybe, she was unaware of the mustard-yellow splotch altogether. Still, the vest absorbed more interest than the stain.

Even that is not an accurate statement. It was the fringe attached to the vest which engaged not only the eye but the ear as well. Small bells dangled from each slim strand and the many layers of fringe dangled well below the boot tops. The vest, a waggling cymbal of sound, jingled and jangled with every movement of this lady's spectacular body.

Her attire, an appetizer teasing the palatte with unusual visual delights would not have been replete without her spiked hair-do tinted in lovely shades of pink and lavender.

It's hard to believe I would have failed to notice her in any crowd, but she commanded my full attention now because she blocked the doorway.

Brass gongs striking brass casings echoed the hour of ten, announcing that service would start shortly. The open doors waited for me to enter. But try as I might, I couldn't get past this lady. When I strove to move around her, she stepped in front of me.

It's not quite Christian to shove someone, make them give way and allow you to pass. At least, not on a Sunday morning. On the steps of the neighborhood church.

It was then I noticed her outstretched hand which apparently expected mine to clasp it.

Were her eyes, perhaps, just a tad bit watchful above the smile pasted joyfully upon her lips?

Reluctantly, I extended my hand.

"Good Morning," she said. "Welcome to Orthodox Fellowship Church. I am your new pastor. Please take a seat. Today's service will start as soon as I finish welcoming the rest of the congregation."

As I passed inside, I couldn't help but think: New Pastor? No Way! And what will her sermon cover?

Then, quite spontaneously, my throat filled with laughter and my eyes sparkled with anticipation. If her sermon was a'tall like her outfit, we weren't gonna have to go to hell to hear the devil's red hot amens.
Ordained © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Secret Palaver

I tried not to think about it. I sincerely did.

Strangely, the more I tried not to think about it, the more I found it inside my head.

My brain revolved around it, chewed it to pieces, tossed it in the air, grabbed it back, shook it violently, stamped on it, kicked it around.

In a frenzy, I called everyone I knew trying to change the direction of my thoughts. Tune into their realities. Yet, the minute I cradled the phone, IT popped back into my awareness and the inner argument resumed.

Computor games are marvelous mind-numbing toys. I played endless games. JT's Blocks to be exact. Played til my eyes glazed, my stomach growled, my feet and legs slept, til my fingers cramped. Turned the computor off: Ah! Everything is OK now.

But no. Instantly, THE THOUGHT snuck into consciousness and, instantly, I began again, arguing my case.

Activity inhibits introspection. I walked, hiked, snowshoed, skied, ice-skated, bungy-jumped, saddled up the horse and rode like a demon, outpacing any coherent attempt to analyze until my innards curled up in protest: No More! Please! No more torturous exercise.

Physical exhaustion claimed my body. Sat down in the recliner, for a minute only, and it gripped my psyche. Sprang through the underbrush of capillaries and arteries like a pouncing tiger to claim my attention.

Try not to think about what you are thinking about. I dare you.

If you succeed, tell me, please: how did you accomplish this marathon feat of cerebral mastery?

You can find me sitting here, most days, trying not to think about it . . . .
Secret Palaver © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Power Trip

It's not that I think judges are somber folk who wear Edgar Allan Poe suits. Conversely, I don't expect to see them wearing yellow, polka-dot bikinis either.

Actually, how a judge buffs himself out was not a pejoritive crossing my consciousness . . . until last night.

I suppose I know as much about the Supreme Court Justice nominee, Samuel Alito, as any other partially-informed, avid news hound.

In 1996, [United States vs Rybar] Alito voted against banning interstate transportation of machine guns.

On the Vanguard case, he failed to recluse himself despite the fact that his special interests in this company could bias his judgement.

His papertrail, tied like a tail to the kite of his current opinions, point unalterably to a narrow view of "Right" vs "Wrong".

It would seem that his opinions stem from a strong belief in the infallability of authority which would explain why he advocates strengthening presidential powers beyond prudent and necessary checks and balances which, in the past, have safeguarded America from totalitarian rule.

It would also explain his unfortunate opinions on the Roe vs Wade embroilment.

While these tidbits of information drubbed my enthusiasm for this nominee's confirmation, I still entertained thoughts of delaying my decision while approaching any new information with an open mind.

UNTIL LAST NIGHT . . . when I viewed the news release covering the first day of Alito's confirmation hearings.

Being a wee bit farsighted, I thought, at first, my eyes were deceiving me. So I moved closer to the TV screen. Checking and rechecking what my vision said was true. Surely, if you watched this news presentation, you saw it, too!

It stood out starkly and clearly. There wasn't a doubt in your mind.

Alito was wearing a bright red tie! To his confirmation hearing!

A POWER TIE.

Nothing more singularly delineates Alito's motives for seeking the Supreme Court Justice nomination.

A power tie.

This is not a man seeking the meaning of justice.
Not a man seeking to examine the Rule of Law.
Not a fellow with a strong judicial philosophy.

Quite simply, this is a man seeking power.

If Alito had worn an Edgar Allan Poe suit or a yellow, polka-dot bikini, it wouldn't have raised cain with the fine hairs of alarm at the back of my neck.

But a power tie?

That's cause for a down vote. Or, at the very least, a filibuster.
Power Trip © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Out Of Thin Air

Travel brochures are getting away with murder. Something must be done about this immediately before more low-land dwellers become comatose.

It is the responsibility of our federal government to protect its citizens and to warn the public of safety hazards which greatly decrease man's chances of survival.

