Bird on an awning.
Walking along the beach, we see four little girls frantically digging a hole on the edge of the surf. When a wave washes in, filling the hole, they squeal in dismay, and then redouble their efforts.
Me: What is it with kids digging futile holes in the sand when they know the water is just going to rush in? I must have done that a thousand times when I was little.
Bryan: (announcer voice) Since the dawn of time, children have battled the sea. Will the kids emerge victorious today, or will their small hopes be dashed yet again, against these rocky shores?
Ev: We should do a kid sports channel.
Bryan: That would be awesome! The announcers would have to be really serious.
Me: (announcer voice) If you look closely, Bob, Timmy’s lower lip is just beginning to quiver. Around mid-field he tends to turn away from the play and seek guidance from the goalie, as you may recall from the Beaver Park game in 04. Let’s see if history repeats.
Ev: I think we’ve really got something here.
When I turn on the radio, I pay special attention to the very first thing the announcer says. Two quintessential NPR opening lines:
1)I have several Navajo friends, I can do a little plumbing
2) opened fire on a peaceful crowd.
Scenario: Two girls at a bar posture in short skirts and camis. One notices a pinball machine.
Girl 1: Oh my god. Amy, I’m such a dork. I have to play a game.
Girl 2: What?
G1: I’m such a dork, I love pinball.
G1: I hope no one is watching.
(Looks around exaggeratedly, bends deeply at the waist, and leans one-handed against the machine with hip cocked while she searches for the quarter slot. Her friend sighs.)
G1: I’m such a dork.
I like this poem. It’s from a book called Sure Signs.
Selecting a Reader
by Ted Kooser
First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
“For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned.” And she will.