tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13140230535276250622024-03-19T05:21:26.239-07:00RFL - Gossip Galaxyit seems like there is now a need for a communication blogsite to share ideas and editorials.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-503958068329459452008-03-25T09:10:00.001-07:002008-12-10T03:12:12.338-08:00I Am Dexter Yellow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ANLn5OnqXmTdZLo2aOOF68aqR-4lF_mgLVdkgXt3Iis92Fb5L5a01SGe3o6yq3_Y7jYjbKcosjEVH_ZyssJC5HhKnqH1MLwQC-kkXsQU8SGM2c-_VFF9XaqY5zaBoumuCLSIALi_VNo/s1600-h/oddone01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181714174726330786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ANLn5OnqXmTdZLo2aOOF68aqR-4lF_mgLVdkgXt3Iis92Fb5L5a01SGe3o6yq3_Y7jYjbKcosjEVH_ZyssJC5HhKnqH1MLwQC-kkXsQU8SGM2c-_VFF9XaqY5zaBoumuCLSIALi_VNo/s320/oddone01.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br />For those who are not aware, DEXTER is a Showtime TV series about a mass murderer and his life and his world.<br /><br />I am a Dexter. No, I have not killed anyone at least not illegally. Nor do I care to kill anyone, I do not think about killing or ever really consider it. But aside from that I think like a Dexter. Calculating, hiding my true feelings or lack of them from others as I interact socially from day to day. I am always weighing a conversation with an outsider’s observation. What is expected from me, how am I supposed to react? I am often in sync with others and their emotions, but more often than not I am baffled by their strict adherence to smug speculations, mistaken conclusions, poor assumptions and over all alien reactions to day-to-day life. I know that just because every other object is green but for one single yellow entity does not necessarily make that yellow one wrong, but in a green world yellow does present itself as uniquely different, a reality to be questioned and held in suspicion. I see myself as that altered perception. I hold no startling truth or doctrine to justify my difference, in that I am as lost and prone to mistaken assumption as anyone. But I acutely recognize my vulnerability to conjecture and admit at least to myself that I am very apt to be wrong especially when not all information is presented to a specific conclusion leaving me wrought with doubt when others walk about comfortable in their acceptance of substantive postulation without the benefit of actual fact. I sometimes feel like a polarized negative snapshot of humanity. Where most stand in unison with faith, I have doubts, and yet where the rest of the world seems positioned firm in denial I find resolution. I don’t think of myself as superior, nor am I without feeling, but I seem to often have the wrong emotion available for specific situations where others seem to flow smoothly with the accepted reaction or decision at the time. My decision making process is a bit different. I recognize my own feelings, hold them in check and continue analyzing the immediate environment to catch a whiff of how others are conducting themselves then and only then do I attempt to blend in with herd mentality. It is often an uncomfortable life, being yellow.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-20052260705225453612008-02-16T11:29:00.000-08:002008-12-10T03:12:12.583-08:00more dreams<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-H7NaGS93Yrw9ykSXvMcLRENNNd2BNzu3o06pjVg-tuPGu14GTuWZewgjyurfDFz3bnDDdOkQBaCcNxXy8QnE3WYVPhj7PkaDRjluxm6riCYK3jI8BcIy4gaSd3gFQf2Fg5hOu4QLK8/s1600-h/rainforest02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167662719734171602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-H7NaGS93Yrw9ykSXvMcLRENNNd2BNzu3o06pjVg-tuPGu14GTuWZewgjyurfDFz3bnDDdOkQBaCcNxXy8QnE3WYVPhj7PkaDRjluxm6riCYK3jI8BcIy4gaSd3gFQf2Fg5hOu4QLK8/s400/rainforest02.jpg" border="0" /></a> By the end of the third day when the full moon broke through the clouds she took on a fever. We went to the elder of the native porters in camp and asked for aid through our translator. We were immediately urged to travel that night to the nearest tribe where we sought the medical assistance of a healer. Julie was in a bad way and needed a special spore to add to the mixture of herbs and unguents the shaman concocted, five of them to be precise and we were informed that precision was key to the creation of the cure. A shy native girl no more than ten years old showed us a white mushroom cap and our guide explained this was called shuiweh and was the ingredient required to finish the needed potion and that we should hurry to gather them up and return.<br /><br />We set out on our quest taking the boat out and across the lake, beaching at small coves and inlets to search the shorelines for the elusive mushrooms. They proved to be less elusive than anticipated and before you know it we were carry hand loads of them back to the boat. Only five were required, but I supposed that bringing extras to the healer as a gift would act as a sign of gratitude and payment for the life giving service he was about to provide. The waters were dark and quiet as we covered the distance back to the village, the bright moonlight spilled onto the lakes surface giving the impression that we traveled through thick dark blood, glossy and still but for the ropey wake that followed behind us. Anxiety filled me as the natives steered the craft forward. It might have been a classic African Norman Rockwell moment if it weren’t for the humming of the outboard, and the Bart Simpson and MTV tee shirts worn by our natives.<br /><br />The spores were offered to the healer and he turned and walked away without accepting the gift, walking away with no word or explanation. Did he forget something? Oh my god! Were we too late? I rushed to Julie’s tent and she lay asleep breathing heavy, a low moist sputter rumbling in her lungs and her skin oozed thick oily sweat but she was breathing and very much alive. I form a few angry thoughts directed at the village shaman. Was this a fools errand, send us away to keep us out from under foot as what ever secret ancestral ceremonies were needed to be performed outside of prying foreign eyes? Oh just think a moment, how could I be so stupid? We were given a specific task and we failed at it. I am amongst a conservative lot these lake villagers, in tune with nature and earth and respectful to creatures and plant life. Had we pulled up a year’s crop of mushrooms? Was there a shelf life on these spores? Did it take years to germinate or cultivate more? Had I broken some ancient taboo, disappointed their gods? I had no clue what I was thinking when I gathered up every mushroom in sight and the thought that my ignorant self indulgence may cost Julie dearly set uneasy in the pit of my stomach.<br /><br />Our guide and translator returned some time later and explained that what we brought back was not the wembu diewhi shuiweh needed to complete the potion, what we brought back was common shuiweh or mimic toadstools that any five year old in the village would have known the difference. Then why didn’t we bring a five year old? I thought to myself. This was a nightmare.<br /><br />“We must go back out!” I demanded but the guide shook his head slowly.<br /><br />“It is much too late now. Your friend, she will survive another day, we will finish our task tomorrow.” then he led us to our tents just outside the village. I found it difficult to sleep despite the exhaustion that seeped into my old bones. The next morning I woke to a colorful bustling village full of motion and sound. I checked in on Julie’s tent, she still slept badly with sweat soaking though the medicine blanket that covered her. I was collected and brought to a feeding hole, a kind of native mosh-pit of pillows and grass rugs scattered about a dimple in the ground. I was served fruits and goat’s milk, cheese and a variation of pine nuts with a grainy porridge still steamy from the kettle. There was honey and clumped cream for the porridge and fresh water for washing and drinking. It seemed an endless procession of women and children bearing food and drink and gifts as well. Reed soap for washing, banana leaves for toiletry, a straight razor for shaving was a welcome surprise and a small treasure chest worth of small stones, some smooth and shiny, others peculiar and unique in shape and color and pieces of pretty glass as would be found in cheap jewelry all heaped around me to make my dining experience all the more delightful. Everyone carried a smile and worked swiftly and diligently at whatever task they performed. There was a veritable hive of activity accented by laughing children running frantic in a perpetual game of chase through out the village. Buoyant chatter and easy laughter blended with joyful song that came pleasant to the ear. There was an air of not celebration, but infectious contentment that called me to join in the activity and become a part of the hive and share the mysterious feelings unknown to most of the civilized world but so inviting within the confines of that tiny village. The emotional sensations that surrounded me were difficult to grasp at first, and then I recognized the familial bond that has long fled the cities of the western world. Here everyone worked for the whole, this is communal living at its most base element. There were no strays from the herd, no lone wolves, no self-absorption, no secrets from one another only from outsiders and then secret only because we were unable to see the magic. So applying modern logic; our conclusion can only be that these arcane truths must be deliberately withheld as a mysterious secret and not because we refuse to believe what we see directly in front of us. This is the only explanation plausible to educated and ‘enlightened’ contemporaries.<br /><br />I shook the lackadaisical doldrums from my now clean skin and focused on the problems at hand. I had searched frantically for mushrooms last night in the dark and did so poorly informed as to what I was searching for. I learned what I wanted was a death head mushroom so named for the yellowed ivory color and the brown scarring that naturally occurs on the cap of the shuiweh that when looked upon from a certain angle appeared as the form of a skull with sunken eyes, nose and maw when ripened to maturity and viable for the shaman’s potion. I was afraid that my knowledge of mushrooms was extensively lacking in the ability to recognize one from another so I took heed of my lesson the night before and bribed a coterie of children with chocolate to assist me in my endeavor.<br /><br />We set out into the jungle racing about like an Easter egg hunt, children running and laughing and darting from shade tree to shaded root. I made sure my guide translated that only five were required and that I should be led to discoveries rather than pulling them from their nesting place and delivering them to me directly. Much was apparently lost in the translation for the children brought me colorful flowers, more pretty rocks, and a few varieties of lizard that blended so well to the color and pattern of my hand as to disappear from view entirely. All impressive and well intended but not what I was seeking. We ventured closer to the shoreline as that is where I searched the previous night but found nothing but games and laughter that began to fill me with guilt and a little annoyance considering Julie was back in the village wasting away. I reluctantly allowed a break for lunch, which consisted of fresh picked fruit, some edible flowers and a tuber root that tasted remarkably of apple and ginger. I could market that back home I thought to myself as I rose to continue my quest. The children took their time in eating, some curling up in the shade for a nap afterwards. Others slowly rejoined me and we continued our mini expedition through the forest. By evening my spirits plummeted as the population of insects rose. The children grew weary of the game and no chocolate could bribe them any further and we returned to the village subdued and empty of hope.