FAGS, the Federal Administration of Geostatic Safety, is falling down on its job performance by not issuing a regulation demanding that all travel brochures be stamped with a neon-red decal which states: HIGH ALTITUDES CAN BE INJURIOUS TO YOUR HEALTH.

This would protect us from the dreaded: AIR-DEFICIENCY SYNDROME, which in the medical field is defined and based on alterations in human physiology.

What that means is: as low-land dwellers, we are optimally equipped for existence in areas where we can breathe.

An oxygen concentration of 21 percent is recommended.

At high altitudes oxygen saturation falls below ninety percent and illness is common. That "pure mountain air" the travel brochures advertise can be deadly.

This is a serious problem. It can cause HAPE *¹ and HACE *². Severe symptoms of these edemas include (but are not limited to) : not being able to breathe even while resting, coughing, high blood pressure, confusion and the inability to walk in a straight line.

Now, while it's quite all right to go around in circles while in the low-lands, doing so in areas of atmospheric air-out can cause internal combustion for which the only remedy is a portable hyperbaric chamber such as the Gamow bag.

After 1-2 hours in the bag, a person's body chemistry will reset to the lower altitude. HOWEVER, these bags can be quite expensive and bulky to transport when trudging uphill in mountainous regions while gasping for air.

Some high altitude conditions the brochures never tell us about are:

• 
  Oxygen is in such limited supply that it is rationed. You can purchase it at the local hardware store but make sure you bring a LOT OF EXTRA cash along. Inhalators are expensive.
• 
  Be especially cautious around dogs. Normally, vicious dogs alert us to their intent with a vicious bark. In the case of high altitude communities, however, the vicious dog's bark sounds more like peeling the skin off a yelp. If you have already contracted HACE and are wandering around in circles, the dog, who can't walk in a straight line either, adds to the confusion by uttering a pathetic yelp just before attacking.
• 
  Aerosol sprays won't vaporize.
• 
  Your escape vehical may become impaired. Cars, like humans, cough, sputter and die when their carburetors try to operate without proper air intake. Not only are the engines affected but car TIRES are eternally flat because: there is insufficient air pressure.
• 
  Since air lanes are in limited supply in alpine communities, there are few, if any, air-traffic controllers. As we all know, air-traffic controllers CONTROL the number of oxygen molecules per breath, ensuring increased delivery of said molecules to the blood and tissues in the body. Without these important officials authoritatively directing air traffic between constituent gases, oxygen and nitrogen the body is left to its own devices and becomes a victim of HVR, hypoxic ventilatory response.

Bad as all that may sound, there are some advantages of high altitude dwelling.

The bathroom scales automatically deduct 12 pounds from your previous weight. It's the easiest weight loss you will ever accomplish and there's no need to diet, for on arrival at altitude, one of the major consequences is loss of appetite.

You can fart as much as you like in alpine climes for without air pressure to carry the aroma, no one can smell the passing gas.

Inhabitants of high altitude towns are usually quite docile. No one blows a gaskit ( fear of squandering rationed oxygen) nor do they blow off steam ( without air, water won't vaporize) which makes for a very peaceful environment.

While these advantages (which are never mentioned in travel brochures) may seem ideal under normal circumstances, remember, when you are laying in a comatose condition, it's hard to appreciate them fully.

For myself, I'm going to ignore the travel brochures which tout the advantages of alpine mountain resorts and head for the seashore.

I may hyperventilate when faced by a shark but at least the FAGS won't list me as one of their recent microclimatic casualities.

*¹ HAPE: High-altitude pulmonary edema which affects the lungs.
*² HACE: High-altitude cerebral edema which affects the brain.
Out Of Thin Air © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan

Sunday Morning XIV

Youth looks at a person who is eighty-years-old, and sees only age. The wrinkles. Bones which have bent and shriveled a bit from the weight of experience. Hair which has lost color and eyes which have emptied the pail of vibrancy, content now to view the world through a waterdowned version of their once fierce expectations.

Only a few gifted seers are able to see beyond the husk of the elderly body to the child that dwells within.

For age never diminishes the child; it merely hides it well.

Camouflages the mischievious imp, the exuberant chick, the cherub, wild with joyous expectation of that magical moment when the heart lifts and song bursts the boundaries of life's confinement.

Then, merriment dances in those pale eyes and what once was full-bodied laughter wheezes forth as a mere guffaw.

Yet, the seer sees the nymph dancing still with the lightness of youth.

At no time is this phenomena more observable than at Christmas when all the yore and lore of ancient civilization coalesces with treasured memories to renew anticipation.

At no other time of year are the elderly more vulnerable.

Christmas! That season when church bells ring, carollers sing and sleigh bells jingle merry tunes . . . that season when the collective unconscious releases the child lurking behind the facade of wisdom . . . that season when the magic of the Universe could still yet happen . . .

It is so easy to look through the distance of years and see not thyself. At twenty, thirty, forty, the mirror reflects only ego; very few walk from under its influence in that small space of time.

Some culture, I've forgotten now which, proposes that as the father dies, his shadow walks on and through the son until the father and son meld and are one. So subtly does this occur that even the most astute believe they have shaken off the cloak of ancestry and, independent of all others, are stepping lively towards their own, separate and identifiable, destiny. Only the seer sees the two marching as one.

Only the seer sees all the hosts of ancestry unite. Marching in one body.

The seer sees the nymph dancing.
Sunday Morning XIV © 2006 Chaeli Lee Sullivan