Haiku: dry and thick of skin

berries and seed pods

brown and red in autumn sun

dry and thick of skin

Fools Before God

. . . and consider themselves fools before God . . .

2 Nephi. Chapter 9. Verse 42.

As vast and wide as all the stars, as deep as cosmos goes;

the Lord God is omnipotent and all that is He knows.

The past and present, what is to come, are right before His eyes;

what mortal fool would dare to think to be as great and wise?

Yet some have thought they could compete with Jesus Christ on high;

that what they thought and did and said made glory their ally.

The Earth can hold no wisdom, nor power like the Lord's.

A fool cannot dispute that, with swelling words or swords.

I know I am a fool, oh Lord, before Thy shining throne;

that I lack any power to exalt myself alone.

Have mercy on my ignorance and lead me with Thy grace,

that I, a clown, may someday see Thy keen and loving face!

Haiku: the dull displaced leaves

the dull displaced leaves

are going to a new home

in their caravan

Haiku: light brown and dark brown

light brown and dark brown

rings inside a fallen tree

are recorded where?

Haiku: the screaming yellow

the screaming yellow

hysteria of limp leaves

as they fall silent

Haiku: a line of bright clouds

a line of bright clouds

slips past the mountains as smooth

as a flight of birds

A New York Times Story by Jason Horowitz Reminds Me of My High School Cafeteria

I went to high school in the late 1960s. My high school, Marshall-University, close to the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis, was integrated by court order in 1969 -- but segregation lingered on in the school cafeteria. 

You either got the hot cafeteria lunch or you brown bagged it. The students who enjoyed a hot lunch were seated in the airy and spacious portion of the cafeteria, with wide clean tables and comfortable chairs -- the padded kind they had in the school library. The brown baggers were relegated to a drab and airless alcove stocked with dispirited gate leg tables that tipped listlessly to one side. Cobwebs hung from the flickering neon lights overhead. The chairs were splintery wooden relics dating from the Dakota War of 1862. There were cracks running around the concrete floor that formed a rough map of Antarctica, if you peered at them long enough. And since I was one of the brown baggers, I had plenty of opportunity to trace out the outlines of the Ross Ice Shelf and the Weddell Sea.

My mother did not believe in spending seventy-five-cents each day on a hot cafeteria meal for her children. Not when a loaf of Wonder Bread cost a quarter and a huge wedge of Oscar Mayer beef bologna cost just under a dollar. My sandwich featured no sort of window dressing, either. A smear of oleo margarine was it.  Lettuce? Tomato? Ikke en sjanse. Along with the sandwich, which never varied the entire time I was in high school, she included an apple and a Twinkie or Hostess cupcake. While mom was a dab hand at picking out most produce down at the Red Owl each week, she never seemed able to select a decent crispy apple. Mine were always mealy and brown. 

There was no use in complaining to my mother about the monotony and blandness of my bag lunch. Such complaints met with a loud snort, followed by a spirited discourse on how she grew up eating a piece of stale bread smeared with bacon grease and then covered with scallions when they were in season for her lunch. Did I wish to emulate her harsh childhood tiffin? It could be arranged . . . 

I did, however, receive a quarter each day to buy a small carton of chocolate milk at the cafeteria. But that did not allow me to sit with the 'in' crowd. I tried doing it -- we all tried, us brown baggers, but were immediately put in our place not only by the smug and supercilious expressions of the warm lunch gang, but even more so by the teachers who patrolled the lunchroom -- I remember Mr. Patten, the algebra teacher, asking me in a tone of voice that brooked no contradiction if I wouldn't feel more comfortable sitting with the other kids who brought their lunches from home. I meekly agreed and scurried back to my place.

Just exactly why this unjust separation existed, I have no idea. Some of the brown baggers I ate with explained in hoarse whispers that the school made a huge profit off of each hot lunch they sold -- the graft was tremendous, and financed teacher trips to Jamaica and the Riviera. So naturally we students who chose not to subsidize this boondoggle were tossed into outer darkness with our baloney sandwiches and hard boiled eggs. But these were the same pimpled rumor mongers who also claimed you got VD from sitting on the wrong toilet seat. 

Nowadays, a half century later, I will still make myself a bologna sandwich for lunch on occasion -- but you can bet your bippy I gussy it up with sourdough bread spread with plenty of aioli and stacked with slices of red beefsteak tomato and romaine lettuce, not to mention a bakers dozen of Kalamata olives on the side. And I have found nothing better for dessert in the intervening years than a good old Twinkie. But don't tell my doctor . . . 

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"I prefer braunschweiger."

The Newsroom Remains Lily White

Newsroom employees are more likely to be white and male than U.S. workers overall. 
Pew Research Center

The newsroom remains lily white,

with male pattern baldness in sight.

With such status quo

how far must they go

to make these statistics more bright?

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"I wouldn't trust 'em any farther than I could throw 'em."

In Response to an article by Kelsey Gee in the Wall Street Journal today: Memories of the one career mindset

Me, with Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Combined Shows. 1971.

After the dreadful upheavals of the Great Depression and World War Two, my parents and everyone they knew who could be considered Standard Issue in the brains department had only one career goal -- to find a job, any job, and stick to it forever and a day, until your pension kicked in. People who moved from job to job, looking for greener pastures, were considered 'flighty' and 'too big for their britches.' Ambition was viewed with vague but steady suspicion, like a French magazine. 