<br /><br />Dinner was laid out in the dining pit when we came in to the village. The children for the most part scrambled to their mothers except for a few of the oldest who carried the youngest sleeping in their arms. I made my way to Julie to look in on her. The shaman was by her side as well as my translator who informed me that a hunting party was assembled to assist me after the dining observance was concluded. I looked up confused from Julie’s side.<br /><br />“I have been searching with the children all day and have not found a single sprout to match your description.” I announce feebly unaware if Julie could hear me or not. “I am cursed with bad luck and stupidity. A seemingly lethal dose for poor Julie here.” I finished.<br /><br />“You seem not to understand,” translated my guide “you are most fortunate for the shuiweh you seek only blooms on the nights of a full moon. Tonight the villagers will take you where they grow in abundance, but you must take only what you need, and you must search them out yourself. The quest is part of the cure. Your heart and your faith must fill the spores you harvest or they will be useless to the shaman. This I thought was understood.”<br /><br />“There is much I don’t understand.” I replied, and then I woke up. It was a good journey and entertaining dream, I hope it continues.<br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-70168058504957564292008-02-16T01:21:00.000-08:002008-12-10T03:12:12.882-08:00"Badgers? We Don't need no stinking badgers..."<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQYwTEr38dDNw55K-sOqsm9m7gCW82eQf9d27Jy7QsETJSmUzl21ZTYfmWb9PjLFIJKJKIUbQ1Okykf8WZlnl2cBGv_HvhVSW0pwjHv76Ohh0qtMfOIbgyIikOk-3Wo9bGiT02piDc_0/s1600-h/claws1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167505837463750594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQYwTEr38dDNw55K-sOqsm9m7gCW82eQf9d27Jy7QsETJSmUzl21ZTYfmWb9PjLFIJKJKIUbQ1Okykf8WZlnl2cBGv_HvhVSW0pwjHv76Ohh0qtMfOIbgyIikOk-3Wo9bGiT02piDc_0/s400/claws1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br />You may recall several stories that infer that Nutmeg may well be a feline NutMegGuyver and that still holds true for the most part but last night has changed my perspective somewhat. I woke somewhere towards the end of the classic witching hour because of the rather noisome antics of my two cats, Chaos and Nutmeg. I wasn’t ready to rise so I rubbed my eyes shut and buried my head deeper into my pillow. I lay there listening to my hyper cats run the length of the house and back several times, not an uncommon occurrence and sometimes I get up and join them; but not this early, not this morning. As luck would have it, despite my reluctance to get up out of my warm bed, nature persuaded me otherwise, and I drug my tired butt over to the cold linoleum and sat myself down on an icy porcelain seat. The cats came in to watch. Now that in itself may seem a bit odd, but it has been a long time since they made me uncomfortable in the watching or the disregard they hold for my privacy, and I only noticed because just behind them the floor grate to the air ducts was dislodged on one corner. As if aware of my interest, Chaos got up and walked over to the floor grate and sniffed it, then sat and stared for a while. Nutmeg got up and followed suit sitting beside her hulking mate as I thought to myself Nutmeg has been up all night working hard again. You see this isn’t the first floor grate removal service I have unwittingly discovered, the first to go was under the end table in the front room, followed by one behind the lazy boy recliner, one more in the bedroom and the one in the kitchen would have gone by way of the others had fate not interceded by putting me in Nutmegs way at the most inopportune times for her. Good fortune for me because she apparently gave up on it.</div><div><br /> Tonight, or in the wee hours of morning I suppose was to prove different. I sat on my porcelain throne and watched my two cats sit on their furry behinds and watch the floor vent. Both tales began twitching nervously like when ready to pounce on an unsuspecting toy, or each other when in mock-stalker mode. All of a sudden a paw appeared much to my surprise. You could not have flabbergasted me more with spring-loaded worms in a fake can with a peanuts label. I was too shocked to react. I sat and watched the paw come out and Nutmeg unable to resist, pounced on it and the mystery paw returned to the safety of my air conditioner duct after engaging a few retaliation moves. Nutmeg settled back to a sitting position until the paw came out again. This time nerve synapses were firing on all eight cylinders in my muddled brain and I actually formed a thought or two. The paw was most definitely an extra foot, all four each of Chaos and Nutmeg’s feet were accountable and yet a ninth paw remained. I counted again to be sure, yep nine paws. The odd paw appeared to be dark brown with very long black claws. I suppose I should write; very long intimidating black claws because they looked like ten penny nails from hell and because of the wrongness of seeing them in the inner sanctum of my bathroom. Nutmeg pounced and the mystery paw played for a bit and returned to its lair beneath the floor. It reminded me of Thing from Adams Family fame, a lone appendage creeping out for a moment then returning to the whence it came and that made me chuckle but then the paw actually came out again. I lurched from my vulnerable position and added the foot of my cane to the game, viciously beating the floor grate until the paw disappeared again then continued to pound on the grate until it settle back into place on the floor. Some may think I was squealing like a little girl at the time, but I have no recollection of that ever happening. I swung the bathroom door until it rested over the grate and I was satisfied nothing more would be crawling out. Oddly enough, after that unsettling experience, I realized I was still sleepy after all that excitement and snuggled deeply under my blanket and went back to sleep. </div><div><br /> I wonder still what the creature was that I saw, if I saw anything at all. I’m old, I have a vivid imagination, especially when I am sleeping, and dementia runs in my family. I chose to believe the rather strong memory and images I have and so I googled paws and claws to try to find a match. The photo attached was as close as I could come to matching what I saw and that is quite close indeed. The claws were black, thick and long. Straight at the base and curving some at the Mr. pointy end. The fur on the paw and leg at first seem dark brown but I realize now that the floor vent was situated at the time behind the bathroom door and only one light was on shining from the wrong side to be of any benefit so the area in question was shaded if not shadowy which means the fur may have been a lighter brown, or it may have been as I first thought, it is hard to be sure. I do know the claws in the photo are similar to the ones in my memory banks. The paw itself was large compared to the big feet on Chaos, and maybe three times the size of Nutmegs, well at least twice the size, again I can’t be certain just as I cannot be certain it was actually a visit from the rare and presumably endangered and protected California duct badger, as who knows how many other creatures have the same or similar claw pattern or maybe it was my brother or one of the local buffoons with a furry paw on a stick making with a practical joke. I only know I am not prepared to take on any more roommates.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-36419220289717119142007-12-11T14:59:00.000-08:002008-12-10T03:12:13.030-08:00It's Here!<div align="center"><a href="http://www.xlibris.com/EYES.html"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142853831395466066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFBH6mTBFJ2pkot5Goqsb_LInLJU0uYLKI1nb4LuxPeKOPschDPUYI1lHMW2UrWxA5tAoymZEy-WziRPLA7rokJpHafs7RTQ3ujhA1ZGIAd12GFIZhSJGWO5VFyAhVJCUqo4VQvAjaXQ/s400/43371-EBER-thumbnail.gif" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://www.xlibris.com/EYES.html">www.xlibris.com/EYES.html</a><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-14069013182528752802007-12-10T11:47:00.001-08:002008-12-10T03:12:13.199-08:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Brialeanna and the Beast</span></strong><br /><strong><em>Or Moo the Musical</em></strong></div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142433362687122242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcW3YrDll0vo3KpMdeXR6eLQ0ZOmgC67UDNLcUXebkVf9jhokiWrT15nAzhPdrMuuLAMDBv4u34qMCQNZdfsjZkar068EWcph3TEzM-9YBqEMhCVbsWyC5chg0EuquvJOW2GsC0tHuMw/s200/tauren.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br />Once upon a time there was a poor blood elf farmer from Eversong Woods near Fairbreeze Village who had a beautiful daughter. In fact, she was so beautiful that everyone called her "Beauty," even though her name was Brialeanna.<br /><br />The year that Beauty was level eighteen the weather was very bad and the farmer's crops failed—he was able to harvest only enough to feed his family for half the year, with nothing left over to take to market, so he sent Beauty into the nearby forest to gather root and thorns, while he ventured closer to the Scorched Grove to gather whatever bloodthistle he could find. </p><p><br />Now, deep within that forest traveling on an important quest was a terrible beast, an enormous tauren named Bonden, who destroyed whatever hapless victims he could find wandering there alone. He heard Beauty moving through the underbrush and quietly crept up to capture her, but when his eyes happened upon her, the great tauren immediately fell in love and could not bear to think of any harm coming to such a lovely blood elf, so he silently withdrew to seek other prey. Soon afterwards, he came upon Beauty's father busily collecting bloodthistle to sell at market.<br /><br />When the blood elf was captured and the tauren explained that the farmer was to be taken to Stranglethorn Vale where he would be thrown into the arena to fight for his life, the distraught father wailed, "I am no warrior, surely I will die! What will become of my little Beauty and my wife Eunice without me to work the farm, and even without my returning with the bloodthistle I have gathered today? They will starve!"<br /><br />"Beauty?" said the Beast, remembering the blood elf girl he had seen not long before and thinking that would be an entirely appropriate name for her.<br /><br />"My daughter. She has come into the forest, too, to gather earth root and briarthorn. Oh, I should not have said that! Now you will find her and capture her too!" </p><p><br />"Is she the beautiful young blood elf wearing a gray woolen robe, a pretty malachite pendant and carrying a red leather bag?<br /><br />"Yes. Oh, you have already found and taken her! Woe! Woe! You may as well slay me, now. I have nothing left to live for."