Every few days a villager steps from his hut
only to be killed by a falling coconut.
It’s a death with the taint of the inglorious.
Dying should somehow be more laborious.
But what’s more the mark of courage and grace,
than causing people to smile at Death in its face?
A life punctuated by one misstep is not to be bemoaned.
It beats a life whose living has been indefinitely postponed.
I ambled out the gate, down the street, and noticed:
Well, you can imagine what I thought,
I’ve fallen in with a zombie horde!
But, how to check?
Somehow asking,
“What is your stance on raw brain?”
seemed awkward.
So I concluded that I was—unquestionably—among zombies.
A sadness followed.
Couldn’t they smell that my brains were fresh, disease-free, and everything a Zombie finds delicious?
Did they know something that I didn’t?
Had my brain gone bad without my knowing?
And how could one ever know whether the thing one knows with is sour?
The sadness was short-lived.
A dilemma followed.
For I saw a man walking toward me, against the horde’s flow.
If I didn’t club him in head and try to eat his brain—given his clear unhorde-like behavior–would the horde realize that I was an imposter?
If I did… Well, I would be worse than Tom Hanks trying to get into that coconut in “Cast Away.”
Quite frankly, I had no idea how to get to the brains.
Should that be something I should know?
A piece of common knowledge I’d lost when my brain curdled?
But the horde didn’t descend on the man.
So I concluded it was–unquestionably–a defective zombie horde.
And I went about my day.
I’m like a Pyongyang refugee.
Detergent, far as the eye can see.
In some Seoul department store,
on the cleaning products floor.
I reject your bolder and your brighter
like a Smurf-smashing gorilla fighter.
It’s the same stuff, different box.
I’ll go beat my britches on the rocks.
A shikara is a shallow-draft wooden boat commonly seen on lakes in Kashmir. It should not be confused with a Shakira, which is a Colombian pop star / belly-dancer. Asking for a Shakira ride, is a common–but potentially offensive–mistake. 
Taken in July of 2016 on Dal Lake, Srinagar
Taken in Great Himalayan National Park in July of 2015
Back in my day, we had the “Scenic Overlook.” Now when you’re trekking they have the “Mobile Phone Access Point.” Thoreau would cry.
“What do you want to BE when you grow up?”
They ask you when you’re just a little pup.
So, what part of what I must BE,
is different from the me you see?
Dad thought, “the part that they’ll pay you for.”
Like an allowance for finishing a chore?
“Yes, young man, but you can safely assume,
no one else will pay you to clean your room.”
Kids don’t think of being gainfully employed.
Which seems to make grownups quite annoyed.
At five, I wanted to be a cowboy.
“Son, there’s no jobs in that line of employ.”
That’s OK, then I’ll be an Indian.
“You’d have to be born that way, my friend.”
I wasn’t born a doctor, but you said that’s OK.
“That’s not the same, son, what can I say?”
I know what then, Dad, I’ll be the Batman!
“Come on, son, that’s not a feasible plan.”
You’re thinking Superman, Batman has no powers.
“Bruce Wayne by day, Batman at night, where’s the sleeping hours.”
You have a point there, you’ve got me stumped.
Thinking myself prematurely defunct.
Thing Explainer: Complicated Stuff in Simple Words by Randall Munroe
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Allow me the awkward start of explaining two things before offering my lukewarm reception of “Thing Explainer.” First, I loved “What If?” (this author’s previous book.) I thought that book was brilliant, gave it my highest rating, and eagerly anticipated Munroe’s next book (this one.) Second, I didn’t deduct because this book is a pain to read on an e-reader (at least the basic model I have.) That’s on me. I should’ve known better, and accept full responsibility. All I will say on the matter is to recommend that–if you still do want to read this book—you get a hard copy. [If you have an awesome reader, your results may vary.] The hard copy is large-format, and that’s useful because the graphics are so crucial and the text can be hard to read (some of it is light text / dark background and some is dark text / light background.)
