RFL - Gossip Galaxy

I Am Dexter Yellow

2008-03-25T09:10:00.001-07:00

For those who are not aware, DEXTER is a Showtime TV series about a mass murderer and his life and his world.

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.

more dreams

2008-02-16T11:29:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

“We must go back out!” I demanded but the guide shook his head slowly.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

“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.

"Badgers? We Don't need no stinking badgers..."

2008-02-16T01:21:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

It's Here!

2007-12-11T14:59:00.000-08:00

www.xlibris.com/EYES.html

2007-12-10T11:47:00.001-08:00

Brialeanna and the Beast
Or Moo the Musical

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.

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.

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.

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!"

"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.

"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!"

"Is she the beautiful young blood elf wearing a gray woolen robe, a pretty malachite pendant and carrying a red leather bag?

"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."

"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."

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.

"Could she come home to visit us every day?"

"No, but one day a year she can go for a visit, if she wishes."

"And no harm will come to her?"

"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."

"I'm not sure she will agree to marry you."

"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."

"I will do my best."

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.

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.

"I am to lead you to the palace of the Beast," said the manatee. "Your father may go no further."

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.

"It's so small!" said Beauty ever so disappointed. "I'm not sure I will fit insinde."

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

"What form did you wish me to change into?" asked the former Beast.
"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.

MORAL: It's not so easy to rise above our animal natures.

THE NOS-FERALAS

2007-12-06T11:46:00.000-08:00

She comes by night, and even by day, to fang my socks and my unsuspecting feet.

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.

The Nos-Feralas is out there. No ankle is safe, no unattended shoe, no piece of cloth or leather item left a moment unwatched.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

T-day fallout

2007-11-24T16:33:00.000-08:00

I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving, I went down to Rocklin and had a fantastic time, meeting new friends and gathering with family.

What did you do?

A Spotlight on Mike Moment

2007-11-20T09:50:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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?

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.

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.

Sherpa Kitty and the five magical beans

2007-11-14T20:54:00.000-08:00

Recipe For Life - Stories: Further Tales of Sherpa Kitty

The Adventures of Sherpa Kitty

2007-11-13T16:08:00.000-08:00

Another odd and bizarre dream unfolds as possibly a children's book. Any ideas how to go about finding an illustrator?

It was the night before Christmas

And just outside the City

Not a creature was stirring

Except for Sherpa Kitty!
Read an adventure of Sherpa Kitty

It's Halloween!

2007-10-31T08:08:00.000-07:00

Time to scream it's Halloween!

The moon is full and bright

And we shall see what can't be seen

On any other night.

Skeletons and ghosts and ghouls,

Grinning goblins fighting duels,

Werewolves rising from their tombs,

Witches on their magic brooms.

In masks and gowns

On haunted streets

Knock on doors

For tricks or treats

Every child is king or queen,

Carved out pumpkins light the scene

Cast iron cauldrens bubbling green

For on this night it's Halloween!

National Stats

2007-10-24T09:25:00.000-07:00

I was scanning my mail and read an article in the OPENING BELL an email
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.

I decided for some reason to see what kind of information I could find on the
i-net and came up with some general facts that put a little perspective into
the community around me and the nation as a whole.

Here are some general national statistics. All are approximates and none or
few have been researched and documented by myself other than to relay what I
read here and there.

Population
301,139,947

annual births
4,000,000
11,000 births per day

annual deaths
2,400,000
6,500 deaths per day

annualtraffic fatalities
39,000
106 traffic fatalities per day
(almost half alcohol related)

annualrape/sexualassault
191,000
(523 reported sexual assaults per day)

annual teachers terminated
for sexual assault
500
(1.3 teachers let go per day. I did not find a source that reports how many
teachers are terminated in general per day)

total national crimes annualy
23,440,000
64,000 crimes comitted daily
(1 out of 4,700 people will be involved in a crime today)

annual homicides
20,000
54 homicides daily

annual suicides
30,000
82 suicides daily

annual deaths from illicit drug use
17,000
46 per day
(that includes overdose, traffic fatalities, and homicides related to drugs)

annual deaths from perscription medication
32,000
87 per day
(Now there is food for thought, far more people die from perscription abuse
than illegal drug abuse.)

