spider's smoke

the white spider's smoke

is caught on the bright green dew

of this June morning

note de marketing sur les médias sociaux

Les médias sociaux sont plus populaires que n'importe quoi sur la planète Terre à l'exception des paquets de ketchup chez McDonald. (Ces bébés sont partout, mec!) Alors naturellement les annonceurs et les commerçants veulent exploiter cette popularité, inondant des sites comme Twitter, Facebook et Instagram avec autant d'annonces numériques que le seul contenu original laissé est généralement une émoticône. Mais les spécialistes des médias sociaux font souvent de la publicité dans le mauvais sens, manquant des marchés de niche importants et même chassant les consommateurs. Voici quelques conseils qui vont stimuler les ventes comme la mayonnaise sur la gélatine: Faites de votre marque un nom mémorable Ceci est fait avec des adjectifs et des superlatifs, par exemple: "Ice Cubes vieilli" ou "Hamburger R us surévalué." Puis assurez-vous que le même "handle" est utilisé sur toutes les plateformes de médias sociaux - de sorte que le nom "Bob's Puny Plumbing Supply "Est utilisé systématiquement sur tout, de LinkedIn à Snapchat. De cette façon, les consommateurs ne seront pas confus et se promèneront dans les bois à la recherche de James Comey au lieu de faire un achat en ligne. Utilisez de vrais témoignages Par «réel», on entend des choses que personne ne peut retracer à qui que ce soit. Et par «témoignages», on entend tellement la mélodie que le lecteur risque de tomber malade du diabète. Et par «utilisation», on entend «appliquer» ou «employer» ou «exploiter» ou «utiliser» ou «un gros chat de civette originaire d'Andalousie». Connaissez votre public cible Sont-ils grands ou petits ou maigres ou gros ou vieux ou jeunes? Est-ce qu'ils se grattent les bras pendant les matchs de football ou découpent leurs spaghettis au lieu de les faire tournoyer sur une fourchette? Et sont-ils dans ce pays illégalement? Si oui, assurez-vous de les rattraper pour la prime.

the eager pansies (Thai translation by Sutita Chomphupuang)

the eager pansies

suck up the summer nectar

until their heads burn

                 เจ้าแพนซี่น้อย

เจ้าแพนซี่น้อย                                ที่แสนจะบอบบาง

สีสรรค์สวยสดงดงาม                     ผีเสื้อ ผึ้ง บินตามมาชื่นชม

เจ้าทะเยอทะยาน                           อยากบานสะพรั่ง

ชูช่อเกสรขึ้นตั้งชัน                         ส่งกลิ่นหอมชวนฝันไปไกล

Visiting Thailand, a new poem by Sutita Chomphupuang

Welcome you all, to explore your horizon.

Thailand is one of the best in Asia.

Excellent in food, good with hospitality.

Spectacular scenery will likely  to capture your heart.

มาเที่ยวเมืองไทย                   ชาวไทยต้อนรับ

น่าประทับใจนัก                       คนไทยใจดี

อาหารไทยก็อร่อย                  ชายหาดสวยก็มากมี

ไปเที่ยวไทยมาหลายที           ไม่มีเบื่อเลยสักครา

An Evening With Peter Pitofsky

The inimitable Peter Pitofsky

On our 1981 honeymoon I took Amy to Ringling Brothers at the Salt Palace.
I was still blacklisted from performing with the show at the time, but my good
old pal Tim Holst, now the Assistant Performance Director, wangled two
front row seats for us. And that is where I first met Peter Pitofsky.

How he ever got to join the show as a clown is a matter of conjecture
and myth. Some say that one of the show elephants laid an egg and
Peter popped out of it, like Mork. Others insist that he was stranded,
left behind, during an unsuccessful invasion from Mars -- which would,
indeed, explain his unearthly abilities to moo like a bull in heat and spit
cherry pits into a tin cup at twenty feet. It was also claimed that he
could pull cotton candy out of his navel -- but I never saw that myself.
He never did learn to tell Earth time; always appearing either hours
early or the next day for any appointment he ever had.

