tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-328691632024-03-15T07:51:38.584-07:00The Book of Michaelwords are powerful... use them wiselyMichael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.comBlogger508125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-85384744867292353852024-03-02T09:43:00.000-08:002024-03-02T09:43:55.795-08:00A Chorus of Obscenities <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I walk around my neighborhood to maintain good cardio and reach those coveted 10,000 steps per day. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">While on my walks, I see some interesting people. I say hello to many of them and they say hello back. Some people, no matter how often you see them, refuse to make eye contact, smile, or share a hello. That’s their loss, not mine. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Often I'd say hello to a homeless woman, and she would wave and say hello, until one day she approached me, getting a bit too close for comfort, about six inches from my face, and told me she wanted to assassinate me. At first, I didn’t quite understand what she meant until she repeated it. “I’m gonna assassinate you!” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I wasn’t initially scared but then began to wonder if she was holding a weapon, maybe a knife, and if so, was she going to follow through with her threat. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I put my arm out for her to keep her distance. She demanded the names of my friends whom she planned on assassinating. I quickly moved on. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The next time I saw her, I stayed far enough away and ignored her. She saw me and waved and yelled hello. I figured "why hold a grudge" and waved back. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh, the characters you meet while walking... </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The other day while walking, I stopped at a red light. A man was crossing from the other side (he had the right to walk sign) and a car wanted to get through. For whatever reason, the driver of the car started yelling “Fuck you” to the guy crossing the street and the guy crossing the street started yelling “Fuck you” right back at him. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDPZLbY0SvkSV_kXvVfmhyUP_LQ_ob2VM-4xmy5iie7KMkMr5go4zh7E03KNvyfqIazcvO9yi5gCk5BoP5dai57H5-8_gbRhse0t1pCi8tSFyaeAzH_iD6eYXEl35ukYFW7JooF99yfuDVYmFG61uDhRizxY4_SLmAwcH5mO1wMFKH77ceUWaGbA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="612" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDPZLbY0SvkSV_kXvVfmhyUP_LQ_ob2VM-4xmy5iie7KMkMr5go4zh7E03KNvyfqIazcvO9yi5gCk5BoP5dai57H5-8_gbRhse0t1pCi8tSFyaeAzH_iD6eYXEl35ukYFW7JooF99yfuDVYmFG61uDhRizxY4_SLmAwcH5mO1wMFKH77ceUWaGbA" width="319" /></a></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">These two men repeatedly mimicked each other with a continuous barrage of “Fuck you” with each round getting louder and more forceful. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This volley of “Fuck you” caught a rhythm sounding just like a song you’d hear on the radio. It was infectious. It had a dance beat. I started moving to the rhythm... feeling its groove. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When the light changed and the car drove away, the walker made sure he got the last “fuck you.” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As I walked home I suddenly adopted that John Travolta swagger from Saturday Night Fever and sang, “Fuck you... fuck you... fuck you!!” all the way home. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And here it is days later, and I can’t get the fucking song out of my head.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-77316295634058958962024-01-22T16:57:00.000-08:002024-02-24T14:02:42.689-08:00Wink, Wink<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbSpgf0SEbd7rWHswZY0c8c9O8hrcbmZ9AmF3Km4cZFVufkXq4p7O9Hk3PmB0uUA3AQdvHma-tf91pHrgNFijKNRcxKqefTr2SBeqGkVROAn6lp9BfIvL7_-Zpd6HzERKvnOeXXNbSe-n8-9uqRE8At8FPVLdPo6NgXbsMSjDhVepNjXBBQhdXQ/s450/846-09181935en_Masterfile.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="360" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbSpgf0SEbd7rWHswZY0c8c9O8hrcbmZ9AmF3Km4cZFVufkXq4p7O9Hk3PmB0uUA3AQdvHma-tf91pHrgNFijKNRcxKqefTr2SBeqGkVROAn6lp9BfIvL7_-Zpd6HzERKvnOeXXNbSe-n8-9uqRE8At8FPVLdPo6NgXbsMSjDhVepNjXBBQhdXQ/w160-h200/846-09181935en_Masterfile.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>I cannot remember the last time I winked or was winked at. <p></p><p>Has winking become a lost gesture, a distant memory, a relic forever dormant? </p><p>Winking is a subtle flirtation... an invitation into a smile... a brief moment between two people... to give the heart a tingle of excitement... with the potential for more... or not. </p><p>I remember the first time I ever winked at anyone. It was across the room in a high school US History class. It happened spontaneously when I noticed someone looking my way. I winked with my left eye. She winked with her right eye. We both giggled. It felt good. </p><p>I wanted more. </p><p>One night I thought I caught someone’s attention in a crowded club and was certain they winked at me. I winked back and slowly sauntered through the throng of partiers towards them only to find out they actually had something caught in their eye and were trying to get it out. It was a non-wink. </p><p>Undaunted, I continued winking whenever the moment would arise.
But through the years I noticed my winking wasn’t happening as often as I liked, and then one day I woke to no wink at all. </p><p>Times changed and so has the wink. </p><p>An emoticon wink is not the same as an in-person wink. We all use them to add pizzazz to our messages but when was the last time you looked at an emoticon wink and felt any kind of tingle? </p><p>So, I encourage everyone to embrace in-person winks. Catch someone’s eye and give them a good wink. Who knows? It might lead to something new, exciting, and wonderful. </p><p>We all deserve a good wink. </p><p>Don’t you agree?</p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-72286154450202577412024-01-04T16:39:00.000-08:002024-01-04T16:49:04.551-08:00Forty-Five Years in the Making... <p>There are songs whose impact is so strong upon first listening that you remember the first time you heard them on the radio. You remember exactly where you were. You remember exactly what you were doing. You remember that "wow" moment. </p><p>It's a specific life moment captured by a song. And it's all yours. </p><p>In the autumn of 1978 when I first heard the Kenny Loggins Stevie Nicks duet "Whenever I Call You Friend," I experienced that moment. It was pure pop heaven. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Whenever I call you "friend"</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>I begin to think I understand</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Anything we are</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>You and I have always been ever and ever</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>I see myself within your eyes</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>and that's all I need to show me why</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Everything I do always takes me home to you ever and ever</i></p><p>When I later learned Loggins co-wrote the song with Melissa Manchester, I wondered why they never recorded it together. As the story goes, record company executives were to blame. I'm not surprised. </p><p>Manchester recorded her own version of the song, a more soulful version with singer Arnold McCuller. It's quite different from the Loggins version yet quite beautiful. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Sweet love showing us a beautiful light</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>I've never seen such a beautiful sight</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Sweet love flowing almost every night</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>I know forever we'll be doing it right</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Now I know my life has given me more than memories</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Day by day we can see</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>In every moment there's a reason to carry on</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">I always wondered what a Manchester Loggins duet would sound like. As the 80s tuned into the 90s into the 00s, I began to lose hope. </p><p>Nearly forty-five years later the musical Gods finally got them together and the result is pure musical bliss. The addition of saxophonist Dave Koz uplifts the song even further. It's fun, rollicking, everything I thought it would be, and more.</p><p>Here it is in all its glory:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ciTmZKhPCqM" width="320" youtube-src-id="ciTmZKhPCqM"></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-65288198098837953702023-11-15T13:55:00.000-08:002023-11-15T14:11:18.433-08:00I Love Ice Cream<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGLkHS-0x5fgKMg-GUoZ1ZYG5Gwssp8zdCVK9ZdYD5SIptZQ9MvFZEDVl0zIANLDv_1qChYVaRSVky0WRhD1FcEU7w1T5W9Ec94ZdcUy4iAGzaqkz1DrBJj5Xp1XR1mWke4G_z0Y8UvnDK_-YfDljJMekNwunO0YozdcE3ewpKyX5p6MYKUCAzQ/s306/Ice%20Cream%20Cone%20Screen%20Shot%202023-11-15%20at%201.00.51%20PM.