Candid Non-Selfie

 

This is me, eating a bite of hamburger at Winstead's.

An Experimental Picture

 

Scene 2 -- One Day by the River

A moment or two later there was another report which, this time, was preceded by a thud in the dirt just before the truck, an instantly formed, small cloud of dust, and a rattling crack followed by a downward, high-pressure stream of brake fluid that began forming a dark, oily spot on the ground below the truck’s frame. Zach watched it grow in dismay, then duck-walked backwards, away from his protective rear wheel and the truck he must now abandon. 

Still crouching, he retreated inelegantly until far enough down the side that he felt safe enough to stand and turn and walk down the rest of the way. He headed south through a field of neat rows of soy bean toward a small faraway cluster of white buildings. He would skirt around those and head for the nearby town of Sibley another mile or so beyond it, he knew. With no brakes, the truck was no help now, but at least the Missouri Highway 291 bridge was 20 miles up river, giving Zach at least a little time before the shooter could get over here, if that was his intention. 

As high noon approached, the day proved to be a hot one, and the sun beat down unimpeded by a clear, stark blue sky.  Zach was glad when he happened across a gravel county road lined on one side with hedge trees. He walked along the shady side and was starting to feel pretty good when he heard high-pitched barking just beyond a curve in the gravel roadway. 

Zach slowed and was able to peer just past the trees. He saw a small, short haired yellow dog confronting a mangy coyote. The coyote was circling the dog, keeping it's eyes on it as he did so. The dog barked sporadically as it spun, ever wary and keeping himself pointed at the lanky predator.  As Zach watched, the coyote grew bolder and was running in close to the dog before backing away, still circling. 

Well that's somebody's pet, Zach thought, and he assigned the role of bad-guy to the coyote and bent over and picked up a big rock. He walked quickly three or four long strides toward the two animals and threw the rock at the coyote as hard as he could. It struck the ground at the coyote's feet and bounced up and hit his midsection. Unhurt, the coyote abruptly turned and eyed Zach and then scurried off into the brush in the treeline. The little yellow dog barked at the retreating figure and then turned and watched Zach as he approached. His tail wagged.

"Well, who are you?" Zach asked. He bent down and patted the dogs head.  From the leather collar around his neck a small metal tag dangled. Zach leaned down and in closer to read it. It was just a series of numbers. It read: 18436572.

Zach smiled. That was the spark plug firing order for Chevrolet's small V8 engines manufactured from 1954 to 2003, referred to affectionately by its fans as the "small-block engine." 

"Is your name Small Block?" 

Small Block's tail wagged enthusiastically and a short, polite bark escaped his panting smile. 

"C'mon, Small Block. You wanna go to town?" Zach started walking and Small Block followed, only once turning to check if the coyote was still gone.  It was. 

The Terrible Responsibility of Trust

This is a picture of a fly on the outside of the window of my loft three years ago. I lived on the 5th floor—pretty high up—and after I took this picture, I thought I heard a tiny voice saying, "help me . . . " so I said to it, "It's OK. You're a fly. Just let go." Then I imagined it saying, "Oh. Oh yeah." I turned away, and when I looked back, it was gone.

 Later, I was walking from my building and saw it lying dead on the sidewalk.

I heard a tiny voice saying, "help me . . . "

Excellent Blog-worthy Rumination

 Having read a very interesting post from Jewish Young Professional, over here, and realizing how rare that attitude, her take, on this is, I thought I would write my own on the same subject. It is about self-deprecating behavior and speech. It is kind of how some people talk when they don't want to appear conceited, or to seem to be bragging. Bragging is something we regard as negative. 

Journalist: How does it feel to be the best guitar player in the world?

Jimi Hendrix: I don't know. You'd have to ask Leo Kottke. 

Why do we do this?  To avoid looking like its opposite. From the site, Word Hippo, we get these antonyms: 

Boastful, pompous, conceited, arrogant, vain, egotistical, snooty, big-headed, loudmouth, strutting, braggart--the list goes on and on. There were, in fact, 36 words listed, with a link below them to find even more. Not one of them had a positive connotation. We don't want to be any of those. 

But the phrase "self deprecating" doesn't sound so flattering either, does it? Is it like false modesty, or shyness, both of which are weak, or is it, ironically, a sneaky form of egotism? Like, not only am I not bragging, but I'm probably, in fact, actually pretty good, truth be told? 

Off the top of my head, I can't think of any single word to replace the phrase "self-deprecating" with something positive. What is the word for having a realistic and useful recognition and/or appreciation of one's own strengths? If this isn't a bad thing, why is the idea hidden behind all this obfuscation? 

I don't have an answer here. Just a question worthy of thought. 

The author of Jewish Young Professional blog asks the question, what are the five things we are good at? Scary idea, to throw something like that out there. But it reminds me of one of my favorite T-shirts, seen on the skinny torso of some skateboard kid hanging out with his skateboard buddies downtown. It read: "I suck, but I'm better than you." 