The author uses only the most common 1,000 words of the English language to explain the operations of many modern technologies (e.g. laptops and helicopters) and scientific ideas (e.g. the workings of a cell or the sun.) It’s an intriguing question, and I can see why Munroe was interested in it. Can one convey the inner workings of objects like nuclear power plants or a tree with a rudimentary vocabulary? You can. Munroe does. However, the next question is, “Should you?” I come down on the side of “no.”
One might say, “But this is a book for kids [or people with a child-like grasp of language], you aren’t the target demographic.” Perhaps, but the book doesn’t do children any favors because the brainpower needed to puzzle out what the author is trying to convey through imprecise language can be more than is necessary to expand one’s vocabulary. [e.g. What do “tall road” or “shape checker” mean to you? If you went straight to “a bridge” and “a lock,” you may be more in tune with Munroe’s thinking than I, and thus more likely to find this book appealing.] For adults, it’s like reading essays by an eighth-grader who’s in no danger of being picked for the honor roll. Without the combination of the book’s graphics and a general background in science and technology, I suspect the book would be a muddle. I’m not against explaining ideas in simple terms, but I felt the book takes it too far and it becomes a distraction.
On the positive side, the graphics are great—sometimes funny while providing enough detail to get the point across without bogging one down. Also, Munroe’s sense of humor comes through here and there throughout the book (though it’s hampered by the lack of vocabulary.)
The book includes the list of words used as an Appendix (though you obviously won’t find the word “Appendix.”)
If it sounds like something that would interest you, pick it up. It’s hard to say that I’d recommend it, generally speaking. It’s funny and educational, but it’s also distracting and tedious. I neither hated it, nor loved it. I give it the median score of “meh.”
Source: cliparts.co
I have a particular set of skills.
No, not ones that pay the bills.
While Liam Neeson may kick some ass,
my skills are more in the realm of sass.
My course won’t teach you a spinning kick,
or how to head-butt to a brick.
No, nothing so stoic or taciturn,
for mine is the art of the kung fu burn.
If you wish to unleash the power of derision,
tell them their kung fu lacks vigor and precision.
If that has not the effect desired,
tell them their kung fu is sloppy and uninspired.
If you haven’t yet gotten their goat,
tell them their moves makes vomit rise to your throat.
That’s just a sampler; wisdom ain’t free.
But you can learn more for a nominal fee.
[Disclosure]
Just one thing, whatever you do.
Don’t use against anyone who knows kung fu.
(Even the old ladies who do Tai Chi in the park,
may rip you apart like a school of bull sharks.)
memory, she’s a fickle cow
you can never have one in the now
and why are the memories best of those who need them least
should not as your age grows great your memory too increase
an eight year old has no need of keys but he can tell you where they are
for me the point is quite moot cause I’ve forgotten where’s the car
more and more I’m less and less certain of what memories were dreams
I clearly remember posting that bill cause I passed a yeti eating ice-cream
a woman watching 60 Minutes was robbed, but cops called her a loony
you see the old girl was quite sure she’d been burgled by Andy Rooney
now it’s time for me to bring this poem to a close
I had a much better bit but have forgotten how it goes
I passed a man on the street,
in the brutal noonday heat.
Blending in, but for his Tee.
It read, “Nothing is as it seems.”
I said, “Ain’t that the truth, brother.”
He walked on, like all the others.
A message sent on the sly?
From some watcher in the sky?
How’d he know it’d draw my eye?
And not be taken for a lie?
Maybe my will is not so free,
and what I “know” isn’t reality.
[Later that day…]
Rev. screamed, “We’re living in a simulation!”
“Friends, this ain’t no pre-apocalyptic nation.”
“Aliens watch us on their reality-TV station.”
“All I can offer is a bargain spaceship vacation.”
I distrust those who shout from a box,
and distrust more the joining of flocks.
But the kook’s words rattled in my mind.
Maybe lunatics get things right sometime.
What if the world is just a simulated grind,
and passersby just figments of my mind?
If this world is fake, should I abstain?
Or try much harder to entertain?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 