I work now. No shit. Outside of the house. With people. Blecch. Every sunday. I drive the Zamboni at the local skating rink. Don't ask how I got the job, I'm not sure myself. Not exactly a drive and maintain large machinery competently kind of guy really. Mostly I'm a, "Sure i'll drive it . . . what is it?" kind of guy. The tough part is hockey parents. Nothing like two 40 year-olds who want to bash each other's brains in over a 2 minute offsides (I don't know what that means) penalty committed by one of their kids. The men are bad too.
It's no place for a Jew on Rosh Hashanah. Or any other day.
The nice part is that there is some down time. This week, I used my down time to whip out a few haiku. Originally inspired by (ripped off from) a post from this consistently funny blog. That and a phone call from home. I don't mean to be unoriginal, it's just when I see haiku, I want to do them too. Wrote many back when I was stuck in a cubicle not working. They're fun. Ok, with out further ado, common 5-7-5 format:
Homemaker Man not home
Daughter on phone whines "help me."
Whoa. Poor Poor mommy
Hockey moms and dads
kids run freely, skates gleaming
Hey, whose toe is that?
Hockey time is here
Cold wind blows through empty seats
wake up, white people.
I want to use the word
Zamboni in a haiku
I think this is cheating.
P.S. I'd like to say, mainly to my wife but also to any one else who is either a truly skilled (like my wife) poet or who really knows poetry, I know that these count as haiku only by the very slimmest of margins. A real haiku is like origami. Small and delicate and simple and beautiful, and when you unfold it there are many many layers. My haiku are more like fucked-up paper airplanes. They work for a short distance but then they either crash or poke someone in the eye.