Small & Big

United States democracy is awesome: every citizen 18 years and older votes. People of every race, gender, and affiliation get to the polls before they close to mark that little box that helps elect, or not elect, their chosen official. Everyone votes — you, me, your friends, my friends, our friends, that neighbor we don’t like, poor people, rich people, smart and not-so-smart people, vegetarians, meat eaters, fruitarians — we all vote. Wonderful, beautiful democracy. Our democracy. Ha ha, just kidding! People in the U.S. don’t vote. In the 2004 Presidential election less than 43% of eligible voters voted ( U.S. census reports ). This is down from the 69% who voted in 1964 ( source: Bill Moyers ). (That was a “high” point. Hey, it was the 1960s.) Not hearing from a huge segment of the population makes for insiders and outsiders: those who vote and are heard and those who don’t vote and are not heard. Me, I am not a politician, an expert, an analyst. I know nothing about politics or

You ever try a tofu hot dog? One of the brands is especially yummy because, like, it’s tofu plus smokey taste minus gluten plus a molded hot dog shape. All pluses. Whilst enjoying them you might as well pay attention to the bright sunburst blob on the front of the package that says “RICH in soy protein”. Why yes, yes they are. If you can, try not to eat more than two per sitting. So to speak.

My little 16-pound dog Godzilla got tangled up with a skunk last night. On the back porch. With all our windows open. I was bathing her until 1 a.m. with a concoction I found on the Internet ( skunk bath ). It removed maybe 15% of the odor—from the dog but not the house. Even the food inside the refrigerator stinks. I may have discovered the "Only natural diet plan on the market today that really works. Really!" The dog? She puts the whole event into the Great Fun category, right up there with the $600 Chicken Incident. Even now she's searching for her elusive neighbor, the striped combatant, the evening matador. El Skunko image from National Park Service .

Lately I've been noticing a lot on the manipulation of language by politicians. Supposedly, some politicians on the right are shortening the term Democratic Party to Democrat Party to evoke the connection with rats. But wait—Isn't the symbolic animal of the Republican Party the elephant? In Warner Brothers cartoon irony, isn't the largest pachyderm consumed by musaphobia, terrified of a wee mouse? When a person or organization does a thing for a mean reason—like calling someone names—it reflects badly on the culprit. Besides the phobia and forgetting the difference between nice and mean, it can lead to a spanking time out from mummy and daddy. It also invokes the "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" lecture. So I'll stop here. Being nice takes higher character, courage, and conviction than being mean.

      Editor's note: Please read the following carefully as the knowledge expressed herein could some day save you from losing some expensive bet. People oft ask me about my bald Sphynx cat ( related post ) and the traits he shares with Mr. Colbert, esteemed host of The Colbert Report ( related post ). Well, they don't actually. But if the topic ever does pop up I want to be prepared. Here goes: Youngest of a litter of 11 Both on TV, although cat actually on TV Presence in room, kennel, White House compels others to gape Dislike of grizzly bears In-your-face manliness, especially from behind Expressive paws Labeled Caucasian by outside world Goes after prey with patience of lioness, speed of cheetah Hairdo, if cat had hair (or fur) Book knowledge, facts absorbed by sitting on Enjoys nailing guests Climbs to great heights, afraid to come down Fed by higher being, with can opener Riveted by Truth, and pen cap under desk Image of Mr. Colbert (he's the one wearing glasses) fr

This makes no sense whatsoever. None. Of course I can have that piece of chocolate cake sitting delectably atop my plate. Now, after many years of confusion I have learned the truth about this common English language proverb: it is wrong . Although I don't know the origins of the phrase itself—I have an hyphothesis that it came about after the invention of cake—somewhere along the line somebody goofed in the retelling. Instead, say it like this, "You can't eat your cake and have it too." Now it makes sense. Cake eaten, cake gone, confusion gone. Here's more on the topic. You're welcome.

Take the meandering country road of weed and stone take it through close village, working town and city stampede. Come quick along the expressway past sign, font, and distant view tear along the dotted line coast over roller hill. Progress and procrastination to any destination. Take the detour, the scenic, the sudden road. Ride, ride away. Every road leads to another every road returns.

Did you hear about the haiku pizza? It's got 17 slices. Ha ha! I just made that one up. Boy, nothin' goes together better'n pizza and poetry.

Some web links for you to look at, dutifully recorded herein: Edgar Cayce A.R.E. : The works My cheetah : A nice family–oriented contemplation No Fact Zone : Stephen Colbert, unfiltered Reader's Digest jokes : Who doesn't like a joke? tinywords : Wee poems The Colbert Report : America's finest news anchor The world through my eyes : Snazzy photos to make you say Wow What kind of yarn are you? Are you mohair? Cotton? Me, since I cannot answer two of the inquiries I remain a mystery. Phew! Okay, that's the list for the time being. I haven't yet completed reading every blog and website out there. I'll get back to you.

The Monitor published a haiku from yours truly. Yay! You can take a gander at it on this page of www.csmonitor.com .