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="306" data-original-width="288" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGLkHS-0x5fgKMg-GUoZ1ZYG5Gwssp8zdCVK9ZdYD5SIptZQ9MvFZEDVl0zIANLDv_1qChYVaRSVky0WRhD1FcEU7w1T5W9Ec94ZdcUy4iAGzaqkz1DrBJj5Xp1XR1mWke4G_z0Y8UvnDK_-YfDljJMekNwunO0YozdcE3ewpKyX5p6MYKUCAzQ/s1600/Ice%20Cream%20Cone%20Screen%20Shot%202023-11-15%20at%201.00.51%20PM.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><p>When I was in first grade, I was the second letter "I" in "Thanksgiving" for the annual Thanksgiving pageant. I replaced Roy Allan the day before the pageant because his parents wouldn't allow him to participate for religious reasons.</p><p>The show must go on, and indeed it did, and when I stepped forward with my sweaty hands holding a big letter "I" I squeaked:</p><p><i>I is for ice cream. It's cold but it's fine. I'll have some plum cake with mine!</i></p><p>The applause was addictive, and from then on, my love of ice cream would only grow. </p><p>Ice cream got me my first applause. </p><p>Years later, as an adult, I was mugged twice, and both times I was on my way to buy ice cream. </p><p>My desire for ice cream only intensified. </p><p>Recently, I've been spending Sunday mornings at <a href="https://la.smorgasburg.com/" target="_blank">SmorgasburgLA</a> roaming the various food vendors. </p><p>Lamb dumplings. Arepas. Empanadas. Beignets. I've tried them all. </p><p>Then one Sunday I saw it... a light green cart in the near distance... an ice cream vendor... my heart skipped a beat, and my legs couldn't move fast enough to get me there. </p><p>It was <a href="https://kinrose.com/" target="_blank">Kinrose Creamery</a>. </p><p>I was in awe at the flavors offered:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73ASoRwz6My0BOAUUp7_Qlfw2Ipt28SFHs4cf_L4A4eXlz0w5N_hD6Ta7qqjJfA6fSfBu6H1MR67vSd1dBcaObK-K0AhtXIhSLby2Wgm9C-kBzjHWyuMe7dlLuN9V8F7z8CeUhzPTRdu7QBzCzL6v5YYD71rj_R47kW2rTJEMQqk0yW41lJaRBw/s384/IMG_1571.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73ASoRwz6My0BOAUUp7_Qlfw2Ipt28SFHs4cf_L4A4eXlz0w5N_hD6Ta7qqjJfA6fSfBu6H1MR67vSd1dBcaObK-K0AhtXIhSLby2Wgm9C-kBzjHWyuMe7dlLuN9V8F7z8CeUhzPTRdu7QBzCzL6v5YYD71rj_R47kW2rTJEMQqk0yW41lJaRBw/w240-h320/IMG_1571.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p>For my first time, I ordered the Honey Walnut Baklava. That first lick was a huge wow. The combination of flavors was absolutely yummy. </p><p>I found ice cream bliss at SmorgasburgLA. </p><p>Since then, I have tried all the flavors, and have fallen in tastebud-love with The Pasha, sour cherry ice cream topped with Pashmak, a Persian velvety cotton candy floss. It's... well... you've just got to try it. It's <i>that </i>good.</p><p>My weekly visits to SmorgasburgLA always end with a stop at Kinrose Creamery. </p><p><i>I is for ice cream. It's cold but it's fine. I'll have some Pashmak with mine! </i></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-49796246177654411692023-10-17T17:52:00.002-07:002023-10-17T18:03:35.284-07:00Mirror, Mirror<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfscVw9te4Cr3LAfMamU3SiBmVvRsoe8Oe5nWkNlHg4U_cAjY8K-tKhA1DV5LjEQUzs2spYX2AMw-VOzivr6j0bb9lf665Pv0C4-8x2rgfaKzdI-y6rYxFk86wZXE4R0-0DkM0G4HjW4amUiLyuccKAqiBr9ZsfIzX9f34a9Pi3fnkX_q2XNgRdg/s300/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfscVw9te4Cr3LAfMamU3SiBmVvRsoe8Oe5nWkNlHg4U_cAjY8K-tKhA1DV5LjEQUzs2spYX2AMw-VOzivr6j0bb9lf665Pv0C4-8x2rgfaKzdI-y6rYxFk86wZXE4R0-0DkM0G4HjW4amUiLyuccKAqiBr9ZsfIzX9f34a9Pi3fnkX_q2XNgRdg/s1600/images.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div>Stepping out of the shower, I glimpse someone in my mirror. I pause a moment to examine the man who's staring at me. </div><div><br /></div><div>His sagging jowls. </div><div><br /></div><div>His chest, which used to be north, has gravity pulling it south. </div><div><br /></div><div>His stomach with love handles that have never been loved. </div><div><br /></div><div>He suddenly stands tall, taking in a hearty deep breath, choking, as his stomach pulls in, then suddenly pops out. </div><div><br /></div><div>He looks at his ass which used to be rounder, firmer, an object of personal pride. </div><div><br /></div><div>There are wrinkles and folds where there used to be tan lines.</div><div><br /></div><div>Egad... is it 2043 already?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-85558371380039721142023-09-17T13:18:00.005-07:002023-09-17T15:05:19.642-07:00Stop Signs<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0OE-yTX9IOueMl42N0PEXkkp09II9VoKqzupIfn1XvBZWWEsR0zb4lFhgWkfAp3cBKme6nhCtWFWyd4SjMv2UkZKVswcjabxshmD2Wt4UZse9AFp-U1uMVkEc7ExEKhscXRT3HiDu7WL-PYZCUA15z87UdCaj9nQpE-6ipxAqEyTLh180VJ0z9w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="2000" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0OE-yTX9IOueMl42N0PEXkkp09II9VoKqzupIfn1XvBZWWEsR0zb4lFhgWkfAp3cBKme6nhCtWFWyd4SjMv2UkZKVswcjabxshmD2Wt4UZse9AFp-U1uMVkEc7ExEKhscXRT3HiDu7WL-PYZCUA15z87UdCaj9nQpE-6ipxAqEyTLh180VJ0z9w" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-18c681a2-7fff-4f47-6ce3-b17af47f4307"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Have you noticed that drivers are no longer stopping at Stop signs? They roll through them without looking to see if anyone is walking. And if they do stop, it's not at the Stop sign line but many dangerous feet beyond it. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">There have been times when I would have been hit if I hadn’t acted quickly and leaped out of the way with near-ballet perfection. Of course, I didn’t leap quietly. I cursed as my life flashed before me. The driver would speed away while flashing their middle finger, which apparently represents the number of brain cells their hollow head holds. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Where are the traffic cops when you need them? </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span>Occasionally, after a near-hit, the driver would mouth “sorry” which came off more like an “oops!” rather than an apology. But what does “sorry” mean? It’s a quick phrase that makes people think it exonerates them from bad behavior. </span></span><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">It doesn’t if it’s not heartfelt, and I don’t hear their “sorry” having any heartfeltness. </span></span></p><div><br /></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Stop means stop. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The bright red octagonal sign, one of the most international signs there is, even has the word stop on it. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOTMNxyZGbXNEkTG6tIFPCY_FArIpIuPXihbvdgLhRTL49LBr_CMOEgbPBXpnli3K7nxy08r0ff3H_RNM5lKlTvpIYtmfYr0EcMhCftvVTWWKna8Du4R4_gFTejPCpu1QaVHZaosVheNEDZSAXV4Fvu7Rr6e5dr_M5q_NBuF4GGO0wCN4JUB__XA=w200-h133" width="200" /></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium; white-space-collapse: preserve;">How hard is that to understand? </span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Recently, a car rolled through the stop sign and nearly hit me. The driver was too busy on her phone to pay attention. I yelled at her to get off the phone. She was holding her cell phone in the palm of her hand showing it to me while screaming she was driving hands-free. What does that mean? All I could do was laugh at her ridiculousness which pissed her off. She called me a dirty word and sped away. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I don’t want to die while crossing the street at a Stop sign. I want to die of old age. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">So, the next time you’re driving down the street and approach a Stop sign, all you have to do is: </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Stop</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Look in all directions</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Proceed with caution</span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Okay? </span></span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Thank you. </span></span></p><br /></span>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-44019683306853399032023-09-12T22:08:00.005-07:002023-09-13T08:28:37.887-07:00A Taste of Home<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">There’s a memory in every recipe. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">It lives in the ingredients, the way it is prepared, the aroma as the ingredients come together, and especially the taste. Oh, the taste! </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-498c1038-7fff-0c8b-e551-df8b579cfebb"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxtWSFEGmZqAW-Ya8xF5XenyGyLGLPbXH3dWx5RyriLORvx0Zg4U5DgAo-UD_bLpzXC0IA9FVG-M0zPcGBsNUt88wSF5U47HnV3DrxNhNz4tMQKkMJ5PDWL7W0Qyihy5zoySuIHlePK0XbQJjLdAP63C7bppJAFp7OFusR9_7OuBtoXg5EW-eYcg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxtWSFEGmZqAW-Ya8xF5XenyGyLGLPbXH3dWx5RyriLORvx0Zg4U5DgAo-UD_bLpzXC0IA9FVG-M0zPcGBsNUt88wSF5U47HnV3DrxNhNz4tMQKkMJ5PDWL7W0Qyihy5zoySuIHlePK0XbQJjLdAP63C7bppJAFp7OFusR9_7OuBtoXg5EW-eYcg" width="320" /></a></div></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I hadn’t thought about my mother’s spaghetti sauce for years. Then one day, I woke up and couldn’t stop thinking about it. I could smell the oregano that made it so fragrant. I could feel the taste on my tongue. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I decided to make it that night, but I barely remembered how it was made. I wanted to call my mother for the recipe, but I was twelve years too late, so I had to rely on memory. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Olive oil, garlic, salt, tomato paste, a little water, and a generous amount of oregano. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I don’t know what triggered me to suddenly crave it. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Maybe I was feeling nostalgic. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Maybe my mother was sending me a message to “make the sauce!” </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Maybe I just wanted spaghetti. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I gathered the ingredients and recreated it the best I could. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">First I heated the olive oil and sauteed the garlic… then I added the tomato paste and salt… and when that was mixed together I slowly added water to create the texture I remembered so well. Then I added a generous amount of oregano. probably more than my mother ever used, but I love oregano. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Some might say I added too much oregano, but for me, too much oregano is never enough. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The aroma filled my kitchen as I boiled the spaghetti. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A few times I dipped the wooden smooth into the sauce and stole a taste. It was exactly how I remembered it. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As I sat at the table with the bowl of spaghetti in front of me, I felt like a child again at the kitchen table in the avocado green kitchen in our suburban home surrounded by family. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Except this time, I wasn’t having a glass of milk. </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">It was red wine.. with my bowl of memories. </span></p><div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-44031304547580333592023-07-31T17:39:00.002-07:002023-08-01T13:56:05.807-07:00Bow-wow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHNYy1vMmfBT-clU3y4wfWCDijqlHgvRwxtYgdAf7sHhnvynlrCcQdGlQTknqt09hrP3Lyk2exjs1T4cjxpZyw3Vt1beuas7WR9Sc70hPLUUixJ1f_n7ln2oxvM6tQ5dD-vKzzN6b4j3sC52qaQrdvsTB4xAnbZKXidJHpqsjU7LbjMtEWpEU4w/s565/Old%20Dog%20Photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="565" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHNYy1vMmfBT-clU3y4wfWCDijqlHgvRwxtYgdAf7sHhnvynlrCcQdGlQTknqt09hrP3Lyk2exjs1T4cjxpZyw3Vt1beuas7WR9Sc70hPLUUixJ1f_n7ln2oxvM6tQ5dD-vKzzN6b4j3sC52qaQrdvsTB4xAnbZKXidJHpqsjU7LbjMtEWpEU4w/s320/Old%20Dog%20Photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I was brunching with a friend when I asked, "How's your dog doing?" The dog was nearing 91 human years. <div><br /></div><div>There was a subtle attitude shift before curtly responding, "Fine."</div><div><br /></div><div>A few days later, I saw my friend having car trouble in the Trader Joe's parking lot. I pulled over to offer help. He turned his back, ignoring me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Days later I saw a mutual acquaintance who said my friend wanted nothing to do with me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I asked why.</div><div><br /></div><div>He said I never said the dog's christened name when asking about the dog.</div><div><br /></div><div>A mortal sin. </div><div><br /></div><div>A friendship dead. </div><div><br /></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-25379593280887628952023-04-28T21:28:00.013-07:002023-04-28T21:46:58.667-07:00A Shiny Nickel<p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes
a song won’t leave you alone... it creeps into your head and plays and plays...
and the more you try to forget it, the more it plays... louder.... and there’s
nothing you can do but surrender and sing along...</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>Today as
I was walking down the street, a song crept into my consciousness.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>What song?</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>Playground
In My Mind.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>Remember
it?</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>It was a
top-ten hit, peaking at #2, in June 1973. I couldn’t remember the last time I heard
that song, though I knew it's been decades.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><i>When this old world is getting me down</i></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">And there's no love to be found</span></i></div></i><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">I close my eyes and soon I find</span></i></div></i><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">I'm in a playground in my mind</span></i></div></i></span><p></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br /></span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>What made
me think of it?</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>I wasn’t
feeling down. I didn’t get a memo of love being lost. My eyes were open. I wasn’t
in a playground.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But there it was playing loudly in my head.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: Roboto;"><span>Where
the children laugh</span></i></div><span style="font-family: Roboto;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span>and
the children play</span></i></div></span><span style="font-family: Roboto;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span>and
we sing a song all-day</span></i></div></span></span><p></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Roboto;"><i><span><br /></span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>Then I
found myself singing out loud.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">My name is Michael</span></i></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I've got a nickel</span></i></div></span><span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I've got a nickel shiny and new</span></i></div></span><span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm ginna buy me all kinds of candy</span></i></div></span><span><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">That's what I'm gonna do</span></i></div></span></span><p></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span><i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>I couldn’t
remember the singer’s name. The more I tried to think of it, the more the song played repeatedly in my mind.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>Then I
remembered his name was Clint... Clint Holmes... a one-hit-wonder.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><i><span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In the wonders that I find</span></span></i></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In the playground in my mind</span></span></i></div></i><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In a world that used to be</span></span></i></div></i><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Close your eyes and follow me</span></span></i></div></i></span><p></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>And just
as I reached home, I look down, and there on the sidewalk was a shiny nickel.</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><i><span>My name is
Michael</span></i></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span>I’ve got a
nickel</span></i></div></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span>I’ve got a
nickel shiny and new...</span></i></div></span></span><p></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><i><span><br /></span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span>Sometimes I think I'm going insane. </span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I dare you to take a listen:</span></span></p><div class="gmail_default">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BolPQL83hFA" width="320" youtube-src-id="BolPQL83hFA"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><p></p></div><div><div class="gmail_signature" data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"></div></div></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-31263042353112404732023-04-21T14:25:00.001-07:002023-04-21T14:25:49.155-07:00A Scent and a Memory<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes a scent, like a tender breeze, will circle me and embrace
me and bring me back to a specific moment in my life, to a memory of someone
who’s no longer with me.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />When my Aunt Jen died, I was in grammar school. I don’t remember
much about her, but I remember the scent in her bathroom. It had a distinct fragrance.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />As a child I wasn’t too fond of it, often holding my breath
or taking short breaths not to inhale it entirely whenever I used the bathroom.
