The old adage is true that when it rains, it pours
Even here in our little town of whores
But for the hardy among us, it's onward we march
Through the mud and the puddles and weather harsh
For we know what's coming soon enough
And the scorching heat will be just as tough
The misery that comes with being drenched in sweat
Will make us miss the rain and mourn its death
During a downpour, we may bitch and moan
But we'll look ahead and adjust our tone
For it won't be long until we again regret
Losing the comfort that rain begets
Be careful what you ask for, Mr. Kim!
Anyway, yesterday wasn’t as totally empty as I anticipated it would be. When I presented Swan with the option of staying in or going out, she said she wanted pizza. Hmm. I guess I could have ordered one for delivery, but then came an unexpected break in the rain, so I took that as a sign that Jesus wanted me to head into town and spend some money in the empty bars. And that’s just what I did.
We started out at BarCelona, and we were the only customers. Some beers, some wine, and a lady drink for our waitress, then we headed downstairs to Alaska Club. Once again, we were the only customers present. Greeted owner Jerry and enjoyed more beer and wine. The dancers on stage were actually making an effort to perform in unison, so I tipped them each 50 pesos for putting the moves on. Next up was Wet Spot, and no other customers were there except for us. Weird, but I guess the rain and flooding kept sane people at home. Waitress Irene got a lady drink, and thankfully, there was no sign of Aine. When the Sit-n-Bull waitress came around, we ordered our take-out food (pizza, lumpia, and a burrito). We also treated Irene to some chicken fingers. When our order arrived, we headed home.
And so ended another day. Honestly, I think I would have been just as happy staying home. What the hell is wrong with me!?
It’s raining again today, but not constantly, and not as hard as the past few days. Perhaps this storm has finally died. I had planned on attending the SOB dance competition this evening, but it has been canceled for weather-related reasons. I’m not sure what my alternative plan will be, but I’m thinking we might head out to Baloy Beach and see if it is still there.
Facebook took me back nine years to the going away party for my pal Lonnie.
Then there was this memory from four years ago:
Ah, her name is Mary. I’d actually forgotten that brief period of drama she brought into my life. And then looking up the post I linked above, I came across this picture of the initiation of a virgin Hasher in July 2020:
Maybe I should post this next to my laptop, but I doubt it would help much. I mean, I know what punctuation is; I just don’t always remember to use it properly.
Today’s YouTube video is about life in the Philippines from this particular vlogger’s perspective. Everyone is different, of course, and not everyone is suited to live happily here. There are all kinds of options, from city life to province life and everything in between. I’ve found my niche, and I’m happy with it for the most part.
And now for today’s dose of humor, such as it is:
And that’s all for now, folks.
re: your title
Okay, now, you’re overhyphenating!
As I noted earlier, you hyphenate phrasal adjectives when they precede the noun they modify. What noun is “rainy-day” modifying, here? I don’t see one. This is, in fact, what we call a noun phrase, i.e., a group of words with a noun at its core. Noun phrases can be short or long. Start with a simple noun, then begin adding words to it.
NOUN: cat
NOUN PHRASE: a cat (article + noun)
NOUN PHRASE: an alien cat (article + adjective + noun)
NOUN PHRASE: an intelligent alien cat (article + 2 adj. + noun)
NOUN PHRASE: two intelligent alien cats (3 adj. + noun)
Anyway, there’s more to noun phrases than the above, but you should now be able to see the distinction between “rainy-day,” the phrasal adjective, and the noun phrase “rainy day.”
PHRASAL ADJ: rainy-day thoughts
NOUN PHRASE: thoughts on a rainy day
I like your poem! Roughly an aabb rhyme scheme, with approximate rhymes dominating (pours/whores, sweat/death). The meter (syllables, rhythm, stresses) is all over the place (with, bizarrely, perfect iambic pentameter in the last line of the second verse: da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM), but I’ve seen that metric inconsistency in your earlier poems, so I know it’s kind of your rough-hewn style. A country singer could make it work, I’m sure. Not bad for something done kind of on request and on short notice! Hats off.
Now the real question is this: does Swan inspire you to poetry?