'Tis true, Dear Reader. I cannot keep a secret from you. I've even written some possible lines for Mr. Colbert to open his show with. What do you think? Which suck? Which are good? Which are from the show itself but I think I thunk it up myself? Here they be: Lock and load, America. Your only shot at the truth is with the Colbert Special. Check under your pillow, America, because this Truth Fairy left you a little something extra. Open wide and say "ahh", America, because I'm going to fix your truth-ache. America, take my hand. I'm the Boy Scout who'll lead you safely across to the truth. Who's batting 1000? All home runs. It's me, Babe Truth, and this is The Colbert Report! Truth. It's what's for dinner. What softens hands while you do the dishes? The truth. You're soaking in it right now. Load up on the sperm whale oil and clean your wick, America, because tonight we're burning the midnight oil of truth. Hello, my name is Stephen

Around lunchtime in summer’s scorching heat there’s a rich smorgasbord of cooking meat. Sizzled sirloin, grilled gizzard, roasted riblets, baked brisket, simmering shank, braised breast, and broiled butt! But a tasty meal I'm not creating, and hope, for my sake, you’re not debating. For my person, heated to the third degree means this summer dish is fillet of me! Sunny image from U.S. Partnership for Healthy Weight Management weightloss guidelines .

My neighbor Don sells novelty products. He drives around Cape Cod in a mini-van filled with pop culture trinkets. For some time he has transported a human-sized stuffed bear in the passengar seat because it won’t fit anywhere else. One summer afternoon, man and bear park at a diner for lunch. Hot and hungry, Don quickly slips inside the comfortable eatery. The loud, busy restaurant is filled with Cape Cod locals but he finds one free seat at the counter and plops down to read the menu board. Suddenly, there is utter quiet. Not a voice, not a fork, not a chew is heard. From across the room an elderly man calls out. “Hey, mister.” Don looks over. The old man nods towards the front window and Don slowly follows his gaze. There, in the dirt next to the passenger door lays the stuffed bear. It has tumbled out through the open van window. “Mister,” the old man yells, “I think your dog’s dead.”

The Sun Rose A golden bloom of summer sun rose, then softly climbed over us. A rock is nothing but wait. Waiting in the wood the crisp bark of my dark dog grows thick round me. Turning home after many long years, my old heart it will lead the way. Kitchen faucet drips enough to wear a sinkhole in a thousand years. This wide man sails past in a billowy shirt. Summer is one long barefoot moment, toes stained green as a miracle. Puritan thought left a lingering resentment of my two elbows. Whenever I think of you I find I cannot remember. One long spring whistle tucks in fresh earthworms and pulls trees straight from the earth. Ruby, gold, and sea glass fill a window, telling stories to a home. Melting under hot suns, rich golden buttercups fatten the slow hill. Wide-eyed and surprised by its birth today, one wee daisy is dazed. You swam in the sea of me. Now we part, ever in our salty skins. Under and over twelve circles round the face time repeats itself. Sunny is the friend with yellow

Here's a genuine, guaranteed, under warranty, super–duper, new and improved hairless Sphynx cat. As seen on TV ( related post ). He goes by the name of Orpheus P. (the "P" stands for "Pineapple Pete"). He's very sweet-natured—evidenced by the fact that he's turned me into the type of person who writes a haiku about their cat. Go figure.      Sunny is the friend      with yellow eyes and a quick      melt disposition. He's a peppy four–year old in this photo. With all the wrinkles, a Sphynx tends to look old to some people... really old. Like at least 112 years old. But they're not, except in People Years. Crave more info? Maybe some music? Go to the Classical Cats website . That's where Orphy comed from.

Reportedly, I came into this world on Sunday, September 21. Depending on who you think you are, this is either an Ice Age ago or it is last week. While I myself don’t remember my debut, apparently others were there who do. Sources say that one minute I was not on Earth and the next I was. Poof. Impossible, you may argue. Humans have notoriously untrustworthy memories. Circumstantial evidence, you say. Fine. But I am currently in possession of two souvenirs that prove the event occurred. The first is an official looking document called a Birth Certificate. This government–issued paper rectangle is stamped, signed, and processed by multiple people with multiple abbreviations tailing their names. The second memento, the main one I have, is Me. Like most of us, I was born approximately nine months after I got started (and although this is a secret, eight months after my parents married). She is a concert pianist and he, an electrician. Even today, if you press her, Mama will look off in

Poetic thinkings in not one line, and certainly not three or more lines. Ready or not, ears let in the wind. House dust settles softly atop all my major appliances. The tight black book honors the carpet with its complete weight. Maturity is in the eyes of the older. I lost the key to my Kia at Ikea. Honey home and sweetly buzzing. A slap is a sobering thought. Wood brushed by white puts up a good front. What does a scale measure when words weigh close to nothing? Bar room brawl by two unknowns and you know it. Slowly the mind speaks when the heart is singing. Neighbors tremble at the unlocked door but keys can drive, drive, drive. Monarchs rule in inches. Grease in the cook pan and someone was home at the time. Vinegar spider, why are you angry? Dog runs away from home meaning only to chase a chipmonk. We slip away light as day. Succumb to peaches. Fourteen stories are in this hand. Grasshopper trembles for dusk. His daily constitution needs an amendment. In the world to come we are a

Among hollow days we lean tall and sure and taking. If the paragraphs don't suit you, close the book If the nightly news troubles you, click off the teevee If the neighbor angers you, change yourself. A small crack has appeared on the fleshy wall my house, re-routed to the Nile come to rest on the ceiling. Splintered homes close to hard-knock doors.