Category Archives: synthesis

Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.

The sliding dog tried to break the sound barrier, borne on fresh beet booties marinated in vinegar. He was launched on a football field with a small rocket on his red collar, howling his determination and wagging his tail as he sped along. He failed, but he put on a good show for everybody who came to watch him on his 85th attempt. He modeled perseverance. Bobby was the ultimate Beagle—he kept his tail up and his nose to the ground. He enjoyed leg humping, go fetch, rolling in shit, and tugging on a towel.

I got him from an unbalanced rabbit hunter named Fudd. Fudd had 101 Beagles. They overran his life. When he walked around his fenced yard, it was like he was floating on a sea of tail-wagging barking Beagles. As fast as they had puppies, he gave the puppies away. He would put a big cardboard box filled with puppies on the curb in front of his house. The adult dogs lived in dumpsters that were modified to accommodate them with entrance holes cut out with acetylene torches at the bottom corner of each dumpster—there were 70 dumpsters in his fenced-in back yard. The pet store delivered a pickup truck overflowing with dried dog food every week.

When it came time for a rabbit hunt, Fudd would lasso one of his dogs, shove it in a carrier box, and put it on the back seat of his vintage Oldsmobile. They would drive out to the state land tract on the outskirts of town. He would load his shotgun, turn the dog loose, and wait for some action. On this particular day the dog “opened up” almost immediately, but it wasn’t chasing anything—it was just barking in one place. Then, it came out of the woods carrying a sneaker. The dog turned around and went back in the woods. Fudd followed him.

There was a corpse of a middle-aged woman leaning up against a tree. she had been shot several times in the forehead. She was wearing only one sneaker. Fudd commanded his dog to drop the other sneaker. He put a leash on the dog and they got out of there. Fudd had a criminal record and didn’t want to take any chances with the police. They drove a mile up the road and Fudd turned the dog loose again. The same thing happened, only this time the dead person was sitting in a wheelchair riddled with bullets. He was about 70-75 and had note pinned to his chest. It was full of bullet holes and soaked with blood. Fudd could still read it. It said “I did him a favor.” Fudd said to himself “Mercy killing,” leashed the dog and headed with him back to his car.

When he got out to the road, there was a state trooper standing by his car. He asked to see Fudd’s hunting license. Fudd produced it and the Trooper told him “You’re ok” and Fudd put it back in his wallet and decided it was time to go home. The rabbits could wait.

When he got home, his house was on fire and all of his dogs were gone—“liberated” by the local animal rights activists “Barking Up The Right Tree.” Fudd was furious. He called his homeowners insurance agent and put in a claim for his burnt down home.

“Barking Up The Right Tree” was meeting at the “Doozy Duds” laundromat that afternoon. They had five members. Fudd loaded up what was left of his charred pump shotgun and headed to the laundromat to kill them all. He walked in the front door and the first thing he saw was “Bouncy” Barbara Mills. She was the one woman he had loved in a life littered with pain, rejection, and humiliation. Barbaa looked at him with tears in her eyes and said “My Fuddy.” She ran to Fudd, embracing him and kissing his neck. His thoughts of mass murder quickly faded away and they headed for “Slammin’ Chalets” to reconnect.

Believe it or not, they got married the next week. Fudd bought a new home with his insurance settlement. “Bouncy” is pregnant and Fudd has promised to own no more than 10 Beagles. Rabbit pox has caused a significant setback to rabbit hunting. Fudd has started hunting groundhogs and squirrels, and the occasional house cat.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available in an early edition on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.

I had grown a beak. A big yellow beautiful beak. I was wondering why it happened when I thought of my bird feeder. Feeding the birds was my hobby—helping them survive and thrive. My major bird buddies were Juncos, Gold Finches, Purple Finches, Tufted Titmice and one male talking Cardinal. All the rest of the birds just peeped and chittered, but the Cardinal was a real yapper. Christopher Cardinal told bird jokes: “What do you call birds who don’t know song lyrics? Hummingbirds.” That’s damn funny! He could actually sing songs about birds. For example: backed up by the Cat Bird Quartet providing the tune, he could kill the lyrics of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “”Free Bird” perched on top of the feeder with his Cardinal crest dyed blond:

But if I stay here with you, girl
Things just couldn’t be the same
‘Cause I’m as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change
Oh, oh, oh, oh
And the bird you cannot change
And this bird, you cannot change
Lord knows, I can’t change

He would flap his wings when he sang “Cause I’m as free as a bird now . . .” And the Catbird Quartet would bob up and down. I played my “Howdy Doody Peanut Gallery Guitar.” It had a crank that an engineer friend of mine had refashioned to play “Free Bird” over and over again when I cranked it.