This is the rainy day view from BarCelona.
See, this is where you need to hyphenate. “Rainy day” is a phrasal adjective preceding and modifying the noun view.
the rainy-day view
Just to be clear: adjectives modify nouns.
re: if punctuation could talk
Those quotations next to each punctuation mark are useless for understanding how to use the punctuation properly! And the poster engages in my pet peeve: defining commas as marking a pause. See my rant here.
Here’s hoping the storm finally departs, and that the rainy season ends soon. Then again, your poem warned about what comes after.
Quiz: to hyphenate or not to hyphenate?
Look at every occurrence of the phrase rainy day. Should it be hyphenated? Select all sentences requiring surgery.
1. It was on a dark, rainy day like today that I first met her.
2. How many more rainy days until I see you again?
3. A big bowl of ice cream was his rainy day consolation.
4. On rainy days like this, it’s never good to hold a cookout.
5. I was inspired to write a rainy day poem.
6. She titled her song “Rainy day Cash.”
7. The short story is called “The Long-awaited Rainy Day.”
8. As my rainy day chick, Cecelia was always up for a fuck session.
9. My new puppy was a rainy day purchase, bought on impulse.
10. “Rainy days make me sigh,” moped the poet as Grace rolled her eyes.
Just checking to make sure you don’t think that the phrase rainy day must always be hyphenated. That’s not the lesson to draw from all of this.
That’s an interesting poem, John, and makes me wish my toilet would flood because at least then it would be working somewhat. As it stands, it’s clogged with a pot of spaghetti the ex dumped in it after she accused me of hiding her benzos from her so she would “hallucinate the devil” during her booze withdrawals. I’ve barely been able to get off the couch so where she expects me to find the energy to hide stuff from her is beyond me.
Last night, however, I somehow found the willpower to walk to the liquor store before bed called and I passed out. It was around 10:30 and they close at 12, so I knew I’d have plenty of time. A few trips in the past I’d made right up to 11:50. I get to the store and the shutters are down. Groaaannn. For some unknown reason they closed ridiculously early. It’s a Chevron gas station, not some little mom and pop liquor store, so I have no idea why they closed early.
There’s a Circle K across the road I can go to, but I hate going to that one. I can get beer but, bizarrely, the only liquor they sell are Fireball shooters, and I fucking hate Fireball. I suppose I could always get the Lyft to divert on the way to work tomorrow morning, but that’s another couple of bucks and I’m already here so fuck it.
I must have been dumb-drunk as I ended up picking up a can of Pringles, I was feeling a bit peckish. When I got home I munched my way through practically the whole tube and turned around to see a bag of nacho chips on the couch I’d completely forgotten I bought on Sunday. Whoops.
I woke up a bit late this morning feeling oddly fresh. Maybe it’s just because I didn’t have yesterday’s wine hangover, but I feel good enough to question if I even need to drink mouthwash this morning.
It’s hot out. Blistering. I’m shirtless and I’m still sweating. Not that normal sweat either; that thick syrupy booze sweat that coats one in a layer of grease. The ex calls them the Mexican shit sweats, but I don’t know what that means and I’m too afraid to ask because I know it will result in another deranged monologue from her.
I sleepily tread on some glass shards on the porch, leaning over to stroke my cat, Morgoth the Third. It doesn’t draw any blood but fuck does it hurt. They’re the remains of the beer bottles the ex was throwing at the front wall when she had a meltdown after I told her there were no Nutrageous bars in the house. I couldn’t be bothered cleaning it up after she passed out on the kitchen floor. I figured it was her mess, why should I clean up after her? When she came back to the world of the conscious I told her as much too. She cleaned up the larger pieces of glass but there’s still all these small shards lying around, along with cigarette butts she threw on the ground because she was so drunk she forgot where she put the ashtray. I really should sweep all this up.
After quaffing a few glasses of water I decide I might as well have some beer. I mean I feel ok right now, but that doesn’t mean withdrawals won’t strike 1, 2, 3 hours after I leave to use the toilet at the Shake Shack (the library is still off limits for me; I’d been having dreams where I am accused by a portly black security guard taking a shit of murdering the guy I found dead).