<br /><br />"I haven't touched her! I saw her and fell in love with her and would never harm her. For her sake, I will even let you go, if you will bring her to me so that I may marry her."<br /><br />This posed a problem for the farmer. With Beauty still alive, and unlikely to be harmed by the Beast, he no longer wished to die. But to condemn her to be married to such a horrible beast . . . that was not a fate she deserved.<br /><br />"Could she come home to visit us every day?"<br /><br />"No, but one day a year she can go for a visit, if she wishes."<br /><br />"And no harm will come to her?"<br /><br />"Absolutely none. I love her and want only the best for her. She will live in luxury, for my home is an enchanted palace far away in Mulgore."<br /><br />"I'm not sure she will agree to marry you."<br /><br />"Then I will come and I will capture you wherever you are, then I will slay you before your family and loot you for everything you own, a paltry prize I’m sure, but loot, nonetheless. So you had better persuade her to agree."<br /><br />"I will do my best."<br /><br />When Beauty heard that the alternative to her marrying the Beast was for her father to be slain and looted by the fierce tauren, she did not hesitate. She was a pure and innocent young girl, but she knew where her duty lay.<br /><br />Dressed in her finest gown, she went with her father to the waters edge of the Azurebreeze coast—her mother was too upset to come with them—onto a clear beach the Beast had pointed out to the farmer. There was nothing there but a small, cute and docile looking manatee.<br /><br />"I am to lead you to the palace of the Beast," said the manatee. "Your father may go no further." </p><p><br />So, after a tearful farewell, the farmer left his daughter, who followed the manatee across the great sea, then as the manatee took to cat form they ran along a twisting route, taking a branching path, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, but so irregularly that Beauty could not keep track of the way. Finally, they came to a place in a green valley where sat a tiny castle covered by overarching tree branches.<br /><br />"It's so small!" said Beauty ever so disappointed. "I'm not sure I will fit insinde."<br /><br />"It's an enchanted castle," said the cat, "larger on the inside than on the outside, as you will see as soon as you step through the doorway."<br /><br />And so it was. Beauty stood marveling at the large entrance hallway lined with rich tapestries and furnishings, with a grand staircase with ornately carved balustrades that rose at the back and divided, to the right and to the left, ending at each side in an archway in the wall beneath the high ceiling.<br /><br />The cat had followed Beauty into the castle. Sensing some movement behind her, Beauty turned to see the cat growing larger and larger, changing shape, and being transformed into a large, fearsome monster. She fainted.<br /><br />Beauty awoke to find herself lying on a soft, silk-covered bed. Gradually recovering her wits, she half opened her eyes and turned her head, to see the tauren sitting quietly in a nearby chair, close but not too near the bedside. The expression on his face was as close to tenderness as was possible on such a visage, and his brown eyes had a soft, adoring look, or so Beauty interpreted. The mirror on the wall behind him showed the top of a broad back covered with black coarse hair, and the snout that protruded beneath soft brown eyes bore a gold ring through the nostrils, but he was not quite so repulsive as he had seemed at first glance.<br /><br />When he saw that Beauty was conscious again Bonden rose gently from his seat, came to the bedside, took her hand gently and drew her up to stand before him.<br /><br />"I want only to love you, not to frighten nor harm you. I live this way in this place because of a spell cast upon me by an evil gnome mage. Perhaps if you kiss me, it may break the spell, but, in any case remember, this is an enchanted castle and natures and appearances can change to meet your desires. You may close your eyes while I kiss you, then gaze into the mirror and you will see the guise I should assume that would please you, for I can take on any form that you desire."<br /><br />Repressing a shudder, Beauty closed her eyes. A few moments later she felt moist lips press upon hers, and a kiss such as she had never had at home from her mother or father drew the very breath from her body, starting from her toes and rising gradually through her up to her mouth, leaving behind a vast emptiness longing to be filled, and while her lips tasted sweetness, yet they were aflame. To keep from falling into the abyss that seemed to open before her, she wrapped her arms around the body of the Beast and held tightly to him, until, an eternity later, he drew back and she opened her eyes.<br /><br />Gazing into the mirror her vision was blurred, but as she tried to focus on the face and form of the Beast, she saw that he had changed from the horrible monster with the animal horns and ringed snout that Brialeanna had first seen. Now he had broad shoulders, and a blood elf’s demeanor. His elongated face transformed into and elfish cameo with a beautiful alabaster smile, while his ears pulled back to show long point pointy tips. His large eyes flashed with fire, as he now was revealed in majesty before her.<br /><br />"What form did you wish me to change into?" asked the former Beast.<br />"None but what you are. You are magnificently handsome. I have never before seen such a powerful, impressive creature." And she once again raised her glance to the mirror behind him and longingly saw that elegant Blood Elf posture. She saw also that a pretty, gentle, sweet-faced heifer stood before him with a gaze of adulation at her lover.<br /><br />MORAL: It's not so easy to rise above our animal natures. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-91573037802192022532007-12-06T11:46:00.000-08:002008-12-10T03:12:13.523-08:00THE NOS-FERALAS<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8c3-ssLvnRx9knKN3N4_Sog9mqVopB1LocLjhtUeCYsetkpt-Y-lhBgi6vwGJH3yPy_UxGbgotTRs8h4iPRUfU1TWdZWIypacNBb5aiR-QhvLc46OOIHpWMRQ_s9zFufiJFQxUSg9tdQ/s1600-h/nosfaralas.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140950547789068818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8c3-ssLvnRx9knKN3N4_Sog9mqVopB1LocLjhtUeCYsetkpt-Y-lhBgi6vwGJH3yPy_UxGbgotTRs8h4iPRUfU1TWdZWIypacNBb5aiR-QhvLc46OOIHpWMRQ_s9zFufiJFQxUSg9tdQ/s200/nosfaralas.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>She comes by night, and even by day, to fang my socks and my unsuspecting feet.<br /><br />She lives like any legendary urban myth: everyone who has never seen her claims she does not exist, is a hoax or a figment of my too-active imagination. But those who have been victim to her evil mark, her lightning-swift appearance and sudden disappearance into darkness, know the truth.<br /><br />The Nos-Feralas is out there. No ankle is safe, no unattended shoe, no piece of cloth or leather item left a moment unwatched.<br /><br />I have proof: my wading boots leak from the fangings they have suffered. Alas, rendered disposable I have laid them to rest beyond the reach of sinister eyes. They adorn the feet of some one homeless now, I suspect, but they too shall suffer. The mark of Nos-Feralas will never be erased. The holes in the toes will ever leak relentless rain upon the tootsies of yet another hapless victim.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKK3WeQjMpryEfpLFoBLRSnxD_s3Blgptlr3DFRiAxcIEj7wXUbOTgwNnRAMkeYBgky3GdRj1TjTlH_n84qT9xdIo56yfAxrl2wyngduyvx50oFyzpMuM08-kSiPjPm5ZMWz2f7A6cis/s1600-h/teddy-bear.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140959279457581602" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKK3WeQjMpryEfpLFoBLRSnxD_s3Blgptlr3DFRiAxcIEj7wXUbOTgwNnRAMkeYBgky3GdRj1TjTlH_n84qT9xdIo56yfAxrl2wyngduyvx50oFyzpMuM08-kSiPjPm5ZMWz2f7A6cis/s200/teddy-bear.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />And there are countless victims, such as the stuffed toys that leak fluff from fabric wounds. They know not why they have been attacked. Their glazed plastic eyes speak volumes of the horrors to which their thread-stitched mouths cannot scream.<br /><br />When the scrambling sound of her clawed feet is heard upon the hardwood deck, the other cats flatten their scarred ears and hide. They know the terror of Nos-Feralas.<br /><br />Cheese on counter top can be found with gouges taken from its soft flesh. None are safe from the predations of the she-fiend Nos-Feralas. Not the young, smooth skinned Gouda, nor the ancient sharp cheddar. They both succumb to the mark of the fang.<br /><br />The four-post bed that stands beneath a bay window mired by wet nose prints may hold such horrors, that only the bravest dare slip between the chilly sheets without a glance in search of furious eyes, glaring with malevolence and glowing with the unhealthy desire for tender tarsals.<br /><br />She knows no fear. Her strike is swift. None but the most righteous boot may stand before the fiend. And we know their fate. Pity the boot that gives such stalwart service, only to be reduced to rubbish in the battle against the Nos-Feralas.<br /><br />Vampire Kitty I hunt thee armed with nail clipper and toothbrush. Someday fiend, I shall be victorious. I hear the soft purr of your chuckling, wicked one. Laugh now, for tomorrow you may be vaccinated.... </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-84382724346899734292007-11-24T16:33:00.000-08:002007-11-24T16:35:12.991-08:00T-day falloutI hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving, I went down to Rocklin and had a fantastic time, meeting new friends and gathering with family.<br /><br />What did you do?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-7197393024185571972007-11-20T09:50:00.000-08:002008-12-10T03:12:13.759-08:00A Spotlight on Mike Moment<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_3YTeP_bptZODccJOcia6n6eSHz_OuZgBZYY6nyrF_EOXXIMSwQVghCBaQjJo5mFH-RLg2DUVCdiVWCO8iOkrlo6VVmoLOIEYOW8RjeIx1-mEpl9jaBg9vWfmtJ3-quqk-Fkxh3XgUqM/s1600-h/melaniesafka.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135027939708650962" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_3YTeP_bptZODccJOcia6n6eSHz_OuZgBZYY6nyrF_EOXXIMSwQVghCBaQjJo5mFH-RLg2DUVCdiVWCO8iOkrlo6VVmoLOIEYOW8RjeIx1-mEpl9jaBg9vWfmtJ3-quqk-Fkxh3XgUqM/s200/melaniesafka.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br />When I was fifteen, I worked at Codo De Caza Country Club; an exclusive hide away and play zone for the ridiculously rich and famous, nestled at the end of a lonely road situated on a flat mesa above Trabuco Canyon. I lived in a residence at the Canyon Fire Station surrounded by Oneil Park and the official Girl Scout Campground alongside the usually dry Trabuco Creek.<br /><br />One Saturday evening I was asked to stay over after working the Clay Pigeon Shoot-Out and BBQ all that afternoon where we roasted and served a whole pig to help out in the main dining room as apparently many of the inebriated guests from the earlier festivities decided to book reservations for dinner at the last moment thus engaging a full dining room for the evening. Additional tables were dressed for dinner outside near the pool and large outdoor heaters were set up to make the dining atmosphere bearable.