Thoughts And Prayers

Strolling up on easy street It couldn’t happen here
I’d better send an easy tweet with thoughts and prayers

I think i’ll get a coffee, Think i’ll go downstairs
But not before sending off my thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers Thoughts and prayers

Staring blindly at your screens In your easy chairs
Sending thoughts….and prayers

This has triggered somethingI gotta show I care
But I can’t think of anything but thoughts and prayers

Just another bloodbath Life can be so unfair
I won’t stop a shooter, But I’m sending thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers, Thoughts and prayers
Staring blindly at your screens In your easy chairs
Sending thoughts….and prayers

Now If your faith had legs, You wouldn’t vote for millionaires
That won’t change the gun laws but send their thoughts and prayers

No blood on MY hands, And got no Helping hand to lend
But I feel like a hero Because I pressed “send”

Thoughts and prayers, Thoughts and prayers
Staring blindly at your screens In your easy chairs
Sending thoughts….and prayers

I didn’t cause it… (thoughts and prayers)
I can’t control it … (thoughts and prayers)
And I can’t cure it…. (thoughts and prayers)
thoughts and prayers ad nauseam… thoughts and prayers

Just sitting in my bubble, I was caught unaware
That things like this might happen. Here’s my thoughts and prayers

I gotta make excuses To show I really care
Sending off my useless Thoughts and prayers

Thoughts and prayers, Thoughts and prayers
Staring blindly at your screens In your easy chairs
Sending thoughts….and prayers

Then there are the victims, But They no longer care
They’d rather have their life back, Stead of your thoughts and prayers

“In my defense, I am Dyslexic”

One of the little things I take pleasure in is giving an alias to the baristas at Starbucks when they ask for my name. I am usually buying a latte for my sweetie. I have used some such as:  “The Emperor”; “Viking Banana”;”Ziggy Stardust”; “The Dude”; etc.

I also like to give the names of famous musicians as well. I have used “Frank Zappa”; “Willie Nelson” and “Bob Dylan”. 

This little game usually puts a smile on the person’s face who took the order and also the person who prepares the coffee. I make a point of asking who it’s for if the barista just hands it out. If the name is really absurd I might ask them to announce it louder. It is a fun game and most of the servers go along with it. They won’t print swearing, which I understand but I find irritating. I wanted to use “corporate prick” and was refused. 

One time I told the Barista I was the “Queen of Sheba” who is a biblical figure of repute. An African Queen who bore gifts of great value to King Solomon. The barista wrote “Queen of Shiva” which is a word likely known to the man who was probably jewish rather than Hindu. In Judaism, shiva is a period of mourning. In Hinduism it is a god of asceticism (deprival)…similar, but not Sheba.

My latest encounter was when I told the person taking my order that I was “Beethoven”. She complied and before I saw it she said it was “probably mis-spelled”. I asked “How can you mis-spell such a famous name?” She said “I am in Science, not music!” I told her I was in music, but I could spell “Einstein” and furthermore I asked her if “for example, you are writing a Master’s thesis on Hydrocarbons, what would happen if you got “Hydrocarbon” wrong? We agreed she would probably fail. She then exclaimed… “in my defense, I am dyslexic!” which to me is not a defense at all, but an excuse because I, too, am dyslexic and have only used that as an excuse for comedic reasons as in “I have sex daily” which is an anagram of “I have dyslexia”. (I’d rather have sex daily for the record.)

When I got the coffee and read the label on the cup I was amazed at how wrong she could have gotten it. I was tempted to ask if she was related to Donald Trump, but that would have been cruel and insulting.

Second Printing

second printing.

Sharon and I are pleased to announce that the second printing of our CD Tumbleweed is ready to go. We can now fill orders that we were unable to fill because we sold out in the rush to reach our charity goal before Christmas. If you would like a copy, send me your address and send an e-transfer to Most people paid $20.00 plus two bucks to cover Canadian postage, but paying it forward is also part of the deal, pay what you can. We will be putting the money aside in order to contribute to the St. James Drop In Centre again when we have amassed a good round number. One of the men who benefits from the services of St. James Drop-in centre bought a copy. He is homeless, does not even have a CD player, but insisted on supporting this project. Be yourself, but be like him.

Foggy Lenses

Last night while sitting with friends, I watched as several people came in from the minus seventeen degrees outside to the very warm atmosphere of the café. Every one of them wearing glasses had to stop at the top of the stairs, blinded by their own eyewear.

People who have never fully experienced the kind of climate we usually can expect in January and February in my part of Canada may need an explanation of a phenomenon that happens to everyone who wears eyeglasses.

There is always water in the air landing on and evaporating from your glasses. under normal conditions, this is almost (if not outright) invisible.

When you’ve been outside in cold weather for sufficiently long, your glasses cool down, and the water that condenses on your glasses will not be warmed as much, hence the rate of evaporation decreases. Upon entering a warm building, the water vapour coming into contact with your glasses immediately condenses on the cold surface, but cannot evaporate quickly enough so the glasses fog up.

Hilarious watching patrons of the café trying to flag down the newcomers who we all know are standing there baffled and disoriented.

Fortunately the glasses will eventually assume room temperature and the condensation evaporates. This can be aided by wiping the lenses, or just removing the glasses until they become clear again.

Not Me, No How, No Way

“Not me, no how, no way, no more, I’m retired” said the cap on his head. I heard him singing under his breath as he was shuffling down the hall before and after being seen by the doctor I was waiting for. I craned my neck to read it as my eyes were all gummed up with some preparatory poison before my laser surgery. I liked this guy’s vibe. I struck up a conversation with him. I told him I loved his hat. He had a slight Caribbean accent. Not sure which Island. Maybe St. Kitt’s. I knew some elderly people from St. Kitt’s and his accent reminded me of them. He said I was too young to wear it. I told him my age (62) and he was taken aback, but still told me I was a youngster. He then went on to tell me his life story about coming to Canada at age thirty, working for thirty years at the Queen E. (local slang for the Queen Elizabeth Hotel). “Always nights!” He said. He then told me he hasn’t worked for almost as long. Now, I am no mathematician, but that adds up to a lot of years. “I’m ninety-two!” he exclaimed. He then told me he had never eaten in a restaurant (despite being at a really swank hotel preparing food for others). I suggested that maybe that was what has been key to his longevity. That, or perhaps he knows something about restaurants that we don’t I added slyly. He said “No, I just prefer to do my own cooking.” He said scoffingly that people think they are getting fresh, but they use huge microwaves that give the impression of fresh. He then told me about a macaroni pie he had made the night before. “Obviously counting carbs” I wisecracked and he wisely ignored as he continued to list the ingredients and spices (lots of spices-cumin,paprika, mustard, and so on) he used and the loosely fitting tin foil cover in order to not have the pie stick. His macaroni pie had little bits of chicken that he had cut up the size of a fingertip. He showed me his 92 year old little fingertip to demonstrate.

—–Sidetrack—-“I didn’t call it a “pinkie” because years ago when I asked my good friend Charlie Biddle why he didn’t use his pinkie when playing the upright bass? He said “I don’t have one. Mine’s a Blackie!” I had never considered the subtle racial overtones of calling something by a name that could be offensive. Charlie wasn’t offended, but I became more aware.

Although they’d be the same age if Charlie were still  alive, my new friend didn’t remind me of Charlie so much as some of the church elders I have known. He gave off Good vibes. Kind vibes.

I hope that if I get thirty more on the planet like he has, that I walk down hallways singing, no matter what, and that I still take time to talk to strangers and never use up all the spices.