Every chair has a story.

She is pretty in autumn.

Every Chair Has a Story.  Poetry Inspired by One Way Furniture...

There are cities more romantic than Paris, and there are cities with more history than Rome.  Where do you live?  I’ll bet that it is a pretty nice place.

We reflect our surroundings through osmosis.  A hardened criminal can become an upright citizen after a few months in prison.  A plowman can become a painter after spending a fortnight in an atelier.  Our spirits rise to our expectations.  Our furnishings should reflect that.  

If you aim a bit higher than you would normally be inclined, you cannot help but hit your mark.  A spontaneous decision requires laying the ground rules.  Shoot from the hip.  Don’t follow fads.  A chair is just a place to sit.  You are the accent.

There are cities more stately than Washington, and there are boroughs richer than Manhattan.  Even a small city can hold more than a million, naked stories, each one worth remembering.  Where there is love, there are homes, and, where there are homes, there is beauty.  It is human nature to surround a family with beautiful things.  

Every chair has a story.

Jackson Furniture Hartwell Accent Chair in Bollywood Finish. Everyone says it proudly, and most people say it loudly.  The name says it all.  

A school marm in Ottumwa knows she sits on top of the world.  She has the world on a string, and an engagement ring around her finger.  What a town.  What a life.  She’s in love with the most handsome young man in all of Wapello County, Iowa.  A river of opportunity will eventually deliver  a perfect match upstream.

Because he is such a gentleman, everyone refers to the school marm’s fiance as “Charles of London.”  He puckers up like no Frenchman would ever dare do.  She longs to be held between her lover’s generously scaled arms.  

Where good manners are the municipal standard, good taste will reign.  A community of well-appointed homes will sleep in the comfortable bed it has made for itself.  There are cities less religious than Rio de Janeiro.  There are cities less populous than Beijing, or Mumbai.  There is only one place where anxiety is countered by faith in the present.  Home is where the heart does well.  Hartwell.

The days of the week as pharmaceuticals.

The last movie Groucho Marx appeared in.  Go out with a bang.

Monday is an antibiotic.
Tuesday is a hormone replacement.
Wednesday is a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory, NSAID, as some people like to say.
Thursday is a an anticoagulant.
Friday is a mild sedative.
Saturday is a cathartic.
Sunday is a placebo.

'nuff said.
Balaenius Rex.

One Way Furniture Thursday on Friday

Home is where the heart is.

I'm thinking about a weekly feature that I know I will be able to keep up.   I think the months that are full of posts are the best ones in the archives, so a regular feature is good practice.  I'm thinking about hosting One Way Furniture Thursdays.  Hold your applause.  It isn't written into the Constitution yet.  That's why we are celebrating Thursday on Friday, today.  Hip-hip-hooray!

I am  a simple man with simple tastes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy reading a good furniture catalogue in the lulls between my adventures.

Not every opera is an epic.  There are categories outside comedy and drama.  There are topics more commonplace, that touch us every day.  There is furniture.  

I have a passing interest in One-Way Furniture, and its experiment in writing interesting sales copy.  As regular readers of this blog know, I am a proponent of good writing artfully crafted with the aim of moving product while capturing the audience's imagination.  You might have to go back a few months to find the exact citation.  

The Dimplex Essex White Electric Fireplace Indoor Transitional.

Our story begins with the Chief Inspector stumbling into the apartment of the most celebrated detective mastermind in the history of good taste.  Our hero is smoking a corn cob pipe while leaning on the classically finished white mantle of his electric fireplace.  He likes to stare into the patented, flame-like effect while he warms his bones after a march on the moors.

“I need to find a way to add heat and/or ambiance into my quarters,” the Chief Inspector gasps.  As he speaks, he is comforted by 400 square feet of soothing warmth radiating from logs that appear incredibly real.  The detective’s private study always has a regal air about it.  His electric, indoor, transitional fireplace sets the tone with its touch-responsive, thermostat control technology.  Everything falls into place, like clues leading to a solution.  Great minds think best when their surroundings exceed their expectations.  

“Look no further, Inspector, your answer is right here!”  Our hero nonchalantly points the stem of his pipe at the fireplace that glows flickering with enchanting flame effects.  “I have on-demand heat, or, just a pleasant glow that is considered romantic for lovers, such as yourself and Mrs. Inspector.  It is also an aid to solitary, stoic contemplation by bachelors, such as myself.  It’s a Dimplex!”  

The detective raps the bowl of his pipe against the mantle with a hearty knock.

It is a Dimplex.

Balaenius Rex!

All Soul's Day, New Orleans, LA

New Orleans is very, very good.

Dwight White was down and out, asleep under the highway overpass that runs over Calliope Street.  His royalties had run out for the foreseeable future, and he had nowhere to go but up.  Some people say that New Orleans is a devils‘ playground.  Others claim that it is a paradise.  In need of some basic hygiene, and wearing the tattered costume from last month’s gig, Dwight White looked like the commanding statue of Saint John the Baptist towering in white marble on the front of Saint John the Baptist Church on Oretha Castle Haley Boulevard, formerly Dryades Street, except Dwight White was lying down wrapped in scuffed corrugated cardboard stamped with the logo of Zapp’s potato chips.  He was wearing a red, porkpie hat pulled down over his eyes.

Someone brought a full-bodied, fully cooked turkey under the overpass for a communal supper.  All of a sudden, all of Calliope Street smelled like deep-fried Thanksgiving, dark meat and light, anointed in baptismal peanut oil, crisp outside while yielding succulent under the crust for a communal repast under the overpass.  It smelled so good that Dwight White couldn’t nap without his gut waking him up.  He had to follow his nose.  He inhaled deeply.  He gave thanks.  He took a piece of turkey for his supper.

Squatted on the neutral ground, against a pillar, as passing cars made the shaded transition between O’Keefe Avenue and Oretha Castle Haley Boulevard, Dwight White noticed everyone was staring at him.  He was holding his portion of turkey over a paper plate, just about to take a bite  Everyone else under the overpass that shades Calliope Street who was eating a piece of that deeply fried, crispy-skinned, succulent turkey, stopped what they were doing.  They paused to watch Dwight White take a bite.

The passing cars slowed their commute.  Rubbernecking drivers watched, with time stood still, to see if Dwight White was going to do what he seemed to be doing.  

He did it.

He took a bite of crispy fried turkey from the piece he was given.  He bit the savory, crispy appendage that jutted most closely to his mouth.  As he chewed the skin and fat, traffic stopped moving from the East Bank to the West Bank, and vice versa.  The Crescent City was connected in a pregnant pause, a virile crescent, all for one and one for all, spontaneously, simultaneously, instantaneously, perilously ripe and ready to spring.

“He has the Pope’s nose,” people whispered, once the sound of booming eighteen-wheelers again reached Dwight White’s ears.  “He has the Pope’s nose!‘  

New Orleans is the City Care Forgot

Modesty is always in style, even in New Orleans, LA.

Many, little things happen in New Orleans.  They all add up.  The good buries the bad.  Not every melody is a dirge, but every melody is a march.  A cry of agony can sound the same as joy.  You can sob with laughter, or you can sob with tears.  You can cry because you are happy.  Those who are true to their heart of hearts, cannot know anxiety.  New Orleans is the City That Care Forgot.