Well that's it for today, I am going to go bury my head back in the sand.

A DAY AT THE BEACH

2007-10-16T01:57:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

This is some of his story:

A DAY AT THE BEACH

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.

Ok, you got me, I didn't know what to write about the last couple days...

2007-10-15T06:01:00.001-07:00

TOENAIL CLIPPING COLLECTION

Lately, I've been noticing just how large my collection of toenail clippings has been getting.

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.

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.

Perhaps some day I will send them out to be bronzed (my toenail clippings, not the cats) like baby shoes and then put them on ebay, because face it, there just isn't enough weirdness on ebay yet...

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..."

Golden Drawers

2007-10-14T11:14:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

YOU LEFT ME IN THE DARK

2007-10-13T18:33:00.000-07:00

I 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.
RFL music YOU LEFT ME IN THE DARK

Another Six Weeks In My World

2007-10-12T00:05:00.000-07:00

In response to Jan's

Another Day In Her world

I am posting

Another Six Weeks In My World

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.

Day is done

2007-10-11T16:43:00.000-07:00

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 my new song but in the light of day I realized that thanks to em and her recent post I apparently pirated the tune to

Death Cab's I Will Follow You Into The Dark

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.

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.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Two Cows explain moosic

2007-10-10T10:08:00.000-07:00

60s Rock 'n' Roll: You have two cowbells.

80's: You have 2 white cows. They play that funky music.

Ambient: You have two evergrowing pulsating cows.

Baroque: You have two cows and they are identically identical.

Bebop: Cows don't matter, man. Just be cool.

Big Band: You have two cows. You give one of them all of the 1st Trumpet parts. The other is extremely jealous.

Blues: You had two cows. One o' them died while still a calf. The other done you wrong an' gave her milk to another man.

Blues 2: 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.

Bluegrass: You have two cows. They fall in love, then one of them dies. Also, you work in a coal mine and drink heavily.
British Punk: You have two bulls that spend all their time getting drunk at the pub and shagging fat cows.
Celtic: You have two cows. They're both very drunk all the time and are usually sailing to someplace or other.

Classical: You have two cows. They're sound asleep.
Classical 2: Golden Age: You have two cows. One is deaf, and the other dies before reaching adulthood. Their mooing is revered by countless thousands for centuries.
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.
Creedence Clearwater Revival: 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.
Emoo: 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.
Emoo 2: You have two cows. So what? You're gonna die anyway.
Folk: 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.
Frankie Goes to Hollywood: When your two cows go to war, a point is all that you can score.

Funk: You have two black cows from outer space. And now they’re back.
Glam Rock: 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.
Gospel : 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!
Grindcore: You have two cows. You're such a faggot. I freakin’ raped your cows.
Heavy Metal: You have two cöws. Mü. (they get rich selling black Mü Tshirts)
Hip Hop: 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.
Indie: You have two cows whose music tastes are so superior, they refuse to listen to anything besides vinyls of unlabeled, obscure bands.
Industrial Rock: You have two cows, one of which joins Ministry while the other produces some poor quality remixes of FLA's early work.
Intelligent Dance Moosic: You have two cows who would die for the Aphex Twin.
Jam Band: You have two cows. They think grass isn't just for grazing.
Jazz: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.
Metal (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.
Metal (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.
Metal (Doom): You have two stoned cows. They graze a swampy graveyard at night, while the grim reaper watches from the mist.
Metal (Gore): You set your two cows on fire and rape them. They revive as zombies. You rape the zombies.
Metal (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.
Metal (Nü): You've got two cows. Nobody likes you, and your dad raped you. You wanna kill yourself.
Metal (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.
Minimalism : 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.
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.
New country : 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.
New wave : You have two cows that make repeated jerky, robotic movements while mooing in a detached monotone.
Oi!: 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.
Opera: You have two cows in a china closet, they break glass with their moos while the audience break wind and snooze.
Orthodox Chant: You have two cows ordained as chanters. At Pascha, they sing in 19 different languages.
Pop : 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.
Prog Rock: 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)
Psychedelia : 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.
Rap: You have two cows wearing different colors. They belong to different gangs. They shoot each other.
Rave: You have two cows, wearing color lights. They look confused and are consuming pills. Eventually they die of over-hydration.
Riot Grrrl: 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.
Romanticism: You have two cows, and they're more emotional than the previous generation.
Screamoo: 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.