Every once in awhile we’d do a night show. I would duct tape my flashlight to a mop handle and prop it up against the front of the house, about ten feet from the feeder. I would turn on the flashing function and we’d have a real light show. We’d do “Rockin’ Robin,” “Robin in the Rain,” and we’d often close with Leonard Cohen’s “Bird on the Wire.” It is totally depressing, but it gives you a lot to think about:

Like a bird on the wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free
Like a worm on a hook
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee

Wow! And then, last but not least, the Cardinal recites bird-oriented poetry! My foavorite is Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is the Thing With Feathers”:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all, , , ,

This is all pretty amazing. I feel blessed to have a talking Cardinal for a friend. As long as I keep feeding him and the other birds they all keep coming back for more. Two days ago a Canada Goose landed by the feeder and looked straight at me and said “F*ck you!” I did what I had to do and had roast goose for dinner that night. I blew a hole in the kitchen window screen, but that does not matter. I will not let a goose get away with insulting me.

So, what about my beak? I must admit it’s fake. It is part of the chicken suit I wear around the house, out in the yard, and grocery shopping too. it has an egg pocket in the back that works to lay eggs. Without fail, I lay two per day! Christopher thinks it’s hilarious.

Let just say in closing, after I saw the movie “The Birds” I couldn’t sleep. It made me realize that there are bad birds who hate humans and want to peck them out of existence. In a way they are like my neighbors who want to metaphorically peck me to death with taunts when I play my Howdy Doody guitar or wear my chicken suit to the grocery store. Maybe I could do to them what I did to the Canada Goose.

Ha ha. I can see Mr. Joblousy on his back on my dining room table with his arms and legs sticking up and his butt stuffed with chestnut dressing.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.

Synthesis (sin’-the-sis): An apt arrangement of a composition, especially regarding the sounds of adjoining syllables and words.

We went wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted. We were wild. We were young. We were idiots. We didn’t care how we got there. Sure, we walked most of the time—it was cool. But we also hitchiked. We didn’t consider the danger. We were idiots. “We” was me and Bobby Magee. We had nothin’ to lose. Our house had burned down and we had hit the road. I suspected Bobby had done it with his homemade bong—tin foil and a toilet paper roll. He said vapes were for wimps. Everything we owned was destroyed except for the clothes on our backs, Bobby’s harmonica, and his dirty old bandana. .

All Bobby could play on the harmonica was “Three Blind Mice” and “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” He had had the harmonica for a year and aspired to be a virtuoso like the great Slim Harpo. He practiced his two songs relentlessly. I wanted to run his harmonica through the wood chipper. I dreamed about blind mice rowing a boat to a cheeses factory on the River Styx. I would wake up screaming in my bed like I was rowing a boat. I could smell cheese. It was horrifying.

Of course Bobby didn’t have a job. I worked at home making decorative cardboard gift boxes for a company located in Taiwan. When the house went up in smoke, so did my job. So, I was unemployed just like Bobby. We decided to move to California and start over again. We made a sign that said “Make America Great Again. CALIFORNIA” and started hitchiking. Our first ride was with a guy in camo-painted Ford Bronco. He was driving one-handed with a pistol in the other hand. He pointed it at us and motioned us into the truck. “God bless you” he said and fired a round out his window. Me and Bobby looked at each other terrified. The guy driving said “My name’s Edward, but my friends call me Jesus.” That did it, Bobby pulled his harmonica out of his dirty old bandana and started playing “Three Blind Mice” double time. He was on his sixth rendition when “Jesus” told us the get the hell out of his “all-wheel angel bus.” He pulled over and we jumped out.

We were lucky to be at a rest stop. There was an old school bus that had “Make America Great Again” pained on the side. Given our hitching sign, this was a sure ride. And it was! We were joining the immigrant hunt down on the Arizona-Mexico border. Chip, the hunt leader, assured us we would find “game” and probably knock off a few families. We were the only ones without axe handles, but no matter how much we wanted to “Make America Great Again,” we didn’t want to beat people with axe handles. I made a harmonica sign at Bobby. He got it and pulled his harmonica out of his dirty old bandana and started blowing “Three Blind Mice.” He got through four renditions before they threw us off the bus. It was 2:00 am out in the middle of nowhere.

We decided to use our thumbs instead of the sign. After an hour a Land Rover pulled over and picked us up. It was a married couple on their way to LA. They gave each a bottled water and an apple. Me and Bobby fell asleep. When we awoke we were at a homeless shelter where our benefactors were waiting for us to wake up. They gave us $50 and wished us well. We settled in the shelter. Bobby started playing “Three Blind Mice” and we came close to being thrown out.

Everything has worked out. I got a job picking avocados. Bobby tried giving harmonica lessons but was unsuccessful. Now, he’s writing stories an about a harmonica player named William Honer, and the tribulations he endures climbing the “slippery” staircase to success.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.