I remember complaining to my mother about it, and she told me it was Aunt Jen’s
scented soap.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAcn-wS_cqJ-TYprrgxBHFJsXIh9D8RruUX4RfZsAHsW_xtxiSlFksPcTyP72Uqi54rFewIHUrBUtlKJ0pSQkVk7h1JIOvmTK91TtPREo3A90Ilv3R5422KCMTJ7Xdv-XT67Ku9XYGXlp2mXDVpI19JPkwECO_595eUny1Vg7PHjYTl9MkKkI/s600/istockphoto-1163184050-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAcn-wS_cqJ-TYprrgxBHFJsXIh9D8RruUX4RfZsAHsW_xtxiSlFksPcTyP72Uqi54rFewIHUrBUtlKJ0pSQkVk7h1JIOvmTK91TtPREo3A90Ilv3R5422KCMTJ7Xdv-XT67Ku9XYGXlp2mXDVpI19JPkwECO_595eUny1Vg7PHjYTl9MkKkI/s320/istockphoto-1163184050-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Every time I visited, it was there, a part of the bathroom
scenery, a part of her. I never got used to its aroma.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />A few years after Aunt Jen died, I was walking along when I smelled
something. A strong distinct fragrance seemed to have surrounded me. I knew instantly
it was Aunt Jen’s soap scent.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Where did it come from?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I couldn’t find the source. I assumed it was from someone
passing me by who bathed that morning with that soap. I wanted to know the soap’s
name.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />But then I thought maybe it was Aunt Jen visiting me from
the spirit world to say hello, to let me know she was watching over me, and
using the scent was her way of grabbing my attention.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />The moment was fleeting but there was no doubt what it was,
and a parade of memories suddenly brought me back to being a child visiting her
apartment for the holidays.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Warm memories. Family memories.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Since then, the scent hasn’t made another appearance.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />It’s now been over thirty years, but l know if it comes
again, I’ll recognize it immediately... and I’ll breathe in deeply.</span></div><p style="text-align: left;">
<br /></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-48655130258401524512023-02-09T20:05:00.004-08:002023-02-09T20:18:51.581-08:00My Acting Debut<p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Life is full of magical moments. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Not too long ago, I received an email from a musician asking me if I’d like to be in her music video. She had seen me perform at a storytelling event, said she loved my facial expressions, and wanted me to be in her upcoming music video. I would be the Henchman. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">At first, I thought her email was a joke, but it did arouse my curiosity.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">I’m not an actor and I’d never been in front of a camera before. Would I be able to give her a good performance or would I embarrass myself and ruin the video? </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">I was hesitant but a friend convinced me to do it, so I did.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">The first thing I noticed when I got to the shoot was a tray of Dunkin’ donuts. I love Dunkin’ donuts. They’re my comfort food... so I ate four to calm my nerves.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">There was no need to be nervous. Everyone on set was incredibly kind to me. The director was terrific. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">The actors, the incredibly multi-talented singer Goblynne (Molly Kirschenbaum) and Payson Whitwell, encouraged me to ad-lib and have fun. And we all did!</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">It was a magical moment.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">The song is “Only Thing.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Here’s the video... Enjoy! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eAG4jjtiyHw" width="320" youtube-src-id="eAG4jjtiyHw"></iframe></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-61103356407073770822022-11-09T18:33:00.003-08:002022-11-09T18:48:49.486-08:00In My Birthday Suit<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">With winter approaching, it’s time to crank up the heat, to keep my place at a nice temperature, to not dip into “sweater inside” temperature, but to keep it at “birthday suit” temperature. Yes, birthday suit, as in naked... nude... unclothed... in the raw like the day I was born.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I like being naked as much as possible. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Strutting around naked always puts me in a happy mood, gives me a good attitude, and gets my creative energies flowing. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Of course, I must remember to keep the blinds and curtains closed. I made the mistake once of sauntering by the window at the same time my neighbor in the building across from me was walking by and happened to glance my way. I waved hello. He hesitated, blinked his eyes numerous times, and then ignored me. I don’t think he appreciated my friendly gesture. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Whenever I saw him again, he never said hello. Jealousy does that to some people. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">There’s something liberating about being naked, flopping freely with my arms flailing while dancing to a funky beat. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Naked yoga is better than clothed yoga. Who knew? I didn’t until I tried it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br />However, there is a downside to baring it all... <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Whenever I’m cooking, I have to be careful about what foods I prepare for myself. Sauteing can cause oil splatter which doesn’t feel good when it hits your sensitive skin spots (you know what I mean). And prepping peppers, specifically jalapeno peppers, gets dangerous especially when you suddenly have an itch and your reach down for a quick scratch (you know where I mean). <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Maybe that’s why I now prefer pre-made salads and sandwiches.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I've learned the hard way to always keep a robe by the door. Being naked is natural but the FedEx person doesn’t appreciate it when I’m signing for a package while wearing my birthday suit. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I swear, that time I forgot I had nothing on!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBukPlsk3GH0XKG-4WWhy3r0kHKOonqaLStGUiIL8IM4EgVN8Ug6k-sO1PI7pN6xHorl1WFXq-snecxml6hokGnJhD7Th413mytBiLFJaV5LX6i8P0OO8mHlxdnaczYGcfTFpjHmlgHcT1X95FH48lS-kjS05ZeT3infwp4cQyZSPngLkrwWI/s302/1829680_sjvgjt4hf6n97o456pgurv5273_462356.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="302" data-original-width="216" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBukPlsk3GH0XKG-4WWhy3r0kHKOonqaLStGUiIL8IM4EgVN8Ug6k-sO1PI7pN6xHorl1WFXq-snecxml6hokGnJhD7Th413mytBiLFJaV5LX6i8P0OO8mHlxdnaczYGcfTFpjHmlgHcT1X95FH48lS-kjS05ZeT3infwp4cQyZSPngLkrwWI/w143-h189/1829680_sjvgjt4hf6n97o456pgurv5273_462356.jpg" width="143" /></a></div>I don’t usually tell people I like being naked. The rare times I have, they’ve cast judgment and usually throw a sourpuss look that says, “how could you do such a thing.” I say don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’ve meditated on why I’ve become a nudist, seeking an answer from my spirit guides, and then it came to me... the real reason I’m a nudist...<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I don’t like to do laundry. <o:p></o:p></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-35634946719317584422022-10-10T14:25:00.003-07:002022-10-10T14:38:10.132-07:00Sharing Life Lessons from Behind the Mask<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0zSGx1u97XnG8JCURt3ojNUQA8dwxfaXIYbKCBAFHvvEGJSPY-F5LjmuSJ1Yc2yLBcdr5qWuZKwvSrsSjkIougSEEk-WBHu4sQBd5QzCOpI7hsIcgaURppZu58rFtod-qXTSMS8kLInKPmt82zp-D2UoTgyAHNpHnMxD6sm8uJTCwhX61GI/s899/COVIDOLOGY-cover-for-thumbs600w.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="597" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0zSGx1u97XnG8JCURt3ojNUQA8dwxfaXIYbKCBAFHvvEGJSPY-F5LjmuSJ1Yc2yLBcdr5qWuZKwvSrsSjkIougSEEk-WBHu4sQBd5QzCOpI7hsIcgaURppZu58rFtod-qXTSMS8kLInKPmt82zp-D2UoTgyAHNpHnMxD6sm8uJTCwhX61GI/s320/COVIDOLOGY-cover-for-thumbs600w.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Memories of the Covid quarantine resonate strongly with who I am today. <span class="apple-converted-space">The pandemic, in</span> all its ugliness and fear, was a turning point for me, allowing me time to stop, re-evaluate, and embrace the man I truly am. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">While locked inside month after month, I realized I had a choice. I could waste time glued to the television or look in the mirror and discover the stranger I saw staring back at me. I chose the latter and am so glad I did. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’m not going to say it was easy because it wasn’t, but the man I am today is a result of that journey of self-discovery. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">As the quarantine neared its end, I was invited to contribute to an anthology of Covid related stories by editor Paul Iarrobino. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">At first, I was hesitant, thinking all the stories, including mine, would be maudlin and sad, but I was wrong. There’s a beautiful sense of hope that resonates throughout the book, with a new sense of love and appreciation for life weaving its way through these beautifully written personal experiences. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The resulting book, <u>COVIDOLOGY: Sharing Life Lessons from Behind the Mask</u> was published in August 2022.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Here is an excerpt from my story, “It Started with a Walk...”:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i>I often think about the pre-Covid-quarantine me and the post-Covid-quarantine me and I see very few similarities. It’s like that pre-quarantine me is someone I used to know, someone who desperately needed to be awakened, someone who needed permission to leave the past behind and live in the moment, to be present in who I am. <o:p></o:p></i></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><i>We don’t always know each other’s story. A little gesture of kindness, like giving someone a pinecone, can ignite a dormant part of us and inspire us to grow. So now whenever I take my walks, I make sure to say hello to the people I pass. It’s my way of letting them know I see them, I acknowledge them, and they are not invisible. <o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I am proud to have my story a part of this collection. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">For more information about <u>COVIDOLOGY: Sharing Life Lessons from Behind the Mask</u>, please visit:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/COVIDOLOGY-Sharing-Life-Lessons-Behind/dp/195763829X" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><a href="https://windtreepress.com/portfolio/covidology/" target="_blank">Windtree Press</a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-82008085605115377622021-09-21T15:16:00.002-07:002021-09-21T15:21:18.873-07:00What's That Smell? <p><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px;">Whenever I open my apartment door, I am assaulted with a smell that gives me a quick dry heave. It’s gotten so bad that I have to clutch my mask over my face to ward it off, but some days it’s so strong that it seeps through the mask directly into my nostrils.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">All the neighbors are talking about it. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVJdbh0r72Xc7063vcnBm-wkj6Yi5eu2ediW17p_-BeMBJMzyIXDf8VUaYeSvlRtc1KjEmou75xhv_rgs325fGE63vBhE_odQSKIt4NN_qePAolJ-O6Wo58Lood5woq4CTUBhTg/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="242" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVJdbh0r72Xc7063vcnBm-wkj6Yi5eu2ediW17p_-BeMBJMzyIXDf8VUaYeSvlRtc1KjEmou75xhv_rgs325fGE63vBhE_odQSKIt4NN_qePAolJ-O6Wo58Lood5woq4CTUBhTg/w200-h182/manstinky.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">“Do you smell that? What is it?”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Going to the mailbox is no longer a joyous experience. Everyone covers their face with their mask, holds their breath, and hurries to the mailbox, grabs their mail, and runs out before they’re gasping for breath, drowning in a heavy cloud of stench.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">What’s the cause of such a disgusting smell?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">It’s my neighbor who lives just off the lobby. His apartment’s stench is a combination of drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and filth, and he looks just like his stench. (What a visual, huh?)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">He has recently begun leaving his door open while he doodles on his computer in front of the blaring TV in his dark stuffed cave-like apartment. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">I’ve lit lots of incense – nag champa - to drown out the stench, but it’s a short-lived cure to a much larger problem. His smell seems to be getting worse... like it’s alive... and it keeps mutating... and each mutation is more menacing.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Rotten eggs smell better.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">The building manager acknowledges the odor and claims she’s talked to him about it, then says there’s nothing more she can do about it. She feigns concern for everyone’s nasal happiness, but no one believes her. She practices avoidance in hopes it goes away. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">How does he not smell his own stench?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Does he only have four senses instead of five?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">Or does he have no sense at all?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">I’m thinking no sense at all...</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 18px; text-size-adjust: auto;">I’m stuck with a smelly neighbor. </p><p><br /></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-11148378619954463042021-07-26T16:00:00.003-07:002021-07-26T16:04:41.018-07:00 Thank you, Solitaire, Goodbye<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">I blame Solitaire for not having blogged in a long time.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Computer Solitaire and its virtual tentacles kept me tethered to the computer screen playing game after game after game when I knew I should have been doing something else. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I don’t know about you, but Solitaire was a companion, a comfort, a friend who helped get through the days and nights of Covid cabin fever. Hours of blissful Solitaire eased the reality of what was happening, or not happening, around me. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGdtK_iQyGCZVqyRIGnjsaKZVpxZMD0aWxX53A87XCiHIctKNeztLztna6225BKx1fKFFZYY61sfIKs7iNWdRZ0cCxBOvvrCksozlhhTK1TePU0EELxoPQUrTmIHT1ahWQGmiwDQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="710" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGdtK_iQyGCZVqyRIGnjsaKZVpxZMD0aWxX53A87XCiHIctKNeztLztna6225BKx1fKFFZYY61sfIKs7iNWdRZ0cCxBOvvrCksozlhhTK1TePU0EELxoPQUrTmIHT1ahWQGmiwDQ/" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Whenever I got tired of writing, watching television, listening to music, bickering with myself, or eating, I’d take a “break” and play a game or two of computer Solitaire, which would lead to three, then four, then thirty-four, then “just one more game” to see if I’d win. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My competitive nature would kick in and I’d become determined not to stop playing until I won, and then when I won, I’d want to see how many games I could win in a row. My winning streak is nine games. Damn that tenth game! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But now as I step back into life, I have to ween myself off of Solitaire. It’s not as easy as it sounds, but I am confident and determined I will. I fear dropping dead from a Solitaire overdose and having friends find me in a state of rigor mortis humped over my keyboard while in the middle of a game. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgvl7ISqCymj-FukuhY2KgMfDC8EzPpm0zmBYM31F90YraPoF2R1WDWriaryRWgjRaE7rsyM4yaptS9ZSkB9aoGSRCpo3hSO3FES0GL5dh01_KULizurIvi3NeUZ4oRdkHGJd0g/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="702" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgvl7ISqCymj-FukuhY2KgMfDC8EzPpm0zmBYM31F90YraPoF2R1WDWriaryRWgjRaE7rsyM4yaptS9ZSkB9aoGSRCpo3hSO3FES0GL5dh01_KULizurIvi3NeUZ4oRdkHGJd0g/" width="320" /></a></div>I have spoken to numerous friends, and they too developed an obsessive pandemic relationship with computer Solitaire echoing the “just one more game” mantra. All I can say is thank goodness it’s free. Can you imagine if there was a fee per game? Even at a penny per ten games, I would be, well... totally broke. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And wouldn’t it be funny if when we die and reach the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter lets us know how many hours we played Solitaire? And how many games won versus the number of games lost? </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Yes, computer Solitaire has brought me joy, lots of solitary joy, but now it’s time to click off the computer and mingle in the real world. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Thank you, Solitaire for being a favorite waste of time. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Goodbye, Solitaire. We shared some beautiful memories together. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But before I go, let’s play “Just one more game.”<o:p></o:p></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-32424336501666334752020-12-29T18:12:00.006-08:002020-12-29T19:17:55.229-08:00Bickering With Myself <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Life’s been tough during these Covid times. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As the first month of quarantining segued into the second and then the third, things within my safe-space, my home, started to slowly unravel. I found myself talking out loud and the more I did, the more I began answering myself... as in a conversation... a back-and-forth of questions, answers, and opinions... and eventually the conversations got heated and turned ugly. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I hadn’t shaved for weeks and couldn’t decide whether or not to shave, part of me wanted the beard gone while the other part was adamant the scruff needed to stay.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Shave... don’t shave... shave... don’t shave... I got dizzy from the ping-ponging of opinions echoing loudly in and out of my head. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">To compromise, I ended up shaving only half of my face to please both sides of me, but I looked ridiculous. Later that night, I snuck into the bathroom and shaved the rest of the scruff. When I woke up the next morning, I had a black eye. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I spent days not getting anything done because I couldn’t make a decision without a fight with myself. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNELjcXIRdQrHwHkkvGHCd53q_kY8JQcKiiAwzL9S3R7frjZc0YXxGLB4shOeVXJld3sKlss1trPJ4Y2eQoqTLgrIZ4AplD9XuW8pOT7ju_-ON1XtVOK8IHsHW3dY6yKSXZMURTQ/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="457" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNELjcXIRdQrHwHkkvGHCd53q_kY8JQcKiiAwzL9S3R7frjZc0YXxGLB4shOeVXJld3sKlss1trPJ4Y2eQoqTLgrIZ4AplD9XuW8pOT7ju_-ON1XtVOK8IHsHW3dY6yKSXZMURTQ/" width="320" /></a></div>The bickering grew to epic proportions last night when part of me wanted broiled salmon for dinner while the other part wanted baked chicken. Like a scene from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe, the vitriol I spewed at myself would curl the hair of the most foul-mouthed sailor. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It wasn’t about salmon, and it wasn’t about chicken. It was about winning the argument. And in the moment of heightened emotion, all rationale ceased to exist. I threw wine glasses and wine bottles at myself. Luckily, I leaped out of the way in the nick of time. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Exhausted and spent, with hunger pangs banging louder than a chorus of kettle drums, I crawled into bed with a stack of Ritz crackers and a jar of crunchy peanut butter.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">During the night, I tossed and turned and entangled myself so tightly in the sheets that I nearly strangled myself. I woke up gasping for breath. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I blame Covid. I blame quarantining. I blame endless bottles of merlot. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Tonight I’m avoiding salmon and chicken... it’s going to be pasta... no pasta... pork loin... no pork loin... lamb kabob... no lamb kabob... <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">WTF!?!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Will this bickering ever end? <o:p></o:p></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-56070693927815949072020-11-07T14:27:00.002-08:002020-11-07T14:27:52.253-08:00November 7, 2020<p style="text-align: center;">Historic day in America.</p><p style="text-align: center;">Peaceful celebrations in my neighborhood. </p><p style="text-align: center;">Congratulations President Joe Biden and Vice-President Kamala Harris. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDU4EFHvwoqz5acajG6N33-owhDyMDa9j6vMQVcBZ7XOzlvi509inMqxOPtmeExT5UnuB4-yDaH7vLlFVvZR9TGEgYhIjVgJUH335pk9Zc_jn1_9fy7xF52UFkWaRu7qdpry0mMg/s491/IMG_0366.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="491" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDU4EFHvwoqz5acajG6N33-owhDyMDa9j6vMQVcBZ7XOzlvi509inMqxOPtmeExT5UnuB4-yDaH7vLlFVvZR9TGEgYhIjVgJUH335pk9Zc_jn1_9fy7xF52UFkWaRu7qdpry0mMg/s320/IMG_0366.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOAOL9LmAOnAgnY68spRoFGulXYcEGxWjRreHIoDai9A5hidEe_SrVOp-mpvIWbtaU8_EFSoT5WtbIHg9iy6TilsZUWshknHVW4Zh3pxx9WjfWVaSBE73yTBax9hfVwS9fTjqTUg/s562/IMG_0372.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOAOL9LmAOnAgnY68spRoFGulXYcEGxWjRreHIoDai9A5hidEe_SrVOp-mpvIWbtaU8_EFSoT5WtbIHg9iy6TilsZUWshknHVW4Zh3pxx9WjfWVaSBE73yTBax9hfVwS9fTjqTUg/s320/IMG_0372.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyLS2wGPP-4liTD0MX-gQ7KUddZkx2p7O99D1shXAQF-dUVGc_xZb5fbdNVEtjiDIKR3ANVbwTy_M_FXs2bUn-leTWfIsV8U9ezQ1q_fdHMbcX1d3HGTQhexRhDjO7bJaxGf2iw/s446/IMG_0373.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGyLS2wGPP-4liTD0MX-gQ7KUddZkx2p7O99D1shXAQF-dUVGc_xZb5fbdNVEtjiDIKR3ANVbwTy_M_FXs2bUn-leTWfIsV8U9ezQ1q_fdHMbcX1d3HGTQhexRhDjO7bJaxGf2iw/s320/IMG_0373.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgye2ZELHgPgNkln5_dMkZRyb6hrWrW_zqyM4FU8Ssakvtq4ax492XTCKdMKPzLDqhWndRDu1G2UJhWvJM8z1WgBEDivKx4DrmEtNkzWA0Fi8UBmGSzTznoEYR_NKczYj3ufMTJog/s586/IMG_0379.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgye2ZELHgPgNkln5_dMkZRyb6hrWrW_zqyM4FU8Ssakvtq4ax492XTCKdMKPzLDqhWndRDu1G2UJhWvJM8z1WgBEDivKx4DrmEtNkzWA0Fi8UBmGSzTznoEYR_NKczYj3ufMTJog/s320/IMG_0379.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSBEVP-2ahz70vApq171aVaSsQYqkYGuNlXaUEq6yrkTo-Sc2s09GRIpdPVWpViy3fDlNcRYhIWDD5t5kjAVsoSqPRY33JL1EqUKsLHznqzh8Bizo8CVdRws935EWHql30u3xDlQ/s288/IMG_0364.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSBEVP-2ahz70vApq171aVaSsQYqkYGuNlXaUEq6yrkTo-Sc2s09GRIpdPVWpViy3fDlNcRYhIWDD5t5kjAVsoSqPRY33JL1EqUKsLHznqzh8Bizo8CVdRws935EWHql30u3xDlQ/s0/IMG_0364.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-91127593803871192692020-11-04T20:58:00.003-08:002020-11-05T07:30:37.908-08:00Superpower ActivatedI prefer walking instead of driving.<div><br /></div><div>Walking keeps me outside in the open air where the sun can beam me with all the Vitamin D I need. </div><div><br /></div><div>Through walking, I reach 10,000 steps per day which apparently is the current trendy number of steps needed daily. </div><div><br /></div><div>Walking allows me to mingle with neighbors with a nod and a smile and sometimes a little conversation. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's amazing how some neighbors, no matter how many times I've seen them, never say hello. I imagine what might be going on in their heads to make them so unfriendly. My scenarios veer towards the nasty, the dark, the truly perverted... and when I see them, I giggle because I know their secret life even though they don't know their secret life. </div><div><br /></div><div>One recent day walking, I came across a message in a driveway:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8xS_bDVXRw3W6JrpYso-0rFWIFZ2f-Yx_ool7qEz2KMS_ZsUxzGzrDs17fCyczqudxzxR3VVNJmW-00G-ZYyqy_4G_W-q4WeYIHdLuCLNr3t_tC8WUHcgmGhjqy7i6xwAwMu7Q/s288/IMG_0292.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8xS_bDVXRw3W6JrpYso-0rFWIFZ2f-Yx_ool7qEz2KMS_ZsUxzGzrDs17fCyczqudxzxR3VVNJmW-00G-ZYyqy_4G_W-q4WeYIHdLuCLNr3t_tC8WUHcgmGhjqy7i6xwAwMu7Q/s0/IMG_0292.jpeg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I saw this as a sign from the Universe, so I eagerly stepped there to activate my superpower. I tingled with anticipation. </div><div><br /></div><div>I closed my eyes to feel the surge. </div><div><br /></div><div>I suddenly became self-conscious and wondered if there was a hidden camera recording me. That was enough for me to hurry away.</div><div><br /></div><div>On my way home, I saw a notoriously unfriendly neighbor who has ignored me for years. I tried conjuring up the imagined secret life I'd created about her, but nothing came. It was like my mind went completely blank. </div><div><br /></div><div>As she approached, she looked directly at me and said hello. Did I hear her correctly?</div><div><br /></div><div>In my state of disbelief, I hesitated and she stopped and said it again. I answered hello. She told me to have a nice day, then continued on her way. </div><div><br /></div><div>WTF?</div><div><br /></div><div>Then it was OMG!</div><div><br /></div><div>In that driveway, I was activated with a superpower in the form of a new super-aura, one that Mr. Rogers would give his sweater for... <span> a squeaky clean and inviting and non-judgmental aura.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>Every single person I passed on the rest of my walk was drawn to me and stopped to say hello. </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div>When I returned home, I looked in the mirror and saw beautiful colors surrounding me, not the usual dull gray that made me look like a foreboding storm cloud. I was glowing. </div><div><br /></div><div>At that moment I understood the power of my superpower and accepted its responsibility. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's Superman.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's Spiderman.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now there's me... Super Aura-Man. </div><div><br /></div><div>I foresee a movie franchise in my future. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-43784694042014970032020-08-18T15:18:00.001-07:002020-08-18T15:23:12.380-07:00The Sticky Pinecone<p><span face="" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sometimes we experience extraordinary moments without realizing it.</span><span face="" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Back in March, during the weekend before the Covid quarantine began, I was out walking through the neighborhood. The idea of wearing a mask was nonexistent. I was completely unaware of what was soon to happen to me, to all of us.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Little did I know it would be one of my last walks without a mask. It would be one of my last walks without being concerned about other people’s exhales.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">I was soaking up the sun and the neighborhood vibes of Los Feliz Boulevard when I ran into a woman I’d see before. She was walking her dog, and with her was, I presume, her daughter. The daughter looked about 8 years old.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">We exchanged hellos, and then her daughter walked up to me, invading my personal space with complete abandon. I thought she was about to hug me. Instead, she offered me a pinecone, placing it in the palm of my hand. She smiled that bright smile only a child knows and hurried back to her mother.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">I thanked her, said goodbye, and continued on my way with a sticky pinecone oozing sap in the palm my hand.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">As I turned the corner, I thought of tossing it aside. But just when I was about to toss it, the pinecone seemed to be glued to my hand and wouldn’t budge, wanting me to keep it, to enjoy its beauty, to carry it with me for the rest of my walk. So I did.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br />Sometimes you just cannot question what’s happening...</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">As I approached home, I thought of tossing it into the bushes, but again, I couldn’t do it. I brought it inside and placed it on the counter.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">That sticky pinecone stayed on the counter for days drying out and shriveling in size. Many times I thought of tossing it out but never did.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOsIFd55-jCUqOs46Aes3hkX8tcsnkVcap6wU4flTrG01fFtBxr4Y8ocy317QiuSC19kzB3L8U5DorRdqvStvClD64zBQ-42RmZtv5jO0-xHfxqo_75F1fPJFWJQnd97D7vzROQ/s286/IMG_0289.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="286" data-original-width="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOsIFd55-jCUqOs46Aes3hkX8tcsnkVcap6wU4flTrG01fFtBxr4Y8ocy317QiuSC19kzB3L8U5DorRdqvStvClD64zBQ-42RmZtv5jO0-xHfxqo_75F1fPJFWJQnd97D7vzROQ/s0/IMG_0289.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Weeks later, I was masked and cautiously walking through the neighborhood when I saw the girl’s mother walking her dog. I told her the story of her daughter giving me the sticky pinecone (she remembered it clearly), and how it’s been sitting on my counter ever since.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The mother told me that her daughter is autistic and doesn’t gravitate towards people, but for some reason that day, her little girl felt comfortable with me and wanted to share. She was so happy I still</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">had the pinecone. I swear I saw a te</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">ar in her eye.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">She told me she was going home to tell her daughter she saw me and that I still have her gift.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Wow. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-75048186187704153462020-08-11T18:58:00.001-07:002020-08-11T18:59:05.632-07:00Purchase, Track, Receive, Repeat <p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I used to laugh at all the Amazon packages I’d see sitting daily in the lobby of my apartment building waiting to be claimed. “Who’s buying all that shit?” I’d say as I passed through the lobby to my own apartment.