What Peter told me, years later, when we were roommates while
working at Disneyland, is that he didn’t bother to send in an
application for the Ringling Clown College, since he is severely dyslexic,
but that when he heard about the place he bought a plane ticket to
Sarasota, and then hitchhiked down to Venice, to show up on the
doorstep, so to speak, like an orphan in a wicker basket. He was
told to go away, but instead camped out by the security gate, with
a hand printed sign hung around his neck with just one word on it:
 “Pleez.”

Eventually they let him in and he became a sort of bete noire at the
Clown College. He was very active and antic at all times, but
absolutely unpredictable and untrainable. He had dozens of
strange, eccentric walks that in any other human being would have
pulverized the metatarsal bones into jelly. He fell down like a sack of
cement for no apparent reason, then bounded back up only to run
into a nearby pole or pillar or wall. Nobody wanted to work with him --
or rather, everyone wanted to work with him because he was so
brilliantly erratic; but they were afraid he’d steal their clown gag
from right under their noses.

So during the big audition show he was simply allowed to
wander around the arena at will, up into the audience, down
in the ring, doing anything he wanted. And that’s pretty much
what he did on the show, at least the night that Amy and I
saw him. Tim Holst had mischievously stuffed him full of
fabulous stories about my pre-blacklist antics in clown alley,
so that when I was pointed out to him in the front row he
simply stopped what he was doing to run over to me and
give me a lingering slobbery kiss along the side of my face.
Then he fell down into a salaaming position.

“Master!” he shrieked at me, much to the embarrassment of Amy.

“Get up, you loon, and go back to work!” I yelled cheerfully at him.
He leaped up and sped back into the ring, where he had been using
a large push broom to buff his nails. He kept coming back to our seats
that evening, offering me an empty popcorn box; trying to sit in Amy’s
lap and being vigorously pushed off; and parting my hair, looking for
fleas. I told Amy I wanted to treat him to dinner after the show.
She gave me a quizzical look and then burst out laughing,
saying “Okay, it’s your funeral!”

So that evening after the show Amy and I escorted Peter
over to the Big Boy restaurant, where he immediately ordered
french fries, nothing but french fries. When they came he stuck
several up his nose and then proceeded to use the rest like
Lincoln Logs, building  a creditable miniature cabin on the
tablecloth. While Amy and I ate our salads, Peter
demanded bread, lots of bread, and plenty of butter.
When the wary waitress brought it he put a piece of
bread in the palm of his hand and began buttering it.
He didn’t stop with the bread, however -- he kept buttering
right up his arm to his shoulder, while the waitress stood
there goggle-eyed. When he had finished with all the butter
he turned to the waitress and asked sweetly:
“May I have some gravy, please?”

“Gravy?” the waitress quavered.

“Yes, gravy. I want to wash my hair.” he replied impatiently,
and then mooed like a bull.

I decided to intercede before Peter got us all thrown out on our ear.

“Just bring the gentleman a hamburger and a Coke” I told the
waitress firmly. “And ignore anything he says or does.”

Peter settled down somewhat after that outburst. He ate his
burger with complete docility -- but afterwards he couldn’t
resist going from booth to booth to see what other people
were eating, sometimes shaking his head and saying sotto voce
“I wouldn’t eat that if I were you” and then wandering quickly away,
leaving his victims choking on their chicken fried steak.

Amy and I were completely charmed by Peter’s comedic idiot savant
personality. Amy had to excuse herself several times to use the lady’s
room so she wouldn’t have an accident from stifling so many giggles.
I immediately fell into the Oliver Hardy/Bud Abbott role of fuming
straight man to Peter’s bizarre buffoonery.   

“Stop that!” I growled at him, more than once. “Behave yourself
and talk sense!” We were kindred spirits, really; I could sense
when an outburst was coming, and what it was likely to be --
what I would do if I was Peter right then -- so I could check
his more egregious high jinx. We finished our meal with milk
shakes, and as soon as Peter had his in front of him I saw the mad
gleam in his eye and immediately said “Don’t even think of pouring
that into the front of your pants!”

“Not even a little bit?” he asked meekly.

“Not a drop.”