A kitchen sink piss and a few beers later and I am back in the sack. Of course I forgot to bring beers with me. There’s a bottle of cough mixture on between the pillows and I down it, the taste making me think of chicken gizzards for some reason. I stagger out of bed and try to quaff some water. Wash the cough medicine out of my system. I immediately double over and spew into the sink. It’s odd, the ex told me not long ago she believes the tap water here has been poisoned with fentanyl by the ‘chinky dink government.’ Maybe she was on to something for once in her life, a retarded clock being right once a day and all.
I wobble outside to join the ex for a cigarette. She doesn’t look at me as I sit across from her and light up a smoke. “Looks like you were right about the ‘not being able to trust the water’ part” I pant, sweating from the puking and mild withdrawals. She turns to me slowly, eyes lidded, and smirks. “I wish I could say I care but the truth is I don’t.” What the hell!? “I’m just here to perform CPR if I have to. Make sure you don’t die, and then we’re done.” She shrugs as she pulls out a cigarette from the packet, “Not that you dying is a bad thing. I think humanity would be better off actually.” Holy shit. “Honey…” I shakily ask, “What’s wrong? Why are you angry?” She shrugs again and blinks slowly, “I’m not angry, you mongoloid cunt. Why would I be?” Not good. I do not need an angry, psychotic ex when I’m trying to to get drunk enough to be sober. The state I’m in, shaking like a leaf and wobbling all over the place, she could easily finish what she started with the rock if she gets angry enough.
I try to play diplomat. “Honey, you’re obviously upset about something. What have I said or done to put you in a mood?” She smirks, “This whole relationship, pussy lips.” I try to deescalate by asking if I can have one of her clonidines to help with my palpitations, redirect her into focusing on the nurse role she likes to LARP. “Why are you asking, cockface? Go ahead and take one. You probably already have. All you do is take and take and take, so go ahead and take one, you don’t need my permission.” For a moment I’m a child again and the ex is my stepmother. The sheer venom with which she attacks me is like a slap to the face. “You took my gabapentin when I was in jail (she’s confusing it with when she left the state at the start of last year) and I remember you talking about drinking cough medicine just to get high (I didn’t even know you could get high off it until I did). I didn’t know you were such a drug addict, you turd. I would never have gotten with you if I knew you were like that.” I tell her I’m going through withdrawals and that she needs to be supportive or go back to Dr Greg’s (a single-kidneyed drunk who was so deluded he thought his tour as a medic in Vietnam made him a doctor). “How can you be going through withdrawals, dumbass? Look at all the empties you drank in the sink!” Just hours ago she was lambasting me for wasting so much booze by having it dribbling off my lips – an event she witnessed the night before – and now she’s saying I drank it all!
This is why I can’t be sober around her. These episodes. They’re extremely disturbing to deal with when I’m tanked; if I was sober I’d either be bouncing her head off the pavement or running off into the sunset screaming. I abandon my plans for taking it easy and down the bottle of mouthwash I’d been saving for a special occasion, along with discreet coffee mugs of wine when I can.
Feeling normal, I decide to listen to Uriah Heep on my headphones while she does fuck-knows-what in the kitchen. And then if happens. She stumbles and collapses on the couch, passed out like a spaz with her leg bent at a weird angle. I’m finally living the life I was meant to be living, and for the first time in ages I feel close to content. But any happiness on my part is a wistful dream. From the corner of my eye I see the step out out on to the porch, again sans pants. She’s saying something with a snarl on her face but I can’t hear her over my music. She plops down in the chair across from me, mouth still working, and I point to the headphones to indicate I can’t hear her, as I struggle to pull them out and switch off my music.
“…fuck you right up the nose. Fuck that bitch-cunt aunt you call ‘mom’. Fuck your brothers, fuck your sisters, fuck you.” Sigh. “What? What now? What’s wrong?” She tilts her head to the side and smirks, “Hmmm, I wonder. We were supposed to share that vodka and you drank it all.” I genuinely lol at this. When she came in off the porch and passed out on the couch there was a quarter of the bottle left; enough for 3 or 4 drinks for her. There’s no physical way I could have drank the last of the bottle without spewing up and/or passing out. I go inside to grab the bottle, in case in her delusions she couldn’t find it, and discover she’d hidden it. She must have woken up at some point during my Uriah Heep session and had been drinking it since.