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Well... Since March, with Covid and quarantining, I confess that I am now one of those people buying “all that shit.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Amazon buying experience has filled a void in my life, a need to feel like I’m part of the world, the shopping world, the functioning world, a world where a click of the “buy now” button eases loneliness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Usually, it’s late at night when I do my shopping.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There’s something about the darkness, a glass of wine (or two), and the silence surrounding me that makes me itchy to purchase. The immediate tingle of pressing “buy now” is something that keeps me coming back for more. It’s my drug, my late-night addiction that needs to be fed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Once I get confirmation that the item is purchased, the tracking process begins. I keep logging on to my account to see the Amazon green line connect “ordered” to “shipped today” to “out for delivery.” </span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibuKgFX2rTAXNepR03qKEGtVEG_mxj7bBi39n1IUzjhj3kuamhhNlijD-2gV4IYLTa1xDdVu_hT9NhauUlfre5RygxvtlDWUNVMoAOgOFi46MeaO3ojzemLWCfdwVTXdrwTucEVQ/s492/Screen+Shot+2020-08-11+at+4.29.50+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="326" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibuKgFX2rTAXNepR03qKEGtVEG_mxj7bBi39n1IUzjhj3kuamhhNlijD-2gV4IYLTa1xDdVu_hT9NhauUlfre5RygxvtlDWUNVMoAOgOFi46MeaO3ojzemLWCfdwVTXdrwTucEVQ/w167-h252/Screen+Shot+2020-08-11+at+4.29.50+PM.png" width="167" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On arrival day, I’m giddy with shopper’s delight knowing that “8 stops away” is my purchase. Sometimes I don’t remember what the item is, but that doesn’t matter, does it? It’s all about the thrill, the “high” of delivery.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When the tracking indicates the truck is in front of the building, I tippy-toe to the window to make sure it’s there. At this point, the “package excitement” is much too difficult to conceal and I make my way to the lobby...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Doing my best nonchalant walk, I get to the lobby the same time as the driver and I say something like “For me? Great timing. I was just heading out." The driver gives me that look that says “this always happens with you, you’re full of shit” but plays along, and hands me my package.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Once inside I rip it open like it’s a gift from Santa.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As the afterglow of opening a new package subsides, the night sets in and I pour the wine and settle in at my desk...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Purchase. Track. Receive. Repeat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Eventually, I anticipate having so much stuff that I’ll have a yard sale to sell “all that shit” I purchased during Covid.</span><span face="" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div></div>Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-33597112528667171192020-06-01T18:14:00.000-07:002020-06-01T18:14:03.472-07:00Morning Masked Strangers<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNrRj5bLU0AETsmv6bT4BRoNUhWd-rpzHhyyakLbPkvtyk6LznOuZALiFs-cv4axy-wONJzrUIbEkKe8byzWR3bVZaNe2PdsTuowGmS2Gxmb84Ou2EdUByUhIOA6vEAT5L2sZiQ/s1600/IMG_0214.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNrRj5bLU0AETsmv6bT4BRoNUhWd-rpzHhyyakLbPkvtyk6LznOuZALiFs-cv4axy-wONJzrUIbEkKe8byzWR3bVZaNe2PdsTuowGmS2Gxmb84Ou2EdUByUhIOA6vEAT5L2sZiQ/s400/IMG_0214.jpeg" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;">While quarantining, I only leave my apartment for a daily early morning walk and a weekly jaunt (or two) to the neighborhood grocery store. I always don a mask and refrain from touching anything or anyone, practicing safe distancing. Like a good boy scout, I go prepared with a bottle of hand sanitizer bulging in my pocket.</span></div>
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I’m usually out the door by 6:40 AM for a 2 ½-mile walk. It helps me get revved up for the day ahead... for what exactly?... quarantine sanity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My walking route is the same every day. It’s comfortable. It’s what I know. It feels covid-safe because I encounter few people, and those I see are the same people daily, with an occasional newbie or two. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The first person I always meet is a masked runner. He sees me on the sidewalk and jogs into the street to pass me. He waves and yells, “Good morning.” I do the same.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Further down the street, I meet two masked women. We wave and say, “Good morning” with the shorter of the two adding, “Have a great day!” I yelled back, “You too!” Though I cannot see their faces, I can tell they are smiling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then around the corner I see the older woman who always wears black clothes and a white face mask. We wave to each other with no words spoken. Does she speak English? Does she think the same of me? I feel a silent connection between us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Next, I see an old man who walks rather briskly with his cane. He has an oversized black face mask that seems to cover his whole face. He grunts and nods when we pass. I do the same. Sometimes I add a giggle to my grunt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When this quarantine is over, will I still get up early to take a walk? Will the others I see each day do the same? Or will we all slip into our pre-covid lives and routines and not be taking early morning walks?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Who are these morning encounters? Would I recognize them if I saw them mask-less, and would they recognize me? I don’t think so.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I look forward to seeing these morning masked strangers who really aren’t strangers anymore. We’ve seen each other daily for weeks. We share a moment of good wishes. We share a covid-connection, a masked friendship in a time when human contact is needed most.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe that’s what it’s all about... sharing a little friendliness, exchanging a little human kindness, a message that says, “I know what you’re going through,” to help each other get passed these difficult times.</div>
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Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-86062140219796545622020-05-16T12:18:00.000-07:002020-05-16T12:19:30.162-07:00Quarantine Gems<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Enduring months of quarantining has left me in a daily fog of sameness.</span></div>
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I no longer have interest in watching television, though I’ve tried, but after Tiger King, I haven’t found anything that generates the roaring excitement of those trashy batshit crazy tiger folk. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My hair has declared itself its own boss and flows however and wherever it wants, rejecting any direction from comb or brush or gel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Exercising without a gym takes a lot of effort, and most days I surrender to putting on a bigger shirt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To pass the hours, I’ve been reading and writing and eating and snacking and drinking and dancing in my underwear to silly pop songs. By the end of the day, I plop into bed exhausted, only to wake up in seven hours to do it all over again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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However... I’ve recently found two “gems” to look forward to, to take me away from the monotony of my quarantine routine, to lift the fog of dullness: <span style="font-size: 12pt;">Song of the Day with Debbie Wileman, and Uncle Paul’s Storytime.</span></div>
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For the past 50+ days, Debbie Wileman (who resides somewhere in England) performs a song of the day from the comfort of her laundry room, living room, garden, or even her car. She has a voice that fits like a velvet glove, and a range that can tear the roof off the house (and the car).<o:p></o:p></div>
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She has a varied repertoire but has earned her (cult) following with her performances as Judy Garland. On Mother’s Day, she sang an exquisite version of Over the Rainbow, one of the greatest songs, in my opinion, ever written.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If you haven’t heard her, here’s your chance:<o:p></o:p></div>
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A few times a week, at precisely 8:30 PM, I tune into Facebook Live to hear my friend <a href="https://pauljacek.com/" target="_blank">Paul Jacek </a>read a chapter from a children’s book. It all started with his desire to bring people together during these rather difficult times, to forget their worries, and immerse themselves in the magic of imagination. Since Storytime began, he has read the children’s book Baby Island and currently Black and Blue Magic. </div>
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I don’t know the other people tuning in for Storytime, but I feel a kindred connection to them. Storytime is our safe place where we come together for the warmth and comfort of a childhood memory... having stories read to us before bedtime.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At the close of each Storytime session, Paul ends with, “It’s time to brush your teeth, lay out your clothes for tomorrow, count your blessings, and if no one has told you ‘I love you’ today, then I will.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s the perfect way to end the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-92212194418645566652020-03-26T14:49:00.000-07:002020-03-26T14:54:26.682-07:00A Rusty Brain<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