“Okay, you’re the boss of me here and I don’t wanna
be off on a bad thing which you would yell and scream at
me for an hour maybe . . . “ he replied, going into his Jerry Lewis
routine.

We parted that evening firm friends, although it would be
several years before I saw him again. In the meantime Amy
and I baked him chocolate chip cookies about once a month,
sending the package in care of Ringling Brothers to their office
in Washington D.C. When I finally did see Peter again he told me
our cookies always arrived smashed into crumbs, so he’d
put them in a bowl and then pour milk over them for his
breakfast. I think that was the sanest thing I ever knew him to do.  

the hot summer light

the hot summer light

is tempered by calm green leaves

until it grows bland

Президент Трамп предложит налоговые социальные сети

Вернувшись с триумфом в Белый дом из своих переговоров с Северной Кореей в Сингапуре, президент Трамп немедленно вызвал пресс-конференцию, чтобы объявить еще одну из своих запатентованных бомб: он сказал журналистам, что для того, чтобы покрыть расходы из-за его жестких переговоров с Ким Чен Юном , он попросит Конгресс передать налог на социальные медиа этим летом. «Этот пухлый маленький мамщик знает, как копать и иметь дело», - признался Трамп, автор бестселлера «Искусство сделки». «В обмен на его ядерный арсенал он просит твердую золотую копию горы Рашмор, размер жизни! И это будет стоить. Поэтому, чтобы равномерно распределить боль, я решил, что все на Facebook и Instagram, и особенно на Twitter, должны кашлять немного холодных наличных денег для использования своих личных счетов в социальных сетях. Конечно, как президент, я буду требовать привилегии исполнительной власти, чтобы избежать предлагаемого налога. В конце концов, я - герцог Дикер и барон Бартера. Хотя детали налогового плана все еще неясны, внутренние источники утверждают, что план предусматривает 10-процентный налоговый налог за твит и пять центов за каждый, как на Facebook. Желая, чтобы кто-то с Днем Рождения на любой платформе в социальных сетях автоматически взял на себя плату в двадцать пять долларов. Что касается того, как этот новый новый налог будет применен, Трамп был очень кратким: «Старый мальчик Кимми собирается предоставить IRS взвод его личных сотрудников - эти ребята сломают коленные чашечки, как хлебные палочки. Они никогда не слышали о Верховном суде!

EDUCATION BLOGGER FIRED OVER HOMOPHONE CONFUSION

A Utah teacher and education blogger says he was fired from the Nomen Global Language Center in Provo after writing a blog post about homophones, though he disputes media reports that he was let go for promoting a “gay agenda.”

Self-described “social media specialist and content provider” Tim Torkildson recounted the firing in a personal blog post, which was subsequently picked up by The Salt Lake Tribune and other outlets. According to that account, Nomen Global owner Clarke Woodger was concerned that a post about homophones—words that sound the same but are defined differently—meant the school would be “associated with homosexuality.”

“He called me into the conference room, and he said, ‘We’re going to let you go,’” Torkildson told Newsweek. “[He said] this blog on homophones is the last straw. You can’t be trusted. I can’t trust you to write a regular blog.”

Torkildson denied that he was accused outright of promoting a “gay agenda.”

“No, that’s all been distorted,” he said. “His [Woodger’s] words to me were, ‘Some people might think that a blog on homophones has something to do with homosexuality.’ And that’s as far as he went on that. He said he hadn’t looked the word up, and then he realized what it was. His objection mainly was he thought the students at the school would not understand. And they would become offended or think the school would have some kind of gay agenda.”

Torkildson said this wasn’t his first clash with Woodger. “My background is with the circus, so whenever I do publicity or marketing, it’s kind of like in the P.T. Barnum manner,” he said. “It’s big, it’s loud, it’s extravagant. And Clarke just didn’t care for that.”

Woodger did not respond to a request for comment. An employee at the Nomen Global Language Center said that he was out of the office and that she “honestly [didn’t] have any idea about” the firing.

Torkildson, who is homeless and living in a friend’s basement, said his immediate plans were to apply for food stamps and for local health insurance to deal with health problems.

“Food, shelter—the basic concerns are what I’m concerned with right now,” he said.