I tell her I didn’t drink the last of the vodka, she did, and she’s blaming me because she’s so out of it and needs a villain in her narrative so she can feel sorry for herself. She charges over to me and starts punching and slapping at my face. I push her back and tell her to fuck off. She sits down in the next chair and continues to spout off about what an evil man I am.
I’m not in the mood to listen to her crap and get up to head back inside. I stop by her chair to tell her she’s delusional and she’s just trying to gaslight me. She launches up out of her chair and tries to punch and slap me again. I push her back defensively and she falls into the chair which topples over backwards. In a repeat of jets & furry men night she’s furiously indignant. “Don’t you ever lay hands on me like that again! How dare you hit me!” I tell her I didn’t hit her, but pushed her back to stop her from hitting me. She comes in after me, shrieking about how she’s going to call the police and get me done for assault, how she’s going to slit my throat in my sleep blah blah. I don’t respond. When she’s this psychotic there’s no talking her down. The only way to resolve this is to just get more booze to shut her the hell up.
I quietly palm some of the dollar bills from my emergency stash and order a Lyft. I’ll just get some smokes, some more booze, let her cool off for a bit.
When I get back I tip-toe up and peer around the corner of home. Sure enough she’s sat on the porch, ranting to herself “…abusive asshole stole my vodka!” Clearly she hasn’t had enough time for the cooling off part.
I head around the corner, sit on the curb, and call one of my mates here for moral support and to kill some time, while I swig from the Buzzball I’d nominally bought for her and I.
After a while the sun starts to set and I grow bored. I want to go home. I creep back up to the house and peer around the corner again to see and hear she’s still on the porch loudly rambling to herself. I really, am not in the mood to deal with that.
I go around the corner, into a side alley, and lay on the ground. I curl up under some bushes and pull a nearby tarp over me, to hide from the prying eyes of ‘concerned citizens’. After a few glugs from the Buzzball I end up passing out.
I come to what feels like hours later, well after sunset. I check my phone and as expected there’s some missed calls and texts from her. Most of what she says is incomprehensible. She calls me an “abusive drunk loser fuck” and accuses me of hiding the Roku remote from her. She misplaces the thing multiple times a day, but of course the running theme of the last few weeks has been let’s accuse poor old Thompson of random shit because he’s such an evil person he would obviously do something like that. Then I read she’s going to hunt for my laptop as retribution. My stomach twists into a knot. It’s been hidden for most of the time she’s been back, for fear of something like this happening. She knows how much I value it and sees it as a rival for attention, hence I dare not even power it on while she’s around in case she tries to break, hide, or steal it like she did the last one. The chances of her finding where I’ve stashed it are pretty low, but I’m not taking that chance.
I peek around the corner and I can see the porch light’s on. She’s sat on the porch, smoking and listening to music on her phone. Game time.
I stride through the gate as casually as I can, dropping the tobacco and Buzzball I’d bought on the table, to explain where I’d been. She barely acknowledges me. I can see there’s a new packet of cigarettes in front of her and a fresh handle of Platinum vodka at her feet. I’m confused. “If you had the money to get more vodka why didn’t we just go out and get some, instead of you attacking me like a psychopath?” I ask her. She shrugs, “I didn’t have any money. You did. While I was searching around the house I found the $50 in your backpack. It’s my money.” Shit. She found my emergency stash. I expect a lecture about me ‘hiding’ it from her but instead she sniffs, “and this is my vodka and these are my cigarettes and you can’t have any.” Real mature. I could fight her for the money, I should, even; it’s mine since I was the one who paid for our visit to the Cheesecake Factory. But I know with complete certainty she believes it’s hers and a battle over it could get ugly if she thinks she’s been wronged. I mentally sigh and concede it’s a lost cause. At least she’s just going to spend it on booze and smokes, both of which I can avail myself of if she doesn’t willingly share.
