BIG WORDS.

I was reading a magazine the other day when I came across a word that I found amusing. Well, it wasn't so much the word, but rather the somewhat interesting use of the word put together with my understanding of the author's intentions through the cynical prism that I sometimes call a brain.

The word was 'detritus' or in other words: debris, odds and ends, decaying or disintegrating stuff, AKA: trash.

The reason I was amused was because here was a writer describing something seemingly valueless in order to ascribe some sort of literary value to himself. It's like when anyone uses the word 'esoteric'; the word is self-fulfilling. Esoteric is esoteric. It means: requiring or exhibiting knowledge that is restricted to a small group. The people who understand and use the word esoteric would most likely qualify as a somewhat small group. And, in a similarly laughable (but inaudibly laughable) way, using the word detritus to say trash to look good is amusing to say the least.

Of course I may be reading into this too much. Maybe the author uses the word detritus in his everyday speech. In fact, maybe everyone does. Maybe I'm the dumb one...or just jaded. Cue that mediocre Aerosmith song.

This was apparently on the same sidewalk as the previous picture:I almost got mad at whoever wrote it. Don't tell everyone where the factory is!

Mystery of the missing forks

After coming home from church, I was happy with the prospect of eating. I was going to reheat the pasta I brought home last night from a local Italian restaurant. And, I successfully reheated it, and even offered some to my brother. However, when we sat down to eat it, we realized something horrifically disturbing had occurred. We had only one fork. 

I checked the sink for dirty dishes. There were only 2, and no fork. I checked the drying rack. There were only spoons and knives. I checked the silverware drawer. Again, only spoons and knives. I checked the random kitchen utensil drawer. No forks. We had no forks. 

No hope. 

So, I ate my meal with a spoon (begrudgingly might I add). Oh, and to make things worse, the fork we were left with was a midget-sized one. Yeah, a shrimp fork. My brother used it, with tears pouring down his face.

I honestly do not know what happened to our forks, but I should have seen this coming. About a month ago we lost all but one of our big forks, and just today we lost all but one of the shrimp forks. But, I do have some theories as to how this has happened:

1. First and foremost I will blame the trash collectors, who have not only refused to take our trash, but now have absconded with our forks (Probably so they can do some weird trashman mystic rituals).

2. We have a clever criminal who has a moderately refined taste for IKEA silverware, and particularly forks. He could be Swedish, given that IKEA is a Swedish company, or he could be Chinese, because all of IKEA's stuff is made there.

3. Our forks left us. They just could not tolerate our cooking any longer. They probably ran off to Italy so their could skewer sausages for the rest of their lives.

4. Ashton Kutcher has devised his most carefully orchestrated PUNK'd episode ever. The filming is over the course of several months. He is starting to mess with us by stealing our forks, then he'll move on to where it hurts: our house plants and pillow cases. Bastard.

5. There are gnomes that live in our house, and they are plotting to take over by creating super-powered fork thrower that they will connect to the back of their pet fox. Their leader David will ride out gloriously in the midst of a charming Christmas dinner party and all hell will break loose.

PS - If you have any ideas as to the whereabouts of our forks please contact us immediately. This is a picture of Fred the fork, last seen with this pasta dish:

Defiant Garbage Collectors

Every wednesday morning, garbage collectors come by my house. I assume they come to collect garbage. Seems only logical. 

Well, last week they came by our street and picked up all the garbage from every house...except our house. Why? Well, I figured that it was some technicality. Perhaps we had too many trash cans or something. Or, maybe we didn't roll them out far enough into the street for their passage to be obstructed enough not to ignore. Or, maybe the fact that we filled each can with 300 pounds of lead, and a family of rats. But no, I think what happened was much more malicious.

They are haters. They didn't like our trash. And they don't like us. They were making a statement. Well, we're going to get them back. First, we called up their supervisors. Yeah, we're tattlers. And, when they come back, we'll have a post-halloween surprise waiting for them. A few dead bodies!!! That'll learn 'em (you love my grammatical correctness).

The Morning After

Today is like the morning after. The streets are quiet, the drunks are still konked out, and the merriment has subsided. We had to take out the trash and do the laundry and tidy things up a bit to leave the cabin this morning, and now I'm just idling by the Silver Maple again, waiting for the load of laundry to finish a block down the street. The vendors are mostly still asleep, and having already bought a Hawaiian backpack and some books from the library, I think I've done my duty.

Among the books I purchased were biographies of James Dean, Winston Churchill, Benjamin Disraeli, and Henry Kissinger. I also got a book on Australia circa 1968 (I don't think much has changed since then - well, that's not true, but it had cool pictures). The books cost five dollars in total, and the backpack cost fifteen dollars. I needed to buy the books to fill the backpack. Made perfect sense. Oh, and I bought a photograph of the Bridgeport valley with the sawtooth ridge in the background. That will be shipped to me, and in a week will cost me forty bucks, but it's signed and I'll put it in my room or office. The lady who sold me the picture is from Lemoore, California, just fifteen minutes or so west of Visalia where my Dad grew up and around which most of my family lives. So, the world grows smaller.

I have no real anecdotal irreverence this morning, but I'll fill your basket or bucket soon.