Still, he shrugged off the dismissal and said it wasn’t the strangest thing he’s been fired for. “I worked for a radio station in Kansas. They fired me for wearing a bow tie instead of a necktie. The station manager called that insubordination.”

(From NewsWeek)

Elbow Grease

Elbow grease was in great demand when I was a child. There was very little of it going around, according to my mother. The want of elbow grease explained why our lawn looked so shaggy and weedy. It was why my dad’s car never gleamed in the sun. It was the reason for soggy leaves clogging up our roof gutters, causing huge icicles to form on sunny winter days -- dangerous stalactites that could impale the unwary child while he made snow angels.

My mother was determined to end this crying lack of elbow grease, at least in our own home. And since I seemed to be the most deficient my mother loaded me down with more chores than you could shake a dust mop at. That I ever survived such a household Gulag is a wonder I never cease remembering in my bedside devotions. Especially since mom was never more than ten feet away while I toiled, micromanaging with a sharp eye and a blunt tongue.

Since I got paid a quarter every week for my allowance, which was enough back in those mingy times for me to buy a Coke and a Superman comic book at the corner drugstore, I knew I had to mow the lawn once a week. And I did. But we had a push mower, which was propelled by yours truly and continually came to a sudden, chest crushing halt whenever it encountered a twig or even a particularly tough dandelion. The blades were as rusty and dull as an old knock-knock joke.

So I was compelled to mow the cursed grass not once, but twice. Once up and down and then again back and forth. And pluck up the dandelions as I did so.  Mom kept a beady eye on me from inside the house, and if I came across a rough patch of crabgrass that refused to surrender to the push mower and tried flipping the mower over, so the blades still made the same cutting noise but didn’t touch anything, a window sash would fly open and I would be commanded to go back over that particular patch, and to use some elbow grease. To paraphrase Patrick O’Brian in his Aubrey/Maturin sea novels,  “Simon Legree ain’t in it!”

The same held true for putting up and taking down the storm windows each year. Back in those dark ages each window had two sets of frames -- the inner frame, which did not come out, and the outer frame which had to be changed  from a screen frame to a heavy glass frame in the fall before the blizzards came roaring down from Canada. Those damn glass frames must have weighed nearly ten pounds each -- they were wood, not aluminum. As I took each one out I had to wash it before putting it in the garage, too. I was never too enthused about rubbing the Windex in very hard -- and so once again my mother’s cry reverberated around my poor head:  Elbow grease! More elbow grease! Leave no smudge behind!

The Minnesota winter snows smothered our sidewalk in a fiendishly regular fashion, and guess what? Yep, I had to use plenty of elbow grease to ensure the sidewalks were scrapped clean so no leftover snow could melt and form treacherous icy patches on which the mailman or, heaven forbid, Aunt Ruby might slip when she came for a visit.

When at last I escaped from the tyranny of elbow grease and joined the circus, I wallowed in the dust and smudgeness of my roomette on the Ringling train. These were nearly antique train cars to begin with -- our train car, nicknamed the Iron Lung, had been built in 1922, and by the time I moved into my little roomette in 1972, with the horsehair couch that turned down into a murphy bed, it had acquired a dignified patina of grime that I did nothing to disturb. My own personal hygiene was unimpeachable, you understand; but it gave me a great deal of satisfaction to sit amidst my cobwebs and dust bunnies on the train, reveling in my complete freedom from elbow grease.

But sadly enough when I became a parent myself I couldn’t resist dinning that evil old phrase into the ears of my own innocent little children.

“Put some elbow grease into it!” I yelled at them when they raked the autumn leaves.

“Try some elbow grease!” I advised, when their energy flagged while doing the dishes.

And now . . . well, and now I’m in a Senior Living apartment, all by myself. I have a vacuum and I have a mop, and plenty of rags and Windex and Mr. Clean. And by rights I should be cleaning the toilet to get rid of that stubborn hard water ring inside the bowl instead of writing this insubstantial fluff. But I seem to be all out of elbow grease at the moment. I wonder if you can order it online at Amazon.com?  

the artless flowers

the artless flowers

are children I have loved long

but not wise enough