<br /><br />I agreed to the request eagerly and then called my brother who was supposed to pick me up at the end of my shift and notified him I would be working late. This was an opportunity I couldn’t miss out on, the gun-toting gentlemen at the BBQ were very generous in their tipping and I had already cleared a neat pile of cash and looked forward to an even larger reward that evening. As I recall it was a cluster buster, nothing at all went well. Murphy’s law was in effect the entire evening. Diners were piled into the lounge, the patio, and frustrated people were ordering food to take out, and the kitchen was utter chaos. Diners, like locust, cleaned out the kitchen larders and left nothing in their wake. Exhausted cooks were recruited to stay over and prep for the next morning as making the breakfast menu available for dinner was the only salvation the executive chef produced to sate the long line of hungry customers as steaks and crustaceans and poultry entered the endangered species list on the menu.<br /><br />I even impressed Chef Gimbrone with an impromptu recipe of diced pork left over from the earlier BBQ tossed with egg noodles, shallots, sour cream, placed in individual ceramic casserole dishes and topped with shredded cheddar and parmesan cheeses then fired under the salamander broiler to a crisp and bubbly brown. The same dish was still being served in that dining room years later when I visited Frank Gimbrone just after I was discharged from the Navy. The meat had been changed to diced ham, the noodles were now cavatelli, and the cheeses were grated Cheshire and Red Leicester over a bed of shredded sharp Cheddar, someone had added spring peas to the mix but it was still a tribute to my imagination and on the spot creativity even as a teenager.<br /><br />After a very long day and a massive cleanup of the kitchens aftermath, I met with Frank Gimbrone in the lounge and enjoyed a high ball of ginger ale and grenadine and listened to Melanie Safka as she sang a solo version of Big Yellow Taxi for the now dwindling crowd as she wrapped up her final set. We were discussing arrangements for me to get home when Melanie walked over. Even though I only had a learner’s permit, Frank had not hesitated in the past to loan me the keys to one of the catering vans. But this particular night he was weighing his options since the vans were still full of equipment and debris from the earlier BBQ.<br /><br />I will never forget the moment that Melanie spoke. She said those magical words in a popular british accent that sent my head reeling. “I’ll give him a ride, where’s he live?”<br /><br />Maybe it was fatigue, more likely just enormous bashful embarrassment but I was speechless. Frank asked with a wink and a smile if I would mind if she drove me home and all I could do was nod. Sure why not, I received a motherly hug from Raquel Welch, why not a cruise with Melanie Safka?<br /><br />It was dark in the paved paradise that was our parking lot and quite honestly I have never been good with identifying cars, but my best guess is she drove either a BMW or more likely a Mercedes. It was a convertible and we were seated close to one another in leather bucket seats, but in the early morning hours with the late cool autumn weather the top remained up and we sat side-by-side listening to a tape of the Beatles singing Norwegian Wood. She lit up a joint and passed it to me as we pulled away from the gatehouse, and I puffed lightly on it, praying I wouldn’t choke or embarrass myself further and handed it back mumbling thank you under my breath. Not another word passed between us as we drove the short distance to my home, and my mind spun a thousand miles an hour trying to form a scenario that would allow me to leave a positive impression on this beautiful, famous woman sitting beside me. But of course at fifteen the only thing I could offer to impress Melanie was my silence.<br /><br />As she pulled up in front of the firehouse, and I turned to thank her for the ride, she said, “It’s been fun, we should do this again.” And kissed me on the cheek. I stood in front of the great fire engine garage for the longest time trying to make sense of what she said. I suppose on reflection it was a reflex response, something she said often and probably never gave it any thought. But I carried those words with me a very long time and still they stay in my memory sometime as fantasy, sometimes melancholy, but on occasion like now, those words represent an integral part of my growth into the man I am today.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-44204484492771846772007-11-14T20:54:00.000-08:002008-12-10T03:12:13.947-08:00Sherpa Kitty and the five magical beans<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2wVym0-VEwDv3L7Tqmha3oXcPpw1WtuvxI5NayAD6QXHX94ca7fTtbuLxSCEyY6VU5nq8e1PT5HpPJQsJt_OWtM98xURdq51qo3zZB1HCxVy6yhVA0-jLC8BpvgiDL5ClDiTQjXo7eso/s1600-h/sherpa-kitty-and-beans.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132926343491241410" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2wVym0-VEwDv3L7Tqmha3oXcPpw1WtuvxI5NayAD6QXHX94ca7fTtbuLxSCEyY6VU5nq8e1PT5HpPJQsJt_OWtM98xURdq51qo3zZB1HCxVy6yhVA0-jLC8BpvgiDL5ClDiTQjXo7eso/s200/sherpa-kitty-and-beans.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://recipefl.blogspot.com/2007/11/further-tales-of-sherpa-kitty.html"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Recipe For Life - Stories: Further Tales of Sherpa Kitty</span></strong></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-13066254752748091752007-11-13T16:08:00.000-08:002008-12-10T03:12:14.000-08:00The Adventures of Sherpa Kitty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnC-wupU33hU3vTQqSVn8vEoRbNxOdql94kKhR2jdx_NTBo8JJwyWz5S9JuR0ppc-BSiYeYqUDUdg-zpw_TUEY3be5HJQBdqdZLcZc1hFakZtRDXTosL-fh5R4YzKfDkb0_r0Oqt3jq40/s1600-h/sherpa-cat.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132481600057431202" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnC-wupU33hU3vTQqSVn8vEoRbNxOdql94kKhR2jdx_NTBo8JJwyWz5S9JuR0ppc-BSiYeYqUDUdg-zpw_TUEY3be5HJQBdqdZLcZc1hFakZtRDXTosL-fh5R4YzKfDkb0_r0Oqt3jq40/s200/sherpa-cat.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Another odd and bizarre dream unfolds as possibly a children's book. Any ideas how to go about finding an illustrator?</div><div><p></p></div><div><em><span style="color:#ffff66;">It was the night before Christmas</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#ffff66;">And just outside the City</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#ffff66;">Not a creature was stirring</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#3366ff;"><span style="color:#ffff66;">Except for Sherpa Kitty!</span> <p><a href="http://recipefl.blogspot.com/2007/11/sherpa-kitty.html"><span style="color:#33ff33;"><strong>Read an adventure of Sherpa Kitty</strong></span></a></p></span></em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-18763959339972775882007-10-31T08:08:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:14.176-08:00It's Halloween!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zS7FjMWKujk2btTjNZAWnK4bPSzXUX5x6GDjj2LalFDVZDZAdcU8ymn4orZJduhYMfZNt-xmAqHnOXHCdUMyrmT1XjEKuzKiJQBUdtBwEGn0eIhoLVCoxD0q_-VIQkLHcI3EJaBR7B0/s1600-h/punkin01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127521324867270178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zS7FjMWKujk2btTjNZAWnK4bPSzXUX5x6GDjj2LalFDVZDZAdcU8ymn4orZJduhYMfZNt-xmAqHnOXHCdUMyrmT1XjEKuzKiJQBUdtBwEGn0eIhoLVCoxD0q_-VIQkLHcI3EJaBR7B0/s200/punkin01.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center">Time to scream it's Halloween!</div><br /><div align="center">The moon is full and bright</div><br /><div align="center">And we shall see what can't be seen</div><br /><div align="center">On any other night.<br /></div><br /><div align="center">Skeletons and ghosts and ghouls,</div><br /><div align="center">Grinning goblins fighting duels,</div><br /><div align="center">Werewolves rising from their tombs,</div><br /><div align="center">Witches on their magic brooms.<br /></div><br /><div align="center">In masks and gowns</div><br /><div align="center">On haunted streets</div><br /><div align="center">Knock on doors</div><br /><div align="center">For tricks or treats<br /></div><br /><div align="center">Every child is king or queen,</div><br /><div align="center">Carved out pumpkins light the scene</div><br /><div align="center">Cast iron cauldrens bubbling green</div><br /><div align="center">For on this night it's Halloween!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-82689921530526811102007-10-24T09:25:00.000-07:002007-10-24T09:35:31.997-07:00National StatsI was scanning my mail and read an article in the OPENING BELL an email<br />published for the NATIONAL EDUCATION ASSOCIATION the other morning and came across an article that said: "Report: 2,500 teachers punished for sexual misconduct in five year period." I have no children in school these days, but it still sounded alarming over my first cup of coffee of the day.<br /><br />I decided for some reason to see what kind of information I could find on the<br />i-net and came up with some general facts that put a little perspective into<br />the community around me and the nation as a whole.<br /><br />Here are some general national statistics. All are approximates and none or<br />few have been researched and documented by myself other than to relay what I<br />read here and there.<br /><br />Population<br />301,139,947<br /><br />annual births<br />4,000,000<br />11,000 births per day<br /><br />annual deaths<br />2,400,000<br />6,500 deaths per day<br /><br />annualtraffic fatalities<br />39,000<br />106 traffic fatalities per day<br />(almost half alcohol related)<br /><br />annualrape/sexualassault<br />191,000<br />(523 reported sexual assaults per day)<br /><br />annual teachers terminated<br />for sexual assault<br />500<br />(1.3 teachers let go per day. I did not find a source that reports how many<br />teachers are terminated in general per day)<br /><br />total national crimes annualy<br />23,440,000<br />64,000 crimes comitted daily<br />(1 out of 4,700 people will be involved in a crime today)<br /><br />annual homicides<br />20,000<br />54 homicides daily<br /><br />annual suicides<br />30,000<br />82 suicides daily<br /><br />annual deaths from illicit drug use<br />17,000<br />46 per day<br />(that includes overdose, traffic fatalities, and homicides related to drugs)<br /><br />annual deaths from perscription medication<br />32,000<br />87 per day<br />(Now there is food for thought, far more people die from perscription abuse<br />than illegal drug abuse.)<br /><br />Well that's it for today, I am going to go bury my head back in the sand.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-5585636408605653872007-10-16T01:57:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:14.274-08:00A DAY AT THE BEACH<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtI7HbxGPm9rmveEdFL0Q1ko_KCIgzGixCrq3Faalw_LKLkWfgVXwUTj-dbR1RlcgE1mxTt1hq5sAyKtRTdYGtt76SdmVVrd3pBU0m1Bo_IRzkOg9eRblWqmwtRA_84VkgykhjV9TUKKo/s1600-h/depopulation.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121861098426064386" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtI7HbxGPm9rmveEdFL0Q1ko_KCIgzGixCrq3Faalw_LKLkWfgVXwUTj-dbR1RlcgE1mxTt1hq5sAyKtRTdYGtt76SdmVVrd3pBU0m1Bo_IRzkOg9eRblWqmwtRA_84VkgykhjV9TUKKo/s200/depopulation.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Story time again. Some may not know anything about Sam Gambol, who he is and what he has done, but I know Sue does. She motivated me to complete my sci-fi story into a novel size book. but Sam has sat quietly in a corner waiting patiently for me to complete my current project EYES.