For decades, a stranger in a long coat, scarf and hat would leave three roses and a half-empty bottle of cognac at the grave of Edgar Allen Poe on the writer’s birthday.
But recently, the stranger has failed to show up, and people are starting to worry.
Has the stranger gone forever?
What happened to them?
I’m sad about the loss of another of life’s romantic mysteries.
There’s no more Bermuda Triangle.
Or Bigfoot.
Or Loch Ness Monster.
No miracles, no monsters.
All of the things we knew not to be true but still believed in are fading away.
Gone.
Tag: society
Giant Robots
There’s nothing I like more than watching gigantic robots beating the crap out of each other.
One lunges at the other with a massive arm, which barely dodges out of the way, and then responds with a wicked jab.
All the while, people shouting and pointing… it’s a thrill-a-minute!
Oh, sure, it would be more interesting with blades and hammers, but all we’ve got here on the assembly line is grabber and welder bots.
Well, until they move operations to Mexico.
Yeah, I saw the memo. Corporate fuckers.
So, screw the Mexicans… let’s have some fun right now!
Fight! Fight!
Codger
Infinite Sam checked the calendar on his helper implant.
“Think Tank” it said.
Retirement at last.
He smiled.
That smile had gotten him through centuries of genetically-extended and cybernetically-enhanced adventures.
He’d seen everything.
He’s done everything.
He’s been everywhere, man.
He’d even spent a decade in the museum as an exhibit, answering questions, always smiling.
He tried to remember… foggy… confused…
Teeth can be manufactured.
So can bones and blood.
And even brains…
Sorta.
Cloned, and flashed from his memory template.
This old one would join the others in the tank, retiring to Dreamland.
One last smile before surgery…
Perfect!
Play Ball
Every ballgame begins with the playing of the national anthem.
Some local choir was singing, and they sounded great…
“Over the land of the free
And the home of the brave?”
The crowd cheered, and the home plate umpire shouted “PLAY BALL!” but the players didn’t take the field.
They liked the choir’s singing so much, they wanted to hear them sing for a bit more.
“We’re not in a rush, right?” said the managers. “The stadium’s got lights. And tomorrow’s a travel day.”
So, they laid out blankets on the field, got some sodas, and everybody enjoyed the choir.
The Spell
There’s always a few parts left over when you fix it, right?
Well, the famous Maillardet Automaton is no exception.
Charles Roberts reconstructed the device without plans or diagrams back in 1928, and repairs were made in the Seventies and 2007.
The cams and disks inside cause the mechanism to make four drawings and three poems.
It used to write a fourth poem, but those disks were removed after a fire nearly destroyed the Franklin Institute.
Not really a poem, but a spell.
A doomsday spell, barely stopped.
Turn the crank again.
Watch the clockwork boy wink, grin, and laugh.
The Cart
A old, tired Mexican
In a denim work shirt
and faded torn jeans,
a dirty ball cap,
and a makeshift bandage
tied around his knee
Pedaling an unmarked ice cream cart
With a wobbly left front wheel
Up a hill
Slowly
Slowly
I watch him
What is in his cart?
The big white box
With the wobbly wheel
Tamales for the day laborers
Who line the road
Waiting to be picked up
By contractors
In their big shiny pickup trucks?
I hear the rattle of metal
Tools? His tools?
Or chains?
I watch him pedal
Up the hill
And away
King Midas
They called him King Midas, but he insisted that people call him Bob.
And he was the richest man in the world.
He invested heavily in internet companies, riding the hype until right before the bottom dropped out, moving his money to the companies with actual business plans and sources of revenue.
Then, he started to invest in monkeys.
Pretty soon, his ranch was filled with monkeys of all kinds and sizes.
“Gonna get them to type Shakespeare?” asked a reporter.
“That would be stupid,” said Bob. “Shakespeare’s already written.”
And he pointed at the reporter. “Kill.”
The monkeys obeyed.
Quarter
Susan and I were in our usual booth at the coffee shop.
Two cups of coffee on the table, mine black and hers with cream and sugar.
She’s got her iPad out, Facebooking.
Then, she takes a napkin from the dispenser, jots down a note, flicks the pad some more.
“Can’t you just tap that out on the pad?” I ask.
She doesn’t even look up from the pad. “What?”
I take a quarter out of my pocket, plink it against the table, *plerp* into the cup.
She picks up the cup, sips.
Doesn’t even notice.
I pay and leave.
The Juggler
Emmett The Post-Modern Juggler didn’t juggle balls or torches or chainsaws.
He juggled schedules.
From an entertainment aspect, okay, he was boring as hell. Just sitting up there on stage, tapping away at his iPad and syncing it to his laptop and phone.
But the Time Management consultants were fascinated how he dealt with scheduling conflicts while engaged in so many different tasks and doing them well.
“He’s on vacation in Paris while giving a presentation in Chicago and attending his grandmother’s funeral?” they said. “He’s amazing!”
The lawyers weren’t impressed. “Let’s see him bill all that like we do.”
Control
I don’t know what’s more embarrassing… losing control of your bowels in a movie theater or losing control of your bowels in a courtroom.
When you lose control of them in a movie theater, okay, you make a mess in your pants and the seat, but all it takes is a mop and a steam-cleaner and everything’s as good as new.
But when you lose control of them in a courtroom, well, you have to file an appeal, pay the lawyer again, and make sure you get a judge who doesn’t think you don’t deserve custody of your own asshole.