“Whatever. I’m going to bed.” I bring the Buzzball inside with me and check if my laptop is still safe and hidden which, thankfully, it is. Not so one of my carnivorous plants, which she got me for Christmas. She must have punted it across the room as there’s sphagnum moss everywhere. She’s already killed two of the other plants she got me when we got into a prior argument. She’s also thrown some of my display action figures on the ground. Another casualty is my laptop cooling pad, which looks tampered with. I pick it up to examine it and find she’s snapped off one of the support struts. I leave her to her music and rambling on the porch as I climb into bed, frazzled and depressed, ready to pass out and wondering if it really would be all that bad if she killed me in my sleep.
And that’s it. I’ll pass out and hope I don’t wake up with the artery in my neck slashed from a kitchen knife. It’s the best we can hope for in this world. Cheers!
Who knew that perusing ruminations about boozing, hiking, and skirt chasing would lead to frequent and helpful bouts of grammar tutelage?
Polished English is rather scarce in these waters and amongst this crew.
Cheers!
Life is for learning, Drain. Not that I ever remember life’s lessons. I’m never on time because I can’t punctuate!
Welcome back, Thompson. I’ve been wondering what’s been happening with you. It sounds like you are lucky to be alive–if the booze don’t kill you, the ex will! I hope you figure out what to do about her before you wake up dead one of these mornings.
They say that “he who flies highest, falls farthest” – and who am I to argue? But we can’t forget that “he who doesn’t flap his wings, never flies at all”.
Hunter S. Thompson
To hyphenate or not to hyphenate—is that the question? Let me shake my spear and take a guess. Hmm, how about a rainy-day hyphen on #3 and #8?
Honestly, I think hyphens should be discretionary. Use ’em when you want, don’t if you won’t. It’s not like those fuckin’ commas where the rules are set in stone, and only the ignorant among us continually get it wrong. Or maybe I’m just apathetic.
There’s room for creative leeway in language, but there’s also right and wrong. If I call a child a duck just because I personally want to, that doesn’t make the child a duck.
What was your rationale for picking #3 and #8? And could there be more than just two sentences needing a little hyphen surgery? (I’m not saying #3 and #8 are right. Maybe dey iz, an’ maybe dey ain’t. What’s important is to check your understanding. If you simply picked randomly, then you haven’t internalized the reasoning needed to get the correct answer. The answer to avoiding giving is, “Duh… they just looked right…?”)
Kev, I feel like the worst student in your English 101 class. Your explanation about phrasal adjectives preceding nouns makes sense. I will strive to do better in the future, sir. And yes, when I saw that punctuation poster, I knew the comma description would trigger your wrath! Hell, if commas were only about a pause, I might get them right occasionally.
I’m glad you liked the poem. I didn’t put a lot of work into it. Just some words that kind of rhyme in the right places. I’d never even heard of “iambic pentameter,” so I guess I got lucky with that second verse line. I usually prefer an acbd rhyme scheme, but I kept it easy and simple. Anyway, I won’t be quitting my day job. And no, neither Swan nor anything else inspires me to poetry these days. I left those creative urges behind with my twenties. I just couldn’t ignore your challenge with this latest effort.
Well, duh…that’s what Grammarly told me to say…
But seriously, I just now went back and looked again, trying to keep the phrasal adjective rule in mind. Using that standard (to the extent I understand it), I’d add a hyphen on #6 and #9. I’m on the fence about #1 and #4.
It could be I’m hopeless.
Interesting. An abcd rhyme scheme means there’s no rhyme at all: you have four lines, each ending with a different sound. Like this:
my tiger won’t drink anything but milk (a)
I tried to give him soda once before (b)
he wept and threw the bottle far away (c)
and then, he said I was a filthy creep (d)
If we change it to an abcb scheme, it might be like this:
my tiger won’t drink anything but milk (a)
I tried to give him soda once before (b)
he wept and threw the bottle far away (c)
and then, he said I was a filthy whore (b)
We could also change it to an abab scheme:
my tiger won’t drink anything but milk (a)
I tried to give him soda once before (b)
he wept and spun some dresses made of silk (a)
and then, he said I was a filthy whore (b)
Each time, the meter is iambic pentameter (“eye-YAM-bick pen-TAM-uddr” or “-uttr”).