</div><br /><div>So I thought maybe a little background story to ease back into the Travelogged mode might be in order. Travelogged being the original idea for the title. Sam Gambol began in my mind in high school as a college kid turned into a mechanical tank for the military (bionic man style I guess). after his adventures as Tred Boy the cyber soldier, he lead a revolt of peaceful resistance that ended up with the pulling of his brain matter out of his defunct war machine and stuck in a cryonics lab for thousands of years to finally be defrosted and inserted into a standard vat clone body and reindoctrinated into society. But unfortunately time left Sam unprepared for the new society and Sam opted for training in space mining where he was sent out as an apprentice on a tour of duty with an old astro miner named Pick. They became involved in the company wars and ultimately Pick lost his life over sabatage inflicted by rival miners, but the blame was placed on apprentice Sam who lost an arm in the accident and yet to this day Sam blames himself for the death of his partner. Being near death when discovered, Sam was refrozen for another several centuries before being defrosted with his old vat clone body with new technology and a replaced arm. In debt and out of phase with the new world once again, after working for the oldest man alive (that was never cryonically frozen) as a dectective, Sam was eventually inducted into service to Earth Data Central, a defensive alliance army dedcated to keeping human free-space safe from invaders.</div><br /><div>This is some of his story:</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://recipefl.blogspot.com/2007/10/day-at-beach.html">A DAY AT THE BEACH</a></span></strong></div><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong></div><br /><div><em>There is a reason why Sam Gambol became an explorer scout, preferring the quiet solitude of uncharted space to the dread responsibility involved in his previous line of work. Let’s just say that for Sam, a day at the beach was no walk in the park.</em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-85451997635981329702007-10-15T06:01:00.001-07:002008-12-10T03:12:14.465-08:00Ok, you got me, I didn't know what to write about the last couple days...<strong><em>TOENAIL CLIPPING COLLECTION</em></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-ZIZcFsVozqsF62T5wsgWrIaTCPEPq77UswyBL1_HEk_8o4oswmr_jvYr6mp6gPx6VzjTG-C2QFy7R81kUEa4ePJqV4h_YKNnzGsYaYdcMTFzwgtDJWi2A3IoSVH1-RXIsdFTkv2POQ/s1600-h/tonails.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121548081209531874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5-ZIZcFsVozqsF62T5wsgWrIaTCPEPq77UswyBL1_HEk_8o4oswmr_jvYr6mp6gPx6VzjTG-C2QFy7R81kUEa4ePJqV4h_YKNnzGsYaYdcMTFzwgtDJWi2A3IoSVH1-RXIsdFTkv2POQ/s200/tonails.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Lately, I've been noticing just how large my collection of toenail clippings has been getting. </div><div><br />Everytime I have clipped my toenails since a was very young, I have accumulated every bit of my clips and amassed them into a zip lock plastic baggy which later was replaced with a wooden box originally intended for pet cremation. The fine crafted contaner somehow came into my possession sans cremated pet. It seemed the proper resting place for my cut cuticals. </div><br /><div><br />Collecting the toenail clippings has been hard. It is difficult to assimilate them because of how the clippings fly around all over the place when clipped. some times the cats will attack one before I can retrieve it and I am forced to dash about the house in pursuit of my evasive critter in custody pf a loose tonail.</div><br /><div><br />Perhaps some day I will send them out to be bronzed (<em>my toenail clippings, not the cats</em>) like baby shoes and then put them on ebay, because face it, there just isn't enough weirdness on ebay yet...</div><br /><div><br />Ok, I don't really have a toenail clipping collection, but I do think of starting one every time I clip my nails. Is it because I am bored and my mind wonders? I don;t know, but sometimes there will be a very uniqu clipping that stands out and I think to myself "If I actually did save my toenail clippings, this would be the one I always pulled out to look at..."</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-46115952364889804112007-10-14T11:14:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:14.640-08:00Golden Drawers<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFUM4urHEmeQVJ6NxBiIqVc-TwIzAcSqLXnyK65KurzmxjOwxIj4W6JTB-qUotVQOgNaYs4sRqSGo9ryU89WHQe8WP6HmGN0V2W9-jlWAFzahnm56Pp8dRlyGmcXqskTnqTACNx8kyic/s1600-h/golden-drawers.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121257676995812818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEFUM4urHEmeQVJ6NxBiIqVc-TwIzAcSqLXnyK65KurzmxjOwxIj4W6JTB-qUotVQOgNaYs4sRqSGo9ryU89WHQe8WP6HmGN0V2W9-jlWAFzahnm56Pp8dRlyGmcXqskTnqTACNx8kyic/s200/golden-drawers.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I wear cotton knit jockey briefs. And I wear only one brand. I pay $24.00 per pair in extortion money for that privilege. I have tried others. Many, many others; but for all the cost, cotton knit jockey briefs without banded legs are the only underwear I wear in total comfort. There is only one brand that I have found that produces the right combination of fit, comfort and support for my apparently rare and unique requirements.<br /><br /> I grew up with generic cotton briefs. 12 for $3.00 I believe were the common White Front brand Mom always bought us. Men’s for Dad, boy’s for me. I gave little thought in my youth to the properties of underwear until junior high school gym class and the introduction of gym shorts and jocks. Jock straps were uncomfortable, but reassuringly protective when combined with a shock doc protective cup. Gym shorts on the other hand were loose and allowed free motion and it was only in comparison that I soon discovered just how uncomfortable cotton briefs had been all my life.<br /><br /> I began to study and explore the complexities of the world of undergarments. Breaking free of paternal white cotton oppression I rebelled the tyrannical reign of cotton briefs and searched for an alternative life choice much to the dismay concern and complete lack of enlightenment on my parent’s part. In a final act of desperate compromise, my Mom offered to buy me colored cotton briefs, but I declined and sought to go out on my own and purchase my first article of clothing without supervision.<br /><br /> Boxer’s seemed the logical choice to me at the time, being new to the garment industry in general and naïve in the nuances of underwear hierarchy I was in awe to walk down the aisles of various brands of cotton briefs until I located the small display of colorful plaid printed boxers in packages of three. After carefully examining the color varieties and combos I settled on a package and brought the conspicuous unmentionables to the check out counter grabbing a pack of handkerchiefs to hide the obvious boxers I held in my hand.<br /><br />I later learned that this embarrassment that I felt over displaying my underwear in public lent to similar situations like buying condoms, KY jelly and women’s hygienic products as well. But I have successfully braved all these events at various times in my life with the tried and true method of incorporating tunnel vision that I perfected on that day. Focus on the prize, blank out the mind, breath deep and steady and keep putting one foot in front of the other. It is the technique I recommend to all young men faced with similar situations. I found the same procedure might be applied to marriage, but not nearly as well or with the desired effect.<br /><br />Boxers did not meet all my expectations. I felt like a freak although no one could tell what I wore beneath my Wrangler’s, or could they? I walked around wondering what they were really seeing when girls would look at me and giggle, and classmates stared and then quickly glanced away to avoid eye contact. Did they know? Could they know? Well I didn’t care. I did but not really. Doesn’t that sound like typical teenage angst? The truth is the boxers I wore were tight around the leg, the elastic in the waist was scratchy, they ballooned in the middle, and I discovered over the years from the different versions I have tried, buttons catch and pop off, snaps unsnap leaving a gaping hole for tangly dangly mischief to occur, and the excess material seems to wrinkle and crease causing them to bind at inopportune times. Boxers are not for me.<br /><br />During a mad disco phase of my life I briefly considered stretchy nylon/spandex bikini briefs like superman wears. I soon discovered why Superman is always portrayed standing. Sitting in bikini briefs for any period off time cuts the circulation off to the legs. Good thing Superman can fly, he could never walk anywhere. Bikini Briefs are not for me. But I must say I did look good in them.<br /><br />Jockey shorts are too clingy, silk briefs too needy, flannel too warm, thongs, well thongs are simply masochistic torture gear that if not properly monitored require a team of proctologists to remove, and last I checked, insurance won’t cover the procedure.<br /><br />I finally found the undergarment for me. Cotton knit brief jockeys. They represent the best of all worlds. Soft gentle loose fitting for maneuverability, cross over flap with no buttons or snaps, elastic waist band that supports yet doesn’t confine, and leg seams without elastic that allow for range of motion that I find reassuring.<br /><br />So although I may complain of the cost and often threaten to switch brands, I am a one undergarment man and pray every night before I go to bed that my guardian angel watches over corporate stability and protects the integrity of the fashion line that features my unmentionables for now and ever more.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-88690428584605236622007-10-13T18:33:00.000-07:002007-10-13T18:39:07.280-07:00YOU LEFT ME IN THE DARKI am done with this song, I don't even want to start on the troubles I went through to record this (all of my own doing). Go to my music page to play the song if you like.<br /><a href="http://recipeflm.blogspot.com/2007/10/she-left-me-in-dark.html">RFL music YOU LEFT ME IN THE DARK</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-34189559264706315292007-10-12T00:05:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:14.783-08:00Another Six Weeks In My World<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnzqZkUUGZEFm1KRRU0rNCnKO9XludzZEQ7JM0FQx42bw2oUVoxOiE_x0ViEda2_lXAsJ3R8KYUX9r340rfT-_s32Jhk9IbVPjl-tT0i_vDUaQvYk1YsgXeYTNNd51m57Wn7tELdZr8A/s1600-h/momanddad.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120344304955678146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnzqZkUUGZEFm1KRRU0rNCnKO9XludzZEQ7JM0FQx42bw2oUVoxOiE_x0ViEda2_lXAsJ3R8KYUX9r340rfT-_s32Jhk9IbVPjl-tT0i_vDUaQvYk1YsgXeYTNNd51m57Wn7tELdZr8A/s200/momanddad.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>In response to <strong><a href="http://vinegarandhoney.blogspot.com/">Jan's</a></strong></div><div><em><a href="http://vinegarandhoney.blogspot.com/2007/10/another-day-in-her-world.html">Another Day In Her world</a></em><a href="http://vinegarandhoney.blogspot.com/2007/10/another-day-in-her-world.html"> </a></div><div>I am posting </div><div><em><a href="http://www.flipdrive.com/file/2e98053b1a53652390f362ada449.doc">Another Six Weeks In My World</a></em> </div><div>a rambling of my experience with Mom's Dementia. The story kind of drags on and on so I thought I would try linking the document to this site. Something new for me.