Ska: You have two black-and-white checkerboard cows. They get tipped and trampled to death in a moshpit.

Surrealism: You have two cows, but are they really cows?

Traditional country : You have two cows. One cheated on her bull and left him crying in his straw. The other is your honky-tonk queen.

Weird Al Yankovic: You have two cows. They play polka versions of popular mooing. Hamsters are somehow involved.

EYES

2007-10-09T09:25:00.000-07:00

YOU HAVE TWO COWS

2007-10-08T11:17:00.000-07:00

Jan posted about political comparisons using two cows, it seems to me a good way to explain many things.

“I have nothing to declare but my two cows.”
~ Oscar Wilde

“I have what???”
~ Captain Oblivious

YOU HAVE TWO COWS is the philisophical truth of the entire world.:

Moo*(sin(CowA)+cos(CowB))=2xCows

This mathematical proof can also be written with the second moometric identity:
log/moo(CowA)+log/moo(CowB)=log/2Cow(Moo)
Where Moo is the universal moometric constant.

A long-standing tradition of mathematics has been the discovery of new truths pertaining to two-cow ownership. Currently, 45,893 two-cow truths are known Nostradamas demonstrated in 1555 that the total number of two-cow truths is infinite.

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.

The following are TWO COW examples to explain

World of Warcraft
Bigbeef: WTS [Two Cows], 20g. /w me
Arkarian: lol, n00b, [Two Cows] is quest item, so soulbound, rofl.
Arkarian: lol, some guy tried to sell [Two Cows]
Somedutchguy: hahaha, what a n00b.
Bigbeef: WTS [Two Cows], 20g. /w me.

World of Warcraft (2)
[1. The Barrens] [Random]: Chuck Norris's two cows cure cancer, too bad he never milks them.
[1. The Barrens] [Sefirof]: Chuck Norris jokes are ghey.
[1. The Barrens] [Siefer]: Bruce Lee > Chuck Norris
[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!"
[1. The Barrens] [Random]: Chuck Norris does not approve of that horrible Anti-Chuck Norris joke!
[1. The Barrens] [Ryejin]: OMG That joke has ruined all anti-chuck norris jokes now and forefer!
[1. The Barrens] [Renotheturk]: FACT: Chuck Norris got his ass whooped by Jackie Chan!
[1. The Barrens] [Sefirof]: FACT: Jackie Chan is Gay.
[1. The Barrens] [Siefer]: Bruce Lee > Jackie Chan > Chuck Norris
[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!
[1. The Barrens] [Lyndis]: Final Fantasy Fanbois just got PWNT!
[1. The Barrens] [Nazras]: O RLY?
[1. The Barrens] [Lyndis]: YA RLY!
[1. The Barrens] [Nazras]: NO WAI!
[1. The Barrens] [Ilovecheese]: REPORTED!
[1. The Barrens] [Siefer]: REPORTED!
[1. The Barrens] [Ryejin]: REPORTED!
[1. The Barrens] [Raigin]: REPORTED!
[1. The Barrens] [Renotheturk]: It's okay lern2play.
[1. The Barrens] [Tyemyshoe]: Holy crap, all this started just from a simple "You have Two Cows" Joke?
[1. The Barrens] [Gnomepunter]: That's why you leave /1 whenever you enter.
[4. LocalDefense] [Sefirof]: They left General Chat! Quick! Spam up Local Defense!!
[1. The Barrens] [Winnerall]: Damn my cows are soo n00bish!

World of Warcraft (3)
You have two Tauren. They are both Level 70. For the Horde!!!

World of Warcraft (4)
You had two cows, but the last patch nerfed them so badly you now use a goat.

World of Warcraft (5)
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.