My dad only had one job all his life. He worked as a bartender at Aarone's Bar & Grill on East Hennepin in Minneapolis for 43 years. He did some freelance bartending from time to time, but from 11 to 7 Monday through Saturday he could be found behind the mahogany paneled and brass railed counter at Aarone's, ladling out the suds to thirsty souls. Mr. Henderson down the block sold State Farm Insurance -- always had and always did until a heart attack took him away at age 45. My best friend Wayne's dad worked at a warehouse next to the railyards on Fifteenth Avenue, first as a lowly lifter, then as a clerk, and finally, glory be, as assistant manager -- but he stayed with the same storage company in the same building the whole time. There were several old-timers on our block who worked for the railroad all their lives, usually until they lost a finger or a foot to a faulty brake line -- but then they got a gigantic pension (according to the middle class economy of that long ago day) and sat on their porches sipping Grain Belt beer as they benignly watched the rest of the world struggle off to work. The widow Schvem across the street worked at the high school cafeteria for so long that they finally named a dish after her -- Creamed Peas a la Schvem. Now the Ciattis at the end of the block were an exception; he kept opening and closing Italian restaurants all over town, never staying in one spot for very long. Dad said it was because he never paid his liquor license fees on time.

My parents assessed my abilities, or lack thereof, as I struggled with adolescence, and decided that a job at the Post Office would be just about my speed. And after forty years shoving envelopes into slots I would have a secure and comfortable pension to fall back on if they didn't put me away first, gibbering, in a straitjacket.

But I fooled 'em good, I did. When I graduated from high school I hitchhiked down to Florida and got into the Ringling Brothers Clown College at their Winter Quarters in Venice. From there I got me a contract with The Greatest Show on Earth as a First of May, and was immediately surrounded by veteran buffoons who had clowned for Ringling, in some cases, for half a century. There was Otto Griebling, Prince Paul, Swede Johnson, and a host of others who remembered the great days of the canvas big top and dozens of elephants pulling up the king poles one by one. Each clown got exactly one bucket of water per day for laundry and personal hygiene -- if you wanted extra water you had to bribe a roustabout to bring you a second bucket from the heavily guarded spigot. Those old veteran clowns had no company sponsored pension plans -- if they didn't save up the jack themselves they would have nothing when they retired. So they didn't retire -- they worked until they keeled over in their oversized shoes. They all considered it a good life, and couldn't comprehend why some of the new clowns complained about pay and working conditions. It was a secure job for nine months out of the year, and during the winter layoff you could live on the train down at Florida Winter Quarters and feed yourself by fishing along the canals or on the Gulf Coast shore.What more did a person need, for godsakes? 

I was of their way of thinking -- my goal was simply to hang on by hook or by crook, save a little bit each week, and in fifty or sixty years wipe the custard pie from my face for good and retire to a little shack on the beach covered in seagrapes. 

But after only two seasons with the circus I volunteered to serve a two year proselyting mission for my church in Thailand. And that broke the one-job-in-a-lifetime mindset for me. Over the next forty years I tried my hand at various other jobs, with varying success. And sometimes, when all else failed, I dug out my clown trunk and went back on the road to keep my family fed. 

Looking back, I'm glad I jettisoned my parent's work ethic (or maybe it was a slave ethic.) Ringling Brothers doesn't even exist anymore, and clowns are now stuck with such a creepy reputation that I wouldn't even do it as a hobby. In this gig economy I tell my kids to go for broke and work for yourself. But don't forget to roll over that 401(k) plan when you do move on to bigger and better things . . . 

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"Wish I had some cotton candy right now."

Before She Went to Work for Newsweek as a Reporter, Christina Zhao Worked as a Kiwi Lawyer

Christina Zhao, from New Zealand.

Before Christina Zhao decided to join the Fourth Estate she was a notable barrister in New Zealand. From Auckland to Christchurch, and from Tauranga to Whanganui, malefactors and scofflaws would tremble when they heard "Zhao is on the opposing side!" Her formidable cross examining skills were so adept that she merely had to ask the defendant's name, and, nine times out of ten, they would immediately plead guilty and throw themselves on the mercy of the court. Juries were putty in her hands; and judges melted into black silk puddles at her winsome smile and come-hither eyes -- eyes that could also drill right through a witness like a javelin when she caught them in a lie. The criminal underworld of New Zealand breathed a collective sigh of relief when she left the country in pursuit of new levels of truth and justice as a journalist.

But their smug mirth was short lived, for word soon reached them that Zhao, while petted and adored by American and European editors and readers, had tired of the hollow frivolities of the Western Hemisphere and was returning to her native sod to continue her crusade against turpitude -- with her pen instead of with her horsehair periwig. Word on the street is that she intends to write a searing expose on the corruption that is running rampant in the New Zealand Productivity Commission. Pen pushers are already nervously biting the nibs off their goose quills. 

In her spare time Christina enjoys experimenting with hotpot recipes. Her latest culinary triumph is pickled codfish cheeks boiled in anchovy paste. Shaken, not stirred. 

  

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"It's a lot of hooey, if you ask me."