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-5225807113767848882007-10-11T16:43:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:14.996-08:00Day is done<a href="http://recipeflm.blogspot.com/2007/10/she-left-me-in-dark.html"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120231553474223522" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqBpwSGi7ZM_CNnBESoFQWZSP2dkLpofKhm-G1UV72tOap4pUXEPUAOV_AOdM9EimaA6ubG5lfijSSXafZISJTMoqFhHyI1EM_GdT3B2g1eNrWO634Dbg5sngAmmYW3xb0Rp7TntKyoI/s200/alone001+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Ok, I was going to write a serious piece about my Mom and our last few weeks together, but I got caught up in song writing burning the midnight oil until the wee hours of the morning. So I decided to post <a href="http://recipeflm.blogspot.com/2007/10/she-left-me-in-dark.html">my new song </a>but in the light of day I realized that thanks to em and her recent post I apparently pirated the tune to</div><div><p>Death Cab's I Will Follow You Into The Dark </p><div></div><div>So I decided that it is sad, but pretty and hauntingly lyrical and I would record it anyway and post the song, but production lagged and I decided I need some piano in the mix, and lost some enthusiasm for my lack of originality and to make a long story short the song isn't recorded yet.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So this is my post of excuses. The dog didn't eat it, I just ran out of time so this is all I have ofr the day. Late and uninformative.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Maybe tomorrow will be better.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-45476554918529250742007-10-10T10:08:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:15.142-08:00Two Cows explain moosic<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDTDKO16PIpbj8jBXh4L7zxQfy4uhVBJ1b1z1FPQCPKjXH_eYIRDkm9MB2IkDxlgzAU6GckfO791A5bQSSrHlofF3x4_J1rrIm_rjlXUDp7UrUNwY0xejj54LxtByPT1rZ4ibiPKHO-c/s1600-h/to-cows.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119762963952295314" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDTDKO16PIpbj8jBXh4L7zxQfy4uhVBJ1b1z1FPQCPKjXH_eYIRDkm9MB2IkDxlgzAU6GckfO791A5bQSSrHlofF3x4_J1rrIm_rjlXUDp7UrUNwY0xejj54LxtByPT1rZ4ibiPKHO-c/s200/to-cows.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><strong>60s</strong> <strong>Rock</strong> <strong>'n'</strong> <strong>Roll</strong>: You have two cowbells.<br /></div><div><strong>80's</strong>: You have 2 white cows. They play that funky music.<br /></div><div><strong>Ambient</strong>: You have two evergrowing pulsating cows.<br /></div><div><strong>Baroque</strong>: You have two cows and they are identically identical.<br /></div><div><strong>Bebop</strong>: Cows don't matter, man. Just be cool.<br /></div><div><strong>Big</strong> <strong>Band</strong>: You have two cows. You give one of them all of the 1st Trumpet parts. The other is extremely jealous.<br /></div><div><strong>Blues</strong>: You had two cows. One o' them died while still a calf. The other done you wrong an' gave her milk to another man.<br /></div><div><strong>Blues 2</strong>: You have two cows. Only two cows. You write several sets of lyrics for those cows to make it look like you have a large repertory of cows. No one seems to notice that you just keep playing the same two cows over and over.<br /></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong>Bluegrass</strong>: You have two cows. They fall in love, then one of them dies. Also, you work in a coal mine and drink heavily.<br /><strong>British</strong> <strong>Punk</strong>: You have two bulls that spend all their time getting drunk at the pub and shagging fat cows.<br /><strong>Celtic</strong>: You have two cows. They're both very drunk all the time and are usually sailing to someplace or other. </div><div><strong>Classical</strong>: You have two cows. They're sound asleep.<br /><strong>Classical</strong> <strong>2</strong>: <em>Golden</em> <em>Age</em>: You have two cows. One is deaf, and the other dies before reaching adulthood. Their mooing is revered by countless thousands for centuries.<br />Contemporary: You have two cows that are radically different than your friends; you therefor shove your cows in his or her face proving how 'revolutionary' you are.<br /><strong>Creedence</strong> <strong>Clearwater</strong> <strong>Revival</strong>: You have two cows. You primarily sell the milk from one cow until you find that the other one produces far superior milk, so you switch to the second cow's milk and become a millionaire. Four years later, the first cow becomes resentful of the second cow, so you decide to get an equal amount of milk from both cows, resulting in far less profit for you. This results in the second cow leaving the farm, and years afterward, you and the first cow sue the second cow because the milk that it produces now is far too similar to the milk that it produced when you owned it.<br /><strong>Emoo</strong>: You have two dark, brooding cows who get no respect from their dads and constantly moo about it off-key. The mooing is overly sappy and difficult to listen to, and you don't really know for sure if it's cool or not.<br /><strong>Emoo</strong> <strong>2</strong>: You have two cows. So what? You're gonna die anyway.<br /><strong>Folk</strong>: You have two cows. They trade in their leather for natural fiber skins, eat organic grass, and try to organize your other animals to topple the Bush in your yard.<br /><strong>Frankie</strong> <strong>Goes</strong> <strong>to</strong> <strong>Hollywood</strong>: When your two cows go to war, a point is all that you can score.</div><div></div><div><strong>Funk</strong>: You have two black cows from outer space. And now they’re back.<br /><strong>Glam</strong> <strong>Rock</strong>: You have two cows, one is a boy and one is a girl, you can't tell which cow is a boy and which cow is a girl but you're pretty sure both are gay anyways.<br /><strong>Gospel</strong> : Can I get a "moo"? ("Moo!") I said, can I get a "moo"? ("Moo!") 'Cause you got two cows, brother, and they're comin' home in glory to the Land o’ Milk and Honey!<br /><strong>Grindcore</strong>: You have two cows. You're such a faggot. I freakin’ raped your cows.<br /><strong>Heavy</strong> <strong>Metal</strong>: You have two cöws. Mü. (they get rich selling black Mü Tshirts)<br /><strong>Hip</strong> <strong>Hop</strong>: You have two cows. They moo about ghetto life from their personal recording studios in their $20,000,000 barns, then hop in pimped-out trailers to head to the World Moosic Awards.<br /><strong>Indie</strong>: You have two cows whose music tastes are so superior, they refuse to listen to anything besides vinyls of unlabeled, obscure bands.<br /><strong>Industrial</strong> <strong>Rock</strong>: You have two cows, one of which joins Ministry while the other produces some poor quality remixes of FLA's early work.<br /><strong>Intelligent</strong> <strong>Dance</strong> <strong>Moosic</strong>: You have two cows who would die for the Aphex Twin.<br /><strong>Jam</strong> <strong>Band</strong>: You have two cows. They think grass isn't just for grazing.<br /><strong>Jazz</strong>:You have two cows. One plays the drums with it's udder and the other blows on his horn as if it just got milked.<br /><strong>Metal</strong> (Black): You wanna sacrifice the cows to the Dark Lord. They're not virgins (because you sodomized and deflowered them), but you slaughter them anyway.<br /><strong>Metal</strong> (Death): You have two cows. You give them to the Black Metal guys. You then sing about how you sacrificed them to the Dark Lord.<br /><strong>Metal</strong> (Doom): You have two stoned cows. They graze a swampy graveyard at night, while the grim reaper watches from the mist.<br /><strong>Metal</strong> (Gore): You set your two cows on fire and rape them. They revive as zombies. You rape the zombies.<br /><strong>Metal</strong> (Gothic): You've got two cows. Both want to marry each other. One cant, so they attempt to kill themself and fail. The other then kills himself. Then there is much weeping. The end.<br /><strong>Metal</strong> (Nü): You've got two cows. Nobody likes you, and your dad raped you. You wanna kill yourself.<br /><strong>Metal</strong> (Power): The warrior must rescue two cows from a dragon. He reaches the Castle and slays the dragon. (Insert Solo Virtuoso here.) Two cows are finally safe.<br /><strong>Minimalism</strong> : You. You. You. You. Have. You. Have. You. Have. You. Have. Two. You. Have. Two. Two. Cows. You. Have. Two. Cows. You. Have. Two. Cows. Cows. Have. You. Two. Cows. Have. You. Too. Two. Cows. Have. You. You. Have. Cows. Cows. Cows. Cows. Cows. Cows.<br />New Age: You have two cows. They, they want to swim; like the dolphins they want to swim and go for a stroll in the Museum of Fine Arts.<br /><strong>New</strong> <strong>country</strong> : You have two cows. They dance around to a sampled steel-guitar twang and flash their navels seductively, then leave Nashville so they can get on VH1.<br /><strong>New</strong> <strong>wave</strong> : You have two cows that make repeated jerky, robotic movements while mooing in a detached monotone.<br /><strong>Oi</strong>!: You have two cows that wear boots, and you let them loose to trample your boss and bust down the doors at the local police station.<br /><strong>Opera</strong>: You have two cows in a china closet, they break glass with their moos while the audience break wind and snooze.<br /><strong>Orthodox</strong> <strong>Chant</strong>: You have two cows ordained as chanters. At Pascha, they sing in 19 different languages.<br /><strong>Pop</strong> : A big label has two cows. They moo vapidly about mooing, the vast wealth that comes from mooing, or their relationship with an anonymous third cow. They cannot moo on the radio without payola.<br /><strong>Prog</strong> <strong>Rock</strong>: Your self, which may or may not be real, is in possession of two bovine creatures. But what is the "self" anyway? How can one know if one is oneself, or just part of some sort of great, larger moo cow? Is there a God? Are these creatures, in fact, here? How can one have possession of something? What is your right, your privilege to own two creatures? (15 minute instrumental)I have ventured far across time and space, here for all eternityBut for those two cows I owned one day, a slave to myself and meBut anyway I don't really know...(Leprechaun solo)<br /><strong>Psychedelia</strong> : You have two cows. One is purple with pink gumdrop hooves and she jumps over the paisley moon. The other journeys to the centre of the moo-niverse and sees herself journeying the other way. Oom. Peace.<br /><strong>Rap</strong>: You have two cows wearing different colors. They belong to different gangs. They shoot each other.<br /><strong>Rave</strong>: You have two cows, wearing color lights. They look confused and are consuming pills. Eventually they die of over-hydration.<br /><strong>Riot</strong> <strong>Grrrl</strong>: You have two cows from Seattle. They hate bulls and refuse to be milked because milking is a symbol of the exploitation of cows everywhere.