Marie Kondo vs My Clutter

The tenets of "Marie Kondo-ing" your home are simple: Hold every item you own. If it sparks joy, keep it. If not, get rid of it.

LATimes  @jessica_roy

I've always thought Americans were good at showing gumption

when it comes to hoarding and conspicuous consumption.

Even as a toddler I had some strong obsessions

with collecting bric-a-brac as valuable possessions.

I kept a box of gewgaws in my bedroom as a boy;

baseball cards and rusty keys that gave me scads of joy.

Nickels from Ontario; a mainspring from a clock;

a piece of yellow sulfur; and a broken Stanley lock.

In MY mind it was treasure, worth the ransom of a king.

With passionate delusion to this trash I had to cling.

And when my mother got fed up and threw it all away,

I started leaking brine and felt to moan: "Alack-a-day!"

After that I vowed that whatsoever came to me

should never be subjected to hygienic scrutiny.

Whatever I had bought, or found, or gotten as a gift,

was guarded with a zealous eye that did not ever drift.

And so I came to manhood, with a closet full of dreck

that grew and grew like Topsy, without hinder, without let.

Croquet sets and lawn darts, with a smattering of tools;

lava lamps and Christmas lights -- a pair of leather mules.

A road atlas of Texas; Coleman lanterns and some rope;

a Swiffer without handle and a bar of laundry soap;

Hires root beer extract and a Shriner's soft red fez;

a Michael Jordan poster and a dozen empty PEZ.

To inventory all of it would take a hundred years,

and still you would not get to the remotes and rabbit ears.

The printers and cassette tapes and the cables color-coded;

the battery rechargers and the bath oil beads (exploded.)

Now my garage is filling up with trinkets and cheap trifles,

including self-help books and half a dozen BB rifles.

I have to park the car out on the curb come rain or glare;

and where to put the StairMaster is causing me despair.

Even Marie Kondo could not break up my logjam.

It's part of me just like the shell is part of any clam.

I think I'll shave my head and join a Buddhist monastery;

all my worldly chattels they can take to sell or bury . . . 

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Why was my postcard to President Trump returned to me as 'postage due: 21 cents"?

You can plainly see the stamp on it. Is this a cover up -- or a conspiracy -- or just USPS incompetence?

The Bullfrog and the Elephant

Said the bullfrog to the elephant: "I wish I were as large

as you are, mighty pachyderm -- so that I could be in charge!"

The elephant looked down upon the bullfrog with disdain.

"It takes more than just size" he said "to truly rule and reign."

"Patience and forbearance, plus a healthy grain of salt,

are needed to see others as an asset not a fault."

"I may be big and massive, but that don't give me the right

to tyrannize all others who are smaller in my sight."

So saying, Mr. Elephant trudged off o'er dusky veld

while scheming Mr. Bullfrog his ambition was not quelled.

(And if you think this fable has contemporary feel,

I won't deny it could refer to some big blonde schlemiel.)

That bullfrog wanted really bad to show who wears the pants,

and so he hopped on over to a hill of fire ants.

"Obey me!" he cried shrilly, as he glowered at their heap;

the ants began to sting him til away he had to creep.

After he recovered from their stings he tried to force

his will upon some grasshoppers feeding on rough gorse.

He threatened to devour them if they did not obey;

they spit dark brown tobacco juice all over him in play.

Beside himself with anger, that old frog called on the mice

to give him their obeisance -- but they answered back "No dice!"

To the pond where he was born at last he went in shame,

where tadpoles of his vast pretensions made a merry game.

Stooping in the muck and mire, feeling far from spry,

that bullfrog didn't have the pep to nab a passing fly.

Sobbing in frustration, he began to gulp down air --

and suddenly began to grow in size, all unaware . . . 

Until a soft shelled turtle who was sunning on a log

exclaimed in wonder "Lookee there; the king of this here bog!"

Heedless of the consequence, the bullfrog pulled in more

air until he looked a bit like some small dinosaur.

"Ha ha!" he rumbled as he grew, "At last I am the King!"

He squashed all opposition as his flippers he did fling.

