Hate to Be a Firework


I’d hate to be a firework.

All of that prep.

All of that time spent preparing for that moment.

The anticipation.

The careful dedication to get that firework just right.

The planning.

The syncornicity.


It’s over.

In a second.

The Ooooos and Aaaaaaas DONE!

That moment comes then goes. In a heart beat.

You fade into memory.

Fuck that.

I want to shine, to impress, to impact much more than just a few seconds.

Relaxation of Rain



I love the sound of rain.

I love laying in bed, listening to the sound of rain.

I love laying in bed, naked, listening to the sound or rain.

I love laying in bed, naked, with my naked wife, listening to the sound of rain.


Haven’t heard the sump pump go off.

Shit, basement must be flooding.

Naked, in ankle deep water, in my basement hating the fucking sound of rain.

Of course, the last three lines are ALL IN MY HEAD! Proof yet again, that Hell is Between the ears and even the most relaxing moment can be fucked up by a little thought, a haunt from the past, a life lesson learned.

Vacation Time


img_20160727_162916Tomorrow at 1:00 pm, I am on vacation!

For the first time in close to 11 months I will have an extended time away from the four jobs I call a career.

And it all starts with a trip to the dentist. Then teaching.

Wait….Yeah. Dentist then teaching.

Doesn’t sound like the start of a vacation. Sounds pretty bad actually.

Post teaching, I am driving through the night, oh I love the peace and quiet of middle-of-the-night highway driving, to the Badlands in South Dakota.

For me, the moment my mind believes that vacation is starting, my body and soul respond and I get super mellow and relaxed. Hmmm. Maybe I should do this more often even if the reality of vacation is nothing more than fiction in my mind. Note to self.

Anyway, tomorrow at 1 pm….I am on vacation. South Dakota, Wyoming and Colorado are the tour stops for my fast and furious travels to National Parks and the Pike’s Peak Hill Climb event.

Be watching for posts on this blog, Twitter, and Instagram.

Until then, Bob Zima – Out.

Time to Play


Yesterday, I was speaking with a few people and stated, “a piano is being delivered to my home as we speak.” One of those individuals, who has worked for me for the past year, asked, “Oh, who plays the piano in your home?”

“Why Me!” I said.

Funny, how someone with whom I work did know that I played piano.

I play the piano. I write songs. I have been in performances with my own works in churches, malls and schools. I can’t sing worth a lick yet I don’t care. I perform my own works.

I learned years ago under the guiding hand of my grandmother, who was a formally trained opera performer. My grandmother and I also played tennis together and traveled the world together.

Upon her need to move into an assisted living home in 2000, I inherited her piano. It was an honor. I planned on teaching my children. I planned on playing every day. Writing more and leveraging piano in my therapy, keynotes and workshops. Upon my homelessness due to bankruptcy in 2002, I lost the piano to another family member.

Yesterday, twelve years later and many miles on the highway of healing and rebuilding, I once again took possession of the piano.

It is beat up. Out of tune and in sad shape. Yet, it’s return to my home signifies how life can come full circle.

Now, what in the hell does life and healing have in store for me as a result of the return of a piano on which I wrote a song that won me a trophy and ribbon and title, Star Search West Suburbs Chicago, 1985?

I guess I will find out.