<br /><strong>Romanticism</strong>: You have two cows, and they're more emotional than the previous generation.<br /><strong>Screamoo:</strong> You have two cows. One of them plays the guitar and the other "sings". The first knows one chord and plays it over and over. The other moos at the top of its lungs and hopes that her mooing was so horrible that nobody could tell how awful the lyrics were. </div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><div><strong>Ska:</strong> You have two black-and-white checkerboard cows. They get tipped and trampled to death in a moshpit.<br /></div><div><strong>Surrealism:</strong> You have two cows, but are they really cows?<br /></div><div><strong>Traditional country :</strong> You have two cows. One cheated on her bull and left him crying in his straw. The other is your honky-tonk queen.<br /></div><div><strong>Weird Al Yankovic:</strong> You have two cows. They play polka versions of popular mooing. Hamsters are somehow involved. </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-72038088786185596172007-10-09T09:25:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:16.852-08:00EYES<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLWMQWnM_o-EW3tiJLz9XY4H34jzqMuszyCQGCINULXvG4vIUgcM_xAOXRwE21vk56ItxUC99_bNWfTalAJcLjZdrhTGpeZDBf5BhL7Bc0wombWabQaSYUwVSUVx0hDxJu5Hwn0Xyb0M/s1600-h/docimg01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119380342495763826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLWMQWnM_o-EW3tiJLz9XY4H34jzqMuszyCQGCINULXvG4vIUgcM_xAOXRwE21vk56ItxUC99_bNWfTalAJcLjZdrhTGpeZDBf5BhL7Bc0wombWabQaSYUwVSUVx0hDxJu5Hwn0Xyb0M/s320/docimg01.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvgI86Hbpva7T9cb5HDGijSWgsfkoIXPWXDi6Ljhemhis4fIlIHzEzPom_KDy_qnON5fAju1HrTAYYvA-gAQrwRIeSEpoRZEBieVmbfYo4MKYm2t51kyxroN9YtgaGqUvLzZxCEbDFkY/s1600-h/docimg02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119380269481319778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihvgI86Hbpva7T9cb5HDGijSWgsfkoIXPWXDi6Ljhemhis4fIlIHzEzPom_KDy_qnON5fAju1HrTAYYvA-gAQrwRIeSEpoRZEBieVmbfYo4MKYm2t51kyxroN9YtgaGqUvLzZxCEbDFkY/s320/docimg02.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXV5-biMPVnfZ5UTuoKq9mSGvsvETun1hk5UMHc6WRevPO6lvRyqXj-UUgTxbR8IW1vBi8QumO3I17DEi6XtF3-vPXqZf_-gS1lt19mIU3IkMZXtjZ2W8OvGUh34jkzrWJV-h03VIOhbM/s1600-h/docimg03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119380170697071954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXV5-biMPVnfZ5UTuoKq9mSGvsvETun1hk5UMHc6WRevPO6lvRyqXj-UUgTxbR8IW1vBi8QumO3I17DEi6XtF3-vPXqZf_-gS1lt19mIU3IkMZXtjZ2W8OvGUh34jkzrWJV-h03VIOhbM/s320/docimg03.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvCSTyEXSwgRGEO4AIWVtsaICZzeJdSEY5mqm3NL4ehaa8_qktN6_De6-tTvIlEUj4MObk33DPVEOmW0aC2m8oEgUrZVtF5EVRfizSuvY6GRjXrEkSqIbescGFyDLAfFucmWBj0llYgA/s1600-h/docimg04.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119380071912824130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvCSTyEXSwgRGEO4AIWVtsaICZzeJdSEY5mqm3NL4ehaa8_qktN6_De6-tTvIlEUj4MObk33DPVEOmW0aC2m8oEgUrZVtF5EVRfizSuvY6GRjXrEkSqIbescGFyDLAfFucmWBj0llYgA/s320/docimg04.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_n6jPxsoJTad3cuP4HK7SS7NxZh4GX2IiLs62cZcsFQT-zOAJZvXdWEFl9vhwhMzepBGzARoyNxD_jkt2nlHoV5mXBoPdUlMSMEcCsNUFW2oUL7hq1TgSu4_dhkqFpyaD94LNQQy7L0/s1600-h/docimg05.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119379981718510898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_n6jPxsoJTad3cuP4HK7SS7NxZh4GX2IiLs62cZcsFQT-zOAJZvXdWEFl9vhwhMzepBGzARoyNxD_jkt2nlHoV5mXBoPdUlMSMEcCsNUFW2oUL7hq1TgSu4_dhkqFpyaD94LNQQy7L0/s320/docimg05.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh44K49VAoVkt4DaK2XrEcM8g0w1cOZko86qeS9CkGaVhfgLHxtvoEgMiy2RRg59ecLMBOSd9dxMa7EBJiRnFtvo50yHbr-wupiQVVOqIR1CrCjlnVDfpw_8r3dAG8IVuRiBLvsy2J5sxc/s1600-h/docimg06.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119379882934263074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh44K49VAoVkt4DaK2XrEcM8g0w1cOZko86qeS9CkGaVhfgLHxtvoEgMiy2RRg59ecLMBOSd9dxMa7EBJiRnFtvo50yHbr-wupiQVVOqIR1CrCjlnVDfpw_8r3dAG8IVuRiBLvsy2J5sxc/s320/docimg06.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWr4c40dQb7iLhPsXWYZxFBZmLZqctbHX7He_gapxIJC-X8KEGWVKG1s_-oAEZGAXv4VVCUMUnaLWTEDffYWq1K1xCeYiHERzbXPuy9yugjEukKJP5-RNihwv0nRnHQeQxpTKq8OGh8o/s1600-h/docimg07.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119379724020473106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLWr4c40dQb7iLhPsXWYZxFBZmLZqctbHX7He_gapxIJC-X8KEGWVKG1s_-oAEZGAXv4VVCUMUnaLWTEDffYWq1K1xCeYiHERzbXPuy9yugjEukKJP5-RNihwv0nRnHQeQxpTKq8OGh8o/s320/docimg07.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UwXuCyEW7CdnfSo2YskZTlSFAtflPRtZzD4n2cEgf-kkHxYek7Z8qOpl9jXi8acBR7AJMZP1xJMfrff6XmoNI-FU1XCRsLbpV8La1tytoifzyAbc3xGlIl9czoBGOs87HefCiaw3cBk/s1600-h/docimg08.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119379642416094466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UwXuCyEW7CdnfSo2YskZTlSFAtflPRtZzD4n2cEgf-kkHxYek7Z8qOpl9jXi8acBR7AJMZP1xJMfrff6XmoNI-FU1XCRsLbpV8La1tytoifzyAbc3xGlIl9czoBGOs87HefCiaw3cBk/s320/docimg08.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhEhXJ2MskmSGYrwVCtMgsykjGS91xqEzXeiNZ2ALXte5y2b0CtcabpwSVqFj27fK4yl1pfS_z4U9XhqSm6G3-Fih4oVxu46NG3CqRroNQjKlYJgrHjUkB7kIZJPmVzTbPKAeuYDjBjk/s1600-h/docimg09.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119379530746944754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhEhXJ2MskmSGYrwVCtMgsykjGS91xqEzXeiNZ2ALXte5y2b0CtcabpwSVqFj27fK4yl1pfS_z4U9XhqSm6G3-Fih4oVxu46NG3CqRroNQjKlYJgrHjUkB7kIZJPmVzTbPKAeuYDjBjk/s320/docimg09.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiav2V57g7CzP4OFklTiJD9tk1lBEHOhtjBH7DALrSIO7mW_kG1FOob37FS7tl3vf5yshXq5k9jp19JAjE83HaxB-mbl-khV_wpLxbJdz9bYQyORtzZs0o2GI8qBzAQRYoYnWQizdUKzHU/s1600-h/docimg01.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnEO-8FzCh9qHDPWvqXbgi1vSR3_9xPXRz0VAwmDU8eCRBEw2FC1x-K6jphlru4tSa_b0pjVXAsxeujtbQui7hyphenhyphenNqSa2Vkcm9zlETi24p-dMdAAv7QheN_Z_uaOJWy9l4MFc7kzR9vfI/s1600-h/docimg01.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJQ9SW0MLodkwMboD4ovapH2VCAqXroIlqPygyobc8xoR809tY91GPS650jT62_kX4BzrrjBc5YOL0phpEV3a74VSi6Dc8IcZZxVIxZkoF8sFvKzEJKGha9ofCT0PaS3ltxw_FeBt1CTc/s1600-h/docimg02.jpg"></a></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-20306355158077407842007-10-08T11:17:00.000-07:002007-10-08T11:36:10.218-07:00YOU HAVE TWO COWS<a href="http://vinegarandhoney.blogspot.com/">Jan</a> posted about political comparisons using <a href="http://vinegarandhoney.blogspot.com/2007/10/two-cows.html">two cows</a>, it seems to me a good way to explain many things.<br /><br />“I have nothing to declare but my two cows.”<br />~ Oscar Wilde<br /><br />“I have what???”<br />~ Captain Oblivious<br /><br />YOU HAVE TWO COWS is the philisophical truth of the entire world.:<br /><a href="http://images.wikia.com/wikitex/images/c/c0/c02/31ed97f570f8e7896cfa8857b4ea4"></a><br /><a href="http://images.wikia.com/wikitex/images/8/87/879/8f3ffc9e1aac81d18ebd6fb4ebbef"></a><strong><em>Moo*(sin(CowA)+cos(CowB))=2xCows</em></strong><br /><br />This mathematical proof can also be written with the second moometric identity:<br /><strong><em>log/moo(CowA)+log/moo(CowB)=log/2Cow(Moo)</em></strong><br />Where Moo is the universal moometric constant.<br /><br />A long-standing tradition of mathematics has been the discovery of new truths pertaining to <em>two-cow</em> ownership. Currently, 45,893 two-cow truths are known Nostradamas demonstrated in 1555 that the total number of two-cow truths is infinite.<br /><br />A related but much more difficult problem is the identification of philosophical truths involving the ownership of three cows. An infinite number of these is also expected to exist, although this is unproven. To date, very few three-cow truths are known to exist, all of which have yet to be proven. In coming years this problem is expected to become much more important, as Microsoft has announced that the next version of Windows will require users to have three cows, or, alternatively, two overmilked ones. Linux however only needs a pint of milk, but you need to deliver the milk through the command prompt with the use of four pipes, an awk and a sed.<br /><br />The following are TWO COW examples to explain<br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>World of Warcraft</strong><br /><trade>Bigbeef: WTS [Two Cows], 20g. /w me<br /><trade>Arkarian: lol, n00b, [Two Cows] is quest item, so soulbound, rofl.<br /><guild>Arkarian: lol, some guy tried to sell [Two Cows]<br /><guild>Somedutchguy: hahaha, what a n00b.<br /><trade>Bigbeef: WTS [Two Cows], 20g. /w me.<br /><br /><strong></strong><strong>World of Warcraft (2)</strong><br />[1. The Barrens] [Random]: Chuck Norris's two cows cure cancer, too bad he never milks them.<br />[1. The Barrens] [Sefirof]: Chuck Norris jokes are ghey.<br />[1. The Barrens] [Siefer]: Bruce Lee > Chuck Norris<br />[1. The Barrens] [Fujin]: NOTICE: Chuck Norris jokes are SO old, Thomas Jefferson heard one from Benjamin Franklin while he was writing the declaration of Independence and said "OMG Ben those are SO old!"<br />[1. The Barrens] [Random]: Chuck Norris does not approve of that horrible Anti-Chuck Norris joke!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Ryejin]: OMG That joke has ruined all anti-chuck norris jokes now and forefer!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Renotheturk]: FACT: Chuck Norris got his ass whooped by Jackie Chan!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Sefirof]: FACT: Jackie Chan is Gay.<br />[1. The Barrens] [Siefer]: Bruce Lee > Jackie Chan > Chuck Norris<br />[1. The Barrens] [Ffantasysux]: WARNING: ALL OF THOSE WHO HAVE BUTCHERED THE NAMES OF OUR FAVOURITE FINAL FANTASY CHARACTERS HAVE BEEN REPORTED AND WILL BE GANKED FOR DEFILING SACRED CONTENT WITH STUPID RENAMING CRAP!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Lyndis]: Final Fantasy Fanbois just got PWNT!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Nazras]: O RLY?<br />[1. The Barrens] [Lyndis]: YA RLY!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Nazras]: NO WAI!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Ilovecheese]: REPORTED!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Siefer]: REPORTED!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Ryejin]: REPORTED!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Raigin]: REPORTED!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Renotheturk]: It's okay lern2play.<br />[1. The Barrens] [Tyemyshoe]: Holy crap, all this started just from a simple "You have Two Cows" Joke?<br />[1. The Barrens] [Gnomepunter]: That's why you leave /1 whenever you enter.<br />[4. LocalDefense] [Sefirof]: They left General Chat! Quick! Spam up Local Defense!!<br />[1. The Barrens] [Winnerall]: Damn my cows are soo n00bish!<br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>World of Warcraft (3)</strong><br />You have two Tauren. They are both Level 70. For the Horde!!!<br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>World of Warcraft (4)</strong><br />You had two cows, but the last patch nerfed them so badly you now use a goat.<br /><br /><strong>World of Warcraft (5)</strong><br />You have two cows. You can't use them yet because they have to go to surgery for seven hours because their spots are too round. Once it is done, you name your cows TeatMagic and Milk247. When you finally go milk them, they have a heart attack. After they get better, you find out they have to do another surgery for ten hours because their spots have become too square. Once it is done, you go milk them again, but another farmer tells you that your cows' names are taken and he doesn't let you milk them again. And you continue paying $15 a month to the place where the cows where born.