A virtual shoe box containing meaningful, fun, interesting, odd -- pictures, videos, poems, stories, observations etc.
Your comments and contributions are welcome.

Monday, October 25, 2010


This is a real record album.  A comment from someone who saw it was "What happens in the teapot stays in the teapot."  Priceless!

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Grover Takes Off on Old Spice Guy

My favorite Sesame Street character has a new bit -- a take off of the Old Spice commercial.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

A Dying Cub Fan's Last Request

Selecting a Reader

Selecting a Reader

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there,
in the bookstore, she will tumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

Ted Kooser from the book Flying at Night

Monday, August 2, 2010

F. Scott Fitzgerald's, "The Great Gatsby"

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.
"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."  
Chapter 1, opening words.

Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
Chapter 1, Nick on Gatsby.

This is a valley of ashes - a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
Chapter 2.

Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors' eyes-a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
Chapter 9.

And as I sat there, brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out Daisy's light at the end of his dock. He had come such a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close he could hardly fail to grasp it. But what he did not know was that it was already behind him, somewhere in the vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Chapter 9.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter- tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning-
Chapter 9.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Chapter 9

Saturday, July 31, 2010

Found inside a poetry book at the Chicago Public Library

The Voyager II Satellite

The tin man is cold:
the glitter of distant worlds
is like snow on his coat.
Free-falling through space,
he spreads his arms
and slowly turns,
hands reaching to catch
the white, elusive
dandelion fuzz
of starlight. He is the dove
with wings of purest gold
sent out upon the deep
to seek a place for us,
the goat upon whose back
we've sent our problems
into exile, the dreamy beast
of peace and science
who now grows smaller, smaller,
falling so gracefully
into the great blank face
of God.

by Ted Kooser
Poet Laureate of the United States (2004-2006)