Just a few things for your Monday morning.
Every time I watch a weather forecast on television, here is what I think of: The “meteorologist” is in a locked, candle lit back room of the studio. She wears a long black robe emblazoned with golden stars and moons. Donning a matching, pointy black cap she sits at a small table covered with a deep blue silk cloth with gold fringe. Drinking the last of her tea, she studies the dregs. Flinging aside the tea cup she pulls out a deck of cards, shuffles and lays them out, consulting the Tarot. On the table, fresh chicken blood, pooled in an upturned human skull waits to be drizzled into a bowl. Now she tosses in some old bones, rolls it around the base of the bowl while murmuring incantations under her breath. And finally, the Crystal Ball. Clouds of mist roil around inside the ball as she waves her hands in the air. More incantations, louder now until her voice is crackly and pleading. Suddenly the ball clears, she studies what she sees, a high pitched cackle escapes the room as a knock comes on the door. Haphazardly discarding the robe and cap, she grabs the weather screen remote and before letting herself out of the room she consults the Magic 8 ball. And in, 3…2…1… “Good evening, here is your weather forecast for today….”
When I hear the word, “scholar,” I imagine men in long robes and mortar board hats with gold fringes swaying, as they walk hallowed halls of wisdom, with their degrees on sheepskin carried in their hands, they discuss lofty ideas about how to find a job.
“Scientist,” inevitably reminds me of Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein. A black and white image of a madman with wild hair pulling levers and throwing switches releasing lightening bolts of electricity from odd machines and shouting, “It’s Alive!!!”
“Psychologist” brings an image of Sigmund Freud talking about penis envy. With his angry look and inevitable cigar he tells you what’s wrong with you all the while being as crazy as a shithouse rat himself.
The word, “onomatopoeia” is not an onomatopoeia and reminds me of John Prine.
A “homonym” is not a homonym and reminds me of white corn.
An “octothorpe” is a hashtag is a pound symbol or maybe a village for spiders.
Any time I hear the word, “wizard” I am reminded of the man behind the curtain, to whom you are to pay no attention. Frantically pulling levers and turning dials, all for effect, smoke and mirrors, like politicians.
“Philosophers” talk about crap you don’t understand and couldn’t care less about, and also can’t find jobs.
The “Obelus” comes between us and makes us smaller.
“Monk” brings to mind Gregorian Chanters in long hooded robes or an obsessive–compulsive private detective.
An “Astrologer” finds meaning in the position of stars and planets, where there is none.
“Schrodingers Cat” was confused. And so was Schrodinger.
The word “Seldom” makes me think of a walled town filled with vendors hawking their wares.
“Calorie” is a mythical land close to Honahlee from the Puff the magic dragon song where people eat all day and never get fat.
A “Cacophony” is having a coughing fit over the phone.
“Cabotage” is to sabotage with cabbage.