He's saying, among my friends, who are all avid skateboard riders, I am the least talented, but we're all in a different league than you, and we're all better than you--including me. 

What a way to finesse the self-deprecation trap. 

1.) I have a good eye for composition in photographs.

2.) I'm good at figuring out how to solve a problem or fix stuff using things I can (usually) find in my garage. 

3.) On a good day, at least, I'm a pretty good writer. 

4.) I can visualize things well--I can turn things around, inside out and upside-down in my head. 

5. ) I play the guitar better than Bob Dylan. I mean, I suck at playing the guitar, but I'm better than you. And just in case you're reading this, and you're Leo Kottke, just kidding!  

PS: If you did click on the Leo Kottke link above and liked what you heard, you might also enjoy this video of Leo and Chet Atkins playing "Sleepwalk" on the last Prairie Home Companion live broadcast June 13, 1987.  

I Want to Like Wordpress . . .

 I keep doing this. I did make a Wordpress blog, again, placed some posts in it, and see that the Wordpress people, or algorithms or whatever, placed three ads in my first post. In three different places. I could do maybe one ad, in between posts, but not in the middle, in three different places. 

I could buy a plan, cheapest being $4/month. Too many dollars being syphoned off already. And I sort of feel like Wordpress should pay me, not the other way round, if people reading my blog also read their ads. 

I know that sounds kind of presumptuous, and I don't seriously mean that. But I'm still not moving over to Wordpress. 

The Busy Bee Cafe -- A Visitor

     Another lazy day at the Busy Bee. Shortly after Harry's unfortunate incident involving his roundabout visit to 1943 and back, and after the Bee was restored to "real time," another incident followed which found Laslo, Denise, and a few diners looking curiously out the long front window of the cafe. They saw not the familiar 18th Street and the bicycle shop across it and the Kansas City downtown skyline beyond, but an expansive clearing of tall, wild grass and beyond that, a dense cluster of oak and locust amid some low, sparse shrubbery. There were no streets or buildings in sight.

    "Another time shift?" Laslo had set his coffee cup down on the counter, and Denise came over to stand by him. They both peered curiously out the window. A scattering of diners seated at tables by the window glanced up but then returned to their food and conversation without much interest.

    "Kind of seems that way."  Denise looked down at Laslo's coffee mug and absently filled it from the pot she had been carrying in one hand. 

Then she said, "Hmm.  Look at that!" 

    Laslo nodded. A man, naked except for a loin cloth, was now standing outside the window, looking in at them intently, leaning close to the glass as he tried to defeat the reflection of the bright sky behind him. He was light skinned, but tanned, with piercing blue eyes and long, yellow hair that touched his shoulders. On his face was a look of curiosity without a trace of fear. 

    Denise looked away from the window and addressed Laslo. "Uhm . . . where are we, do you think?"

    "Look."  Laslo raised his arm and pointed at the window, above and to the right of the blonde haired man.

    "Are those Native Americans?" Denise asked.

    "I think so." The smaller figures in the distance had emerged from the oak grove, carrying spears as they ran toward them. They were about 50 yards away, but getting closer by the second. The blonde man turned and saw the spear carriers and then turned back toward the window. This time his face showed fear.  He pushed on the large glass pane experimentally.

    Denise looked at Laslo, who got up from the stool and took two steps toward the cafe's entrance, stopped and turned to Denise and raised his eyebrows. Denise's brow was furrowed with hesitant caution, but she nodded. Laslo strode across the dining room and pushed the front door open and leaned out just enough to motion to the blonde man. The gesture, universal, was welcome, and the blonde man shuffled quickly to the door, pausing only briefly before stepping inside. Laslo pulled the door shut and as luck would have it--as luck always seemed to have it around here--the warning bell, the big red metal bell on the wall above the ice machine, began its long, ten-second clanging.

    During that time, the customers who sat at the two tables by the window turned and regarded the blonde man for a few seconds before returning to their meals and their conversation. Laslo and the newcomer stood and looked at each other, and Denise looked from the two men to the scene outside the window, which had changed back to 18th street just as a rusty 2027 Volkwagen Jetta coughed and sputtered its way past the diner. She relaxed, as had Laslo, knowing that the spear wielding pair outside had, by now, been dead and buried for centuries. It was hard to tell with no historical references, and Denise didn't think they had ever shifted this far back. 

    Still standing by the front door, Laslo and the visitor looked at each other carefully.  Laslo smiled. "Well, who are you?"  

    The blonde haired, half-naked man who stood barefooted on the black and white tiles of the floor of the Busy Bee Cafe looked from Laslo to the scene outside the window, the puzzled look on his face changing from perplexity to acceptance as he looked back. Whatever the events in this man's life that had led him to this moment, his superb adaptive qualities had served him well so far. Now, he became calmer as he surveyed the scene outside and then turned to take in the inside of the cafe and the man and the woman who stood watching him. The man was big. Capable. The woman was beautiful and looked capable as well. He looked at her red hair and smiled. He then said to Laslo, forming the sounds carefully, "Wall hoo arr yu."