When I’m at the gym and on the treadmill, I usually have the treadmill’s TV on watching repeats of sitcoms I wasn’t too fond of when they first aired or watching morning talk show hosts rattling on about everything and nothing. It’s no wonder I sometimes get dizzy. All the drivel drains the oxygen from my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Recently I started feeling like I have a rusty brain; one that hasn’t been used is a while. I started hearing it creak every time I heard someone speak words with more than three syllables. Did the person speaking hear it? Do they think I'm a lamebrain? Will I ever get my brain to work full speed again?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I cursed the damn treadmill, but I knew it wasn’t the treadmill’s fault. It was me. I allowed the mundane to hamper my yearning, to soften my edge. I desperately needed a change, an influx of brain stimulation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To rejuvenate, I began listening to podcasts while treadmilling which has spilled over to listening to podcasts while driving in my car. And you know what? I’m feeling smarter, more informed, and hipper than ever before.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Why not learn something new while I jiggle the fat loose on the treadmill or while I sit idly in Los Angeles traffic?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here are three podcasts I highly recommend:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcyzvziOMucuG_cp9SN9JN6kG7BCkSJIBi3m9GCCrAQxz837kPFMmob0IME5RhC8FYgGQ7bQOStDh5imUEVomauhPe3H8hAOKSQFGweIfTcRoCBXREf_WtMb8qyG91D6TRZXfiA/s200/EH%252BLogo%252B3000x3000.jpg" width="200" /></div>
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<i style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.earhustlesq.com/">Ear Hustle</a></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">is a terrific podcast about prison life at San Quentin State Prison.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">At first, I was reticent about tuning in, not knowing what to expect and not thinking it would resonate with me. I was wrong. It's fascinating and you need to check it out. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevLA-jhGVML48_-DmZYFzV1ZCGXBBiyNXmioGGDJHaJ7R7HGvac0Tax7izzPZ5PwD3PspjtKJJnadMRe0CHwG8BjQcHUXEv8h0ihfY84awx3_5p2Zgjhevl33oCvYUlNDPK5Yjw/s1600/hero-podcast-2-1200x333.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="88" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevLA-jhGVML48_-DmZYFzV1ZCGXBBiyNXmioGGDJHaJ7R7HGvac0Tax7izzPZ5PwD3PspjtKJJnadMRe0CHwG8BjQcHUXEv8h0ihfY84awx3_5p2Zgjhevl33oCvYUlNDPK5Yjw/s320/hero-podcast-2-1200x333.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.aldacommunicationtraining.com/podcasts/">Clear + Vivid</a></i> is a podcast about connecting with people and listening to each other, hosted by the legendary Alan Alda.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Alda’s interviewees include Julie Andrews, Paul McCartney, Betty White, The Science Guy, Melinda Gates, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Madeline Albright, and many others. The conversations are deep and meaningful and always thought-provoking.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5BK8qaxDBh_K_pXrArjDNNtrd8kO4zEsw7pGCKwW2VDlr1QK4wIYbATHpMynrqd23WnNBGPAK-zCvnEFc8o7vzt9I1ACMpDNxKrO95-bcUFrrXRmxkeefx_2bNrCtskCmiERgQ/s1600/static1.squarespace.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="65" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5BK8qaxDBh_K_pXrArjDNNtrd8kO4zEsw7pGCKwW2VDlr1QK4wIYbATHpMynrqd23WnNBGPAK-zCvnEFc8o7vzt9I1ACMpDNxKrO95-bcUFrrXRmxkeefx_2bNrCtskCmiERgQ/s200/static1.squarespace.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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And finally, I love the f**cking wonderful <i><a href="http://www.wtfpod.com/">WTF</a></i> podcast with comedian Marc Maron. <o:p></o:p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">He has revealing conversations with some of our favorite people: Don Cheadle, Nathan Lane, Lily Tomlin, Kathy Valentine, and Ronan Farrow to name a few.</span></div>
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So if you too are feeling the onset of brain rust, then turn off the TV and turn on the podcast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And the next time you meet a friend, stranger, or zombie, be sure to open up the conversation with, “What podcasts have you listened to lately?" You’ll be surprised where the conversation goes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-58426873184261622552020-01-02T12:32:00.000-08:002020-01-02T12:33:04.533-08:00A Step Back in TimeWhen I was in fifth grade, Miss Cushing was my teacher, and she read to the class a series of books that ignited my imagination. Many years later while wandering a bookstore, I came across those books. A wave of memories flooded me as I returned to the days when I’d sit in my desk chair with chin on my hands hanging on to every word as Miss Cushing read the books aloud.<br />
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Adventure. Fantasy. Magic. <br />
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I bought the series of books and put on them on my bookshelf with the intention of reading them as soon as possible. <br />
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The books? <u>The Chronicles of Prydain</u> by Lloyd Alexander and those books include:<br />
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<i>The Book of Three </i>and<i> The Black Cauldron </i></div>
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<i>The Castle of Llyr </i>and<i> Taran Wanderer </i>and<i> The High King </i></div>
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Life got in the way and the books remained on my bookshelf for years without being read, until recently. Maybe I was suddenly hungry for a bit of nostalgia or maybe I was suddenly in need of a memory to help reboot my creativity. Whatever the reason, a couple of weeks ago I took them from the shelf, dusted them off, and opened the first page of the first book, <i>The Book of Three</i>. <br />
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I opened it with trepidation fearing I wouldn’t relate to the story like I did back then, or worse, fearing I wouldn’t feel the excitement I felt when Miss Cushing read them aloud. Would I think of them as silly stories now that I was much older and wiser and somewhat life-jaded? <br />
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I snuggled under my electric blanket and began reading, and the magic came back, that initial joy, the childlike wonder, immersing me in the world of Taran, the Assistant Pig Keeper from Caer Dalben, and Princess Eilonwy, Prince Gwydion, Fflewddur, and Gurgi. <br />
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If I didn’t know better, I swear I was back in fifth grade sitting between Jan and Diane and behind Lisa and John hanging on to every word of every book. <br />
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The books are now back on my bookshelf where they’ll stay until the next time I feel the need to take a step back in time, to reconnect to when I wholeheartedly suspended the outside world and became part of the adventure, the fantasy, and the magic. <br />
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I felt like a kid again, and it felt wonderful. <br />
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Thank you, Miss Cushing. </div>
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Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32869163.post-31703200071577104712019-12-26T20:48:00.000-08:002019-12-26T21:05:51.460-08:00Fingers on the Numbers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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In this age of social media and shortcuts, there’s a tendency to forget the little things about people dearest to us, like their telephone numbers. We’re so busy having them on speed dial or a click of their name on a cell phone, that their telephone number is barely remembered, if at all. <br />
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My parents had the same phone for over fifty years. It’s the first phone number I ever memorized. That number was my connection to home if, as a child, I ever got lost. It has a lot of memories attached to it and when I dial it, I feel connected to a part of me that was left in New England when I moved to California.<br />
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There was a time when I had their number as speed dial #1 on my landline for a few years. Then after my mother died, I wanted to call my father from another phone at another location and I couldn’t remember the number. I dialed it wrong and some stranger answered the phone.<br />
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<i> Hi, Dad.<br /><br /> Who’s this?<br /><br /> Michael.<br /><br /> Michael, who?<br /><br /> Dad?<br /><br /> I’m not your Daddy.</i><br />
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Click.<br />
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I felt guilty for not remembering the telephone number that identified me for such a long time. It’s then that I decided to not forget it anymore and to actually dial it every time I call it. And I do, with my fingers on the numbers, making the connection.<br />
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With my mother already passed, I don’t know how much longer, how many more phone calls there are with my father. After he goes, so does the phone number. It’ll be an end of an era, a closing of one of my life chapters.<br />
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I recently explained to a friend what I was doing, and she couldn’t understand why I wanted to dial each number when one click could do the same thing. She grew up with a cell phone in her hand and confessed she never had to remember a telephone number. It was always on her cell phone. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if she lost her cell phone and needed to call home.<br />
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When I told another friend, he totally understood. His parents are both passed, and with them went the family phone number. He proudly recited it, then wondered who would eventually be assigned that number, who would form a new identity to it.<br />
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Think about it...<br />
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Does it sound old fashioned? Silly?<br />
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Maybe to you, but not to me. <br />
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For me, the telephone number has a lot of memories attached to it and every time I dial, I fondly remember...<br />
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Michael Cosciahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01105302941891325149noreply@blogger.com0