Bigger, and then bigger still, he grew with keen inflation,

lording over slugs and snails and even tough crustacean.

But such a bloated eminence he couldn't long sustain.

He finally exploded with a roar of grief and pain.

The elephant meandered by that pond soon after, saying

"Hot air is not the way to reign -- it keeps no rulers staying."

Mean Tim

Dear Amy;

Your snail mail has been coming to my address this week. I am saving it for you. The Nice Tim would offer to mail it to wherever you would like. But the Nice Tim is dead; you killed him.

Now the Mean Tim is running the show. So if you want your mail you’ll have to come and get it yourself. If you don’t respond to this email to tell me when you’ll be coming for it I’ll throw it out.

The Mean Tim wants you to know that he has not reneged on his offer of marriage. He thinks you still need a secure and stable place to live and be appreciated for all your fine qualities. And that place, to begin with, is right here at Valley Villas as Mean Tim’s loving and loyal wife. Unless you have financial means of supporting us that I know nothing about. So Mean Tim must insist you fill out the Financial Assets form and submit it to the PCHA office. Mean Tim will wait for you to convince yourself that this will not harm you in any way and that it will show to Mean Tim some of the respect you have so often denied him.

Do not email Mean Tim any more of your fuzzy psuedo gospel idee fixes. Once we are married Mean Tim expects you to suppress them as harmful fancies to both yourself and others. You and Mean Tim will study the gospel by reading the scriptures, not turgid propaganda from shysters and con artists. Mean Tim expects you to use your brains and heart to further his career as a humorist, not work as a shill for snake oil companies and shaky theology.

Mean Tim must tell you that he has deleted unread all your emails this week. The only way Mean Tim will ever read your emails again is if you put in the Subject Line this sentence:  I Surrender Dear.  It is based on an old Bing Crosby song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXGv-rd-bvA

Mean Tim sincerely believes it’s time you had a husband who ruled with a firm hand. Mean Tim doesn’t care if you like that or not, as long as you accept it as part of the marriage contract. Perhaps if you show Mean Tim how loving and reasonable you can be, like you used to be long ago, he will loosen the reins and repent of his grim decision to be the one and only boss in this marriage. But right now it’s Mean Tim’s way or the highway.

Remember, I’ll delete anything without reading it that does not have “I Surrender Dear” in the subject line.

Your devoted villain,  Mean Tim.

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Response: Dear Tim,

    I had hoped to chat tonight. But no problem to chat face to face later. I saw "Zookeeper" too. Kevin James does a good job of following the instructions from the animals, just like you. Insult, compliment and demand. Gets them every time.  But that's not the lasting relationship. That's the one where he decides he doesn't like who he's turned into and he leaves her for the one who gets him to be himself.

     I know that you wear a mask. You wear a mask to protect the guy who is unsure of the God you think you know. If you were Gollum you couldn't be more worthy of what awaits you.

     Tim, what are we going to do? I know in my heart that I will not be able to keep quiet when there are things to understand. It would be wrong to make a person promise that. It would be wrong for me to accept that kind of treatment. God doesn't treat people that way. What makes you believe that I would want to live in that oppression?  You alluded to the idea that if I was respectful there may be a way for you to repent of being the one and only boss in the house... where is our footing? Are we able to get on equal ground?  How is treating me scornfully any kind of respect for yourself or our family?  The things I've said are true. You called them fuzzy, with a few other epithets to insult me. I've been insulted before so I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish by whipping up on me now. 

     Do you believe that I have treated you scornfully as I asked questions about the actions you have done?  Can you address with equity anything I've been asking? How can I believe you when you say you love me when I know you've been lying all your life? The wearing of the mask makes for a double mind. As long as you hide Dr. Jekyll from Mr. Hyde he won't hurt anyone. Hiding is what we don't want to do. God always knows what's going on. In James 1. Right after the verse that says to ask of God when you lack wisdom he cautioned to be firm in faith nothing waivering for a double minded man is unstable in all his ways. You say you have a stable place there. I know that if I were to get there it would not be a stable place anymore. Together we are volitile, we could be dynamic because of the skills we both have. Looking at the patterns in our lives will show you how unstable if you look at even just the time line. The only way way we can be stable is to be united in the one true God. I cannot comprehend the God you've made up for yourself. Your God has only tyranny and oppression. Equality isn't in the word picture you sent me.

