We have a sink in our office area. For some inexplicable reason, from time to time, someone leaves dirty dishes on the counter. We have no dishwasher. We have no maid or even a butler. So, how does this person (or persons) think the dishes will miraculously be washed? My guess is that it’s a dude. My opinion is that only a guy would put a dirty dish on a counter, AT WORK, and expect it to get washed by someone else.
Anyway, someone created a laminated, reusable sign, for such occurrences, that is placed near the dirty dishes that says, “Please be courteous, and take your dishes downstairs.” And this is because they actually have a dishwasher in the first floor Café.
You’d think that by now the hint would be taken, but alas, a fork and knife appeared the other day. Once again the sign was placed, and this time a post-it note was added that read: “That includes flatwear.”
When I came in this morning, I saw that an impromptu post-it note bombing took place. The result, I believe, is the spontaneous, stream-of-consciousness poem I present to you now:
please be courteous and
take your dishes downstairs
that includes flatware
also known as cutlery
you’re my boy blue
“do or do not” there is no “try” -Yoda
easier done than said
doubt your doubts
your mama doesn’t work here…
if she did, she’d be pissed
what you say about my mama?!?
I just want this to go over
the edge and down
now I’m over the edge
stick a fork in me
all work and no play
make Jack a very dull boy
threat level RED
Here’s another drawing I felt compelled to do from my mother’s old photo album.
This is Anna Vargas, my grandma at age 21. Look at her face. She had no idea of what her future held. There were hard times ahead for her, like there were for so many other poor immigrants. Her faith and no-nonsense attitude saw her through it all.
The photo upon which this is based was taken in 1921.
During the holiday, my sister showed me an old photo album that belonged to our mother. Lots of pictures were missing from the black corner holders, but there remained enough to keep me fascinated for some time. It didn’t take long before I singled out several that I wanted to draw.
“JOE DUTRA – THE PUGILIST” was one such photo. I traced over my mother’s printing, which isn’t a whole lot different from the style I use when I draw my cartoons. I don’t know who this gentleman was. The only Dutra I remember was a beautiful cheerleader I got to know towards the end of our senior year in high school. I have a feeling they are related, but I have no idea where she is, so I can ask.
And “Joe” is about as common a first name in the Portuguese community as the last name “Smith” is in the United States. When I was growing up, literally 99.9% of the Portuguese men I knew were named Joe, Frank (my middle name and the name of both of my grandfathers), Tony, or Manuel.