An “iamb” is a pair of syllables with this stress: buh-BUM. Soft, then hard. Do that five times, and that’s a pentameter. Four times, and it’s a tetrameter. Six times, and it’s a hexameter. (Note the Greek roots, not Latin: tetra-, penta-, hexa-, not quad/quart-, quint-, sex-.)
These are just terms people use to describe things like rhyme and meter in poetry; they’re not rules to follow. You’re free to play in the poetry sandbox however you want.
But seriously, I just now went back and looked again, trying to keep the phrasal adjective rule in mind.
D’oh! This very sentence would’ve been a good chance to put the rule into practice.
the phrasal-adjective rule
But what is the rule? Can you explain to me, in your own words, why we need a hyphen in the above example?
I used to have students who would think they could get away with avoidant behavior, dodging the essence of the question I was asking. “What’s the rule?” I’d ask. And they’d say, evasively, “But I’m trying to follow the rule!” So I’d have to ask again: “Fine, but what’s—the—rule?” They’d eventually have to admit they still didn’t understand if they couldn’t explain the rule to me. And we’d go through it again.
As I say in my book, real teaching is about checking knowledge. If you simply lecture and never check whether people understand the concepts, then you haven’t taught shit. And checking understanding can never be a yes/no thing: students, being lazy, will always lie to get you off their backs. So asking, “Do you understand?” is the wrong way to go. Of course they’ll say yes because they think that’ll satisfy you. Ask “Wh-” questions instead. Always “Wh-” questions. Like “What’s the rule?”
While the squirmy evasiveness is funny when young students try that bullshit, it’s funnier when adults do it, regressing back to their childhoods and failing to notice how transparent their BS strategy is. Heh.
With this quiz, though, the point isn’t to guess: it’s to master the rule (which only requires a minimum of mental effort) so you can get the right answer every time.
You can do it! I refuse to believe you’re hopeless.
Hmm, I said ACBD, meaning I like rhyming the first, third, second, and fourth lines in my normal stanza.
I need to go back into my memory box and re-read some of my old poems when all I cared about was expressing the angst and emotions of a young man.
Ah, I saw ABCD. My mistake. But ACBD is still not a rhyme. Each letter represents the sound of the final syllable. To show there’s a rhyme, you have to repeat letters. Some possible rhyme schemes are (for 4-line stanzas):
abab (2nd & 4th lines rhyme)
abba (2nd & 3rd lines rhyme)
abcb (2nd & 4th lines rhyme)
abca (1st & 4th lines rhyme)
etc.
Sorry for misreading you. I’ll shave my forearms in penance.
Whoops:
abab (2nd & 4th lines rhyme)
In that scheme, the 1st & 3rd lines also rhyme, but only with each other, not with the 2nd & 4th lines.
My “whoops” comment applies to other rhyme schemes with more than one repeated letter as well, like abba. I’m truly going senile.
And I did catch this last night but was too tired to remark on it:
The answer to avoiding giving is, “Duh… they just looked right…?”)
Avoid giving.
Carry on.
See, I’ve never been taught (or never learned may be more accurate) the mechanics of writing verse. I just regurgitate the words in my head onto paper. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
Back in my school days, I was a bit of a rebel. So, if the teacher asked, tell me the rule, I’d likely have climbed on my soapbox and said, “Rules? I’m a free man! Your stinkin’ rules don’t apply to me! Down with the rules! Write free or die!” Yeah, I was a bit of an asshole. No wonder I didn’t learn much.
Was that evasiveness squirmy enough?
“A compound modifier is made up of two or more words that work together to function like one adjective in describing a noun. When you connect words with a hyphen, you make it clear to readers that the words work together as a unit of meaning.”
That’s the rule of which you speak. I have, in fact, done some reading on the internet to better understand the world of hyphenation. I can’t promise to be error-free in the future, but at least I’ll be paying more attention.