Yours,

Amy

Email response from Amy, thus: I'll be there to pick the mail . Mean Tim has assumed something in the acceptance of the marriage contact but I'm not sure what. Will there be a monthly Temple attendance with both of us?

So I surrender, dear one.

Email response from friends in Thailand and Hawaii:

As usual, you are unusual.  

I think that your email to Amy is well thought out and honest, and clear in its content and you are clear in your mind.  I think your position makes sense.  If she accepts your conditions, it will be good for her and for you, and for the two of you.  Perhaps she is the type of person who needs the authority figure, and that you be the one she cannot conquer, except by love, and then it will be an even relationship.  

But that's my perspective.  I'd guess most any American woman would reject your conditions.  But this is your life.  You are willing to give her something.  You don't have to.  But you will if she accepts your conditions.

I'll now ask Wan Lee what she thinks.  I'll guess that she'll say "Why offer marriage if he's not willing to love and accept her?"  But I'm usually wrong, so let's see, after she comes back from the bathroom.

waiting ... waiting ...

Well, I was 100% wrong.  "That's good.  That's fair.  Sometimes tough love is necessary.  He's helping.  He doesn't want to drag himself down to that empty meaningless.  He offered something positive that's good for Amy.  It's wise for him to put those parameters clearly, instead of unconditionally.  He knows Amy the best.  She might drive him nuts.   It will be clear to her."

Homage to Guy Wetmore Carryl: Humpty Dumpty

His story has been told so oft

it makes the children's brains go soft.

But there is more to his brief tale

than that great fall and epic fail.

The quadrupeds and bipeds vexed

with Humpty's fall were soon annexed

by counselors at law, you see;

they wanted to sue somebody.

And even though for King they worked

around by lawyers they were jerked,

until they really didn't know

which way to come, which way to go.

So they in turn did hire scribes

(who weren't averse to giving bribes)

and soon the court was satisfied

that justice had been ratified.

The judge in robes both black and wide

said Humpty was a suicide.

And no one else was there to blame

for snuffing out his life's short flame.

It was announced to one and all

that Humpty made himself to fall.

But quite a portion of the crowd

thought this was just a phony shroud.

They whispered in the ears of some

that Humpty had been pushed, by gum!

Because he knew a thing or two

about the King's dishonest crew.

And so it spread throughout the land

that murder had been slyly planned

for whistle-blowing eggs that spilled

the royal beans (and they meant "killed.")

Where DID those knights get livery fine,

with so much gold it gave a shine?

How could those pages still afford

to live above their room and board?

The Queen was on the take, they said.

The King stole even pauper's bread.

The palace was so rotten that

from Denmark you could smell a rat.

And so the populace arose

and started in with hardened blows

to topple the regime's long sway.

They did it in a single day.

The king and queen, their heads they lost.

The dukes and knights outside were tossed.

The pages were exiled toot sweet;

the commoners now ate crabmeat.

And all because an ovum fell

(and truly, he was quick to smell.)

A revolution has no legs

unless you start in breaking eggs . . . 

It Starts Out With a Glass of Milk

                    “The cookie business is pretty cutthroat,” he says.

WSJ  @Annie_Gasparro  

It starts out with a glass of milk -- as harmless as can be.

But then the battle joined is filled with grim ferocity.

Because the brand of cookie that is dipped into moo juice 

has fomented some awful brawls without a hint of truce.

Hydrox suing Oreo -- you think that is audacious?

Tis nothing to the other brands of biscuits, quite voracious.

Each wafer seen upon the shelf of any groceria

got there through hard battle and a bit of logorrhea.

America loves cookies; we are stout in their defense.

Even though their calories give dieters offence.

Whether cream or brittle, thin or thick as lurking thieves,

the snacking on an Archway true Nirvana sure achieves.