<br /><br /><strong>World of Warcraft (6)<br /></strong>You have two cows. You accidentally right-click one of them. You now only have one cow<br /><br /><strong>World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade</strong><br />You have two cows and a barn that can hold 40. But now you have to cut 15 cows because now you can only fit 25 into your barn.<br /><br /><strong>World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade (2) </strong><br />You had two cows, but now all the Noobs get them so it don't matter what you had before.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-66660142740738347552007-10-07T01:11:00.000-07:002007-10-07T02:11:48.195-07:00Tag I'm itJan @ <a href="http://vinegarandhoney.blogspot.com/2007/10/oh-mea-meme.html">Vinegar and Honey</a> has tagged me for a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Internet_meme">Meme</a> that if I understand correctly is about my blog evolution. That is how I read it and that is how I am going to interpret this Meme. And I am going to cheat. I posted <a href="http://recipeflg.blogspot.com/2007_08_01_archive.html">this info </a>earlier about growing concerns for blog orphans and confessed to leaving my share of blog babies abandoned in the blogoshere. Consequently I included my blogging history and how this page came to be.<br /><br />The rules are to explain the evolution of your blog and then Tag five unsuspecting bloggers and link them back to Jan @ <a href="http://vinegarandhoney.blogspot.com/2007/10/oh-mea-meme.html">Vinegar and Honey</a> and Michael @ <a href="http://recipeflg.blogspot.com/">Gossip Galaxy</a><br /><br />So listen up, the following bloggers beware;<br />em of <a href="http://mellowchaos.blogspot.com/">Mellow Chaos</a><br />Shafa of <a href="http://dshafa.wordpress.com/">American Twenty Something</a><br />brat of <a href="http://baristabrat.blogspot.com/">barista brat</a><br />Sizzle of <a href="http://sizzlesays.wordpress.com/">SIZZLE SAYS</a><br />Becky of <a href="http://searchingforoz.blogspot.com/">Searching for Oz</a><br />You have been <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Memetag">TAGGED</a> thanks to Jan @ <a href="http://vinegarandhoney.blogspot.com/2007/10/oh-mea-meme.html">Vinegar and Honey</a> and of course myself.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-23234720370149391352007-10-06T12:06:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:18.280-08:00The great mofo delurk annex<a href="https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1314023053527625062&postID=2323472037014939135"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118304027986353170" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ktrmhJ0wK6AQmm_lVs4TmkLv6WQ_-KbokGSgkI_yMlxg6QJSfU1sBrJR_UT4ss9P0XNm7mSQizrrvMY4rXDlMoqUPYZIeZZnFouo5bF8j1fG88pBMH0nNGBawPEFpBcaHj2aybRGKWw/s200/browndelurk.gif" border="0" /></a><br />I asked if some of us procrastinating bloggers could annex her delurker campaign .<br />Schmutzie sez<br />"I don't see why not! Everyone seemed to have a lot of fun with it, so go ahead."<br />The new date is set for Ocrober 15th so interested parties grab a button.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG2oZZYY5Prg9IOSZKzWgPdPiGZcfI35Z0G1dCbWyvhgdgZFBuEQFDOi_n1B5IR9LSzBEFpZU9-4v8Yn8Znvbfzc2OYtcYO4ZvMLweay9YYzofXFTKZ_fPB9gXv-aIrOIKWJ1hdd1JSc/s1600-h/bluedelurk.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118303916317203458" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG2oZZYY5Prg9IOSZKzWgPdPiGZcfI35Z0G1dCbWyvhgdgZFBuEQFDOi_n1B5IR9LSzBEFpZU9-4v8Yn8Znvbfzc2OYtcYO4ZvMLweay9YYzofXFTKZ_fPB9gXv-aIrOIKWJ1hdd1JSc/s200/bluedelurk.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kkkjmMU7bCDpLWItsJidY-ld-nnu5xqhXj_O35jbvSsfBxqjYZae6Pg7dkMJB0adayjEJ7hbddESV4-lC9uMRxdPAMwRIWwZt0ZF0Qaqze-tbRNYMKC38E0OqfKXuRGg0Gems58aflE/s1600-h/orangedelurk.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118303727338642418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0kkkjmMU7bCDpLWItsJidY-ld-nnu5xqhXj_O35jbvSsfBxqjYZae6Pg7dkMJB0adayjEJ7hbddESV4-lC9uMRxdPAMwRIWwZt0ZF0Qaqze-tbRNYMKC38E0OqfKXuRGg0Gems58aflE/s200/orangedelurk.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoPWNEfRBJu8fwbZ6-PqZqo7Six5VpjdbI3KU6TGxZeZr4mge3fnfus6LbIUO7xVGchF2oFu4_BNB_F0cHi6OSNTDz-DLPHMSHCM8_v-69N234NvfmccCjfLyhTa7L6MPS2QAmmeMRm4/s1600-h/graydelurk.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118303568424852450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoPWNEfRBJu8fwbZ6-PqZqo7Six5VpjdbI3KU6TGxZeZr4mge3fnfus6LbIUO7xVGchF2oFu4_BNB_F0cHi6OSNTDz-DLPHMSHCM8_v-69N234NvfmccCjfLyhTa7L6MPS2QAmmeMRm4/s200/graydelurk.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbHW8vZl-6rzQ9TQ8uFUGMfQ1EUx0iKkzlf5FPqqKxQS9WExw__EZKMo73hgqXQuErPL70ZJqR0FbNEpA1Zo8VcnDwxG1HhrsQwpbeGle5V10jmuQf6WT-oVImWBswsPy0uWuKLhz7edA/s1600-h/olivedelurk.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118303465345637330" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbHW8vZl-6rzQ9TQ8uFUGMfQ1EUx0iKkzlf5FPqqKxQS9WExw__EZKMo73hgqXQuErPL70ZJqR0FbNEpA1Zo8VcnDwxG1HhrsQwpbeGle5V10jmuQf6WT-oVImWBswsPy0uWuKLhz7edA/s200/olivedelurk.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVUwGOFX_QBozHYKMA6oFOLZ268RZVef_fpooaVlDvkhsulwue8or5H5tfk_F-y7RN9oRXrPZk2KoHJ-fHWTvLJsDRm81BMXoUeYXB05Vcmfy6SlP1TtBy9TEO8I7HzT8n3jcMVNktqQ/s1600-h/pinkdelurk.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118303332201651138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVUwGOFX_QBozHYKMA6oFOLZ268RZVef_fpooaVlDvkhsulwue8or5H5tfk_F-y7RN9oRXrPZk2KoHJ-fHWTvLJsDRm81BMXoUeYXB05Vcmfy6SlP1TtBy9TEO8I7HzT8n3jcMVNktqQ/s200/pinkdelurk.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqQHPf11iWbdoHNOHR6FIOxi21nBG3ltT6dSei4cZKK3FvJ7PSMJGNF6GpXL_3p6eYwjbILZ8qEvjEq8DcZki8mOEjRga8MopMSbe09DNDGOvlE2XwxmLQW3MSA_igrtO3XfC2YCcjop4/s1600-h/blackdelurk.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118303246302305202" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqQHPf11iWbdoHNOHR6FIOxi21nBG3ltT6dSei4cZKK3FvJ7PSMJGNF6GpXL_3p6eYwjbILZ8qEvjEq8DcZki8mOEjRga8MopMSbe09DNDGOvlE2XwxmLQW3MSA_igrtO3XfC2YCcjop4/s200/blackdelurk.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-4911727288395067302007-10-06T03:59:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:18.826-08:00My Ship has come in again<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzsx1NjTx-McFt-w3V9I7JbgSEvocyA8SE4-_GtUqpBZ8UnXKiVeTUcj7pnXost8jbMn7gxFWMZTJYe2IAZ1tJkH6WFLSvzrutNC6jhg2-UTj1Pmby-g4NDcJg_XcllPb2fz0FEc3ZXI/s1600-h/Picture+043.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118176901249358658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzsx1NjTx-McFt-w3V9I7JbgSEvocyA8SE4-_GtUqpBZ8UnXKiVeTUcj7pnXost8jbMn7gxFWMZTJYe2IAZ1tJkH6WFLSvzrutNC6jhg2-UTj1Pmby-g4NDcJg_XcllPb2fz0FEc3ZXI/s200/Picture+043.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Well more like a rowboat...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpUuchYkx3AG04aaTFHpwjW518TP8MJuf36Y75bvAQ3Qx_xoIDPDrIaRYGmEjIwZ_mIxhx7a3wa31QhwMeYqwl-psJg-3vLFNXXhLY47zq0ww-T8JfEvsrN0Rx82O9hwLAJF-VpKNgsLg/s1600-h/Picture+042.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118177085932952402" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpUuchYkx3AG04aaTFHpwjW518TP8MJuf36Y75bvAQ3Qx_xoIDPDrIaRYGmEjIwZ_mIxhx7a3wa31QhwMeYqwl-psJg-3vLFNXXhLY47zq0ww-T8JfEvsrN0Rx82O9hwLAJF-VpKNgsLg/s200/Picture+042.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Or more specifically a bookcase<br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p>One more piece for the Nauti Cal bedroom motif. Still have to do something about those curtains.<br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1314023053527625062.post-78734018960424115112007-10-05T07:07:00.000-07:002008-12-10T03:12:18.885-08:00Slow Read<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lcTBDNzMSdq25HXX5an3B0fxR7mL6eRSjHBASPEgQ7ozXJAxVtH8XMVaNU0UU5yhWwXQ1vdpF-76pI9PmMNb-Vt4b418DjaI1Oy9j-0nqhl4Oe8HMgOhZwOU1-FGA2RQ4E_dB-KGsIQ/s1600-h/book-header01.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5117855367112678194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lcTBDNzMSdq25HXX5an3B0fxR7mL6eRSjHBASPEgQ7ozXJAxVtH8XMVaNU0UU5yhWwXQ1vdpF-76pI9PmMNb-Vt4b418DjaI1Oy9j-0nqhl4Oe8HMgOhZwOU1-FGA2RQ4E_dB-KGsIQ/s200/book-header01.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I finally finished reading my recent book selection yesterday. The book, DYING OF THE LIGHT was written by G.R.R.Martin; the author of the THRONES series. THRONES impressed me with the sheer level and vast scale of epic undertaking he attempted to shove into a trilogy. Like many authors he failed miserably and the trilogy exploded into seemingly never ending volumes of soap opera level proportions, but I was intrigued and already hooked to see how he resolved certain aspects of the story. He didn’t satisfy the questions rattling around in my mind. Instead he took the addiction path, killing off or finalizing one aspect of the multi tasking storylines and wove new trails of unsettled intrigue into the mix leading to yet another 1300 page volume in the making. I finished one of those volumes in about a week, but the novel I just put down, written by a younger author took me three weeks to complete and it was but a 365-page story.<br /><br />It wasn’t complex or difficult to follow, as the fifteen page glossary in the back may have suggested, there were definitely fresh science fiction ideas for the time period, the rogue planet that wondered aimlessly through the galaxies until captured by a complex red giant system surrounded by six yellow dwarf stars. The rogue planet was settled by representatives of every civilized human planet for what was to be referred to as a Galactic Festival. For the duration of the rogue planets capture the multi cultural planets gathered to display their arrogance in what they termed a representation of art and culture. A neutral experiment in cooperative extravagance; the story takes place on this rogue after it has broken away from Fat Satan’s (the red giant) hold and was drifting away from the light of the suns and their life supporting heat. Now I found that part interesting but it only took me through the prologue, unfortunately the rest of the book read like a cheap harlequin romance. A love triangle (or quadrangle?) between a girl, her ex boyfriend, her current husband whom she later learned that marriage in her husbands culture was actually more of a slave/concubine relationship where she was property, wife and available sex toy to her husbands guild family and close friend. And then there is the final off world character that plays manipulator in the background finally admitting his hopeless love for the girl and is outed as being responsible for the entire syrupy story of conflict as he set everyone at odds with one another. Lies deceit and treachery, how Shakespearian, and yet a real snoozer for me.<br /><br />A glutton for punishment I undertook another of his earlier novels, and it isn’t half bad. FEVRE DREAMS is a riverboat adventure on the Mississippi in the mid 1800’s. The twist being the Captain of the ship is a vampire (oops, don’t tell anyone, the book hasn’t actually revealed that yet, but I see it coming) I read half the book in one setting. It definitely shows a rapid growth in the author’s skill. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5