So Keebler and Nabisco are in deadly dark contention

to make their brand of cookie the one truest sweet ascension.

Chips Ahoy torpedoes any Clif Bar found a-floating;

Fig Newtons stomp on Lorna Doone, and then commence to gloating.

In truth the cookie aisle in stores, and relative position,

is crafted with the cunning of a running politician.

The bottom shelf's Siberia -- no Little Debbie there.

It's where they dump the Snackwells without any further care.

And when the Famous Amos truck arrives upon its route

the Nilla thugs are waiting to hijack it with a shout.

Walker's Shortbread, tartan clad, does battle with the Voortman,

and doesn't scruple to use tactics shunned by any sportsman.


The worst part, from consumer's view, is pricing that's outrageous.
To purchase top brand cookies needs a purse that is courageous.
Pepperidge Farm Milanos must be worth their weight in gold,
and buying Barnum's Animals makes me feel I've been rolled!

Where will it end, where will it end -- these most unseemly rumbles?

Is this the way, the only way, the pleasing cookie crumbles?

Please grant competing cookie brands a bit of cool afflatus --

otherwise the market will default to cheap galletas! 

Postcards to the President

************************************************

The spies holding converse with spies

Are oft in amazing disguise;

A nose with mustache

Or buck teeth that gnash --

They’re MAD Magazine kind of guys.

Tim Torkildson

"The Poet Laureate of the NYT Newsroom."

Provo Utah

801-310-4804

Available for birthday parties and clambakes

The Blonde Pied Piper

Federal officials still do not know how many children were separated at the border from their families by the Trump administration, according to an inspector general report.

WSJ  @palomaesquivel  

Down where castanets do sway

and razor wire grows like hay,

the old folks like to sigh and say

"here children used to sing and play."

You look around, and cannot see

kids in the near vicinity.

It seems there is a history

of children missing frequently.

They say a blonde man dressed in blue

came through the town with his kazoo

and such a merry tune he blew

that children followed, two by two.

Their parents yelled and held them tight

and put up a tremendous fight,

but that blonde piper with words trite

proved to have astounding might.

"My friends" he said, "I come to you

because you need to take the view

that you must tell your kids adieu

while we are now deporting you."

"You didn't bother to apply

for green cards; that's the reason why

your hard work cannot justify

any kind of alibi."

"But have no fear, your kiddies dear

will stay with me until leap year.

This is to teach you to adhere

to our most lawful atmosphere!"

The parents did begin to swoon

as that blonde piper played his tune;

and underneath a hazy moon

the children with him did commune.

He led them all to barracks grim

with his hateful little hymn,

and gave them to caretakers prim

who all used a fake pseudonym.

And there they stayed, to fade away.

Deprived of love, forbid to play.

Forgotten by that piper fey,

who went on a golf holiday. 

Their anxious parents, I must tell,

could not come back their grief to quell,

but were put on a carousel

and spun away to sadly dwell

in lands they did not like too well.

Postcards to President Trump

A Pint of Ben & Jerry's

On Wednesday, 16 of the top 20 books on Amazon’s romance best-seller list were titles from its book-publishing arm or were self-published on Amazon’s platform.

WSJ

A pint of Ben & Jerry's and a box of tissues near;

I'm ready for a romance that will bring a wistful tear.

I love to read of heroines who find by page fifteen

a ranch hand or a pirate who is handsome, true, and clean.

Complications intervene to sever their true fate,

until a lush denouement on page 288.

So what care I if Amazon has cornered such a market?

When it comes to passion, they're the only ones can spark it!

And if it gets erotic round the edges, that's okay;

my kids will not pick up a book -- it's Minecraft fills their day.

I snuggle up with Kindle for a busty maiden's sighs

as she bounces bed to bed to test compliant guys.

I could pen a romance and to Amazon present it.

They wouldn't mind my typos or bad grammar to resent it.

Maybe clear a couple thou -- now that would be a kick --

for writing hanky-panky and then laying it on thick.

Hi ho, hi ho, an author soon I'll be for Amazon.

I'll manufacture purple prose, and dreck proceed to spawn.

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