World of Warcraft (6)
You have two cows. You accidentally right-click one of them. You now only have one cow

World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade
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.

World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade (2)
You had two cows, but now all the Noobs get them so it don't matter what you had before.

Tag I'm it

2007-10-07T01:11:00.000-07:00

Jan @ Vinegar and Honey has tagged me for a Meme 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 this info 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.

The rules are to explain the evolution of your blog and then Tag five unsuspecting bloggers and link them back to Jan @ Vinegar and Honey and Michael @ Gossip Galaxy

So listen up, the following bloggers beware;
em of Mellow Chaos
Shafa of American Twenty Something
brat of barista brat
Sizzle of SIZZLE SAYS
Becky of Searching for Oz
You have been TAGGED thanks to Jan @ Vinegar and Honey and of course myself.

The great mofo delurk annex

2007-10-06T12:06:00.000-07:00

I asked if some of us procrastinating bloggers could annex her delurker campaign .
Schmutzie sez
"I don't see why not! Everyone seemed to have a lot of fun with it, so go ahead."
The new date is set for Ocrober 15th so interested parties grab a button.

My Ship has come in again

2007-10-06T03:59:00.000-07:00

Well more like a rowboat...

Or more specifically a bookcase

One more piece for the Nauti Cal bedroom motif. Still have to do something about those curtains.

Slow Read

2007-10-05T07:07:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

I may never set foot in Wal-Mart again.

2007-10-04T05:13:00.000-07:00

Just a “brief” rant.

There is a sign in the window in front of the store addressing handicapped patrons with instructions to inform an employee if you have specific needs. I traditionally ignore this sign as I walk by. I don’t anticipate special treatment and as a rule do not require it.

Today I nearly collapsed in the middle of the store, and I am embarrassed to no end. I came in on a simple mission, return a package of broken light bulbs and left a broken man. Earlier I stopped at the furniture store and bought a boat for my bedroom; oh yah, I bought a boat! Actually a rowboat shaped bookcase. It should go well with my new bedroom motif.

Anyways, back to my tale, I went to the furniture store, visited the bank, did my grocery shopping, stopped at Staples in search of a DSL modem and just browsed a bit, then moved on down the road to Wal-Mart to return the unfortunate broken bulbs that were bagged with some canned goods. I stood in line quite a long time as customers returned, complained, picked up and otherwise occupied the only customer service girl behind the counter. After about twenty minutes the line picked up when another girl came to the rescue.

When I finally reached the counter, impressed with the speed and apparent efficiency of the new girl, she was knocking the complaints out 3 to 1 verses the other customer service rep; I got the speedy efficient girl.

She scanned my item without listening to my well-rehearsed and clever explanation (why else do we return stuff but to have our story heard?) and she handed me two dollars and some change. Well you can imagine how put off the speedy girl was when I said I really just wanted to exchange the item. She stopped deadpan and looked me straight in the eyes and said “I refunded your money, you can go get another one and now you won’t have to return here with it.”

“But you refunded the wrong item.” I humbly replied, this set off her annoyance beacon and she glared a hole through me sharp as a laser beam.

“I go by the last four digits of the scanning code, that is the product number you returned right there.” She retaliated. I then realized she must be a high level member of a secret society: the clan codex of superior scanners, and as a master of the craft, was not used to being questioned about her arcane wisdom and skill.

“I am sorry to contradict your scanning prowess, but I bought two twin packs of smaller bulbs as you can see on this receipt, they were each $2.00 and some change. The three pack of larger bulbs cost me $8.77 as it is marked here on the receipt as you can see.” I memorized that smooth line while standing in the customer complaint line without even knowing I would be the one to throw a monkey wrench into the only working cog of customer servicing at the time.

“That is not the item you returned sir.” She insisted. Looking at the words here on paper her response may appear cordial, but I assure you I was standing in front of her and it was far from polite conversation.

“Ok, whatever, can you just get someone to bring me a replacement for the broken bulbs in that pack, and we won’t have to squabble over the price.” Yes I used the squabble word, a word I normally reserve for holiday shopping.

“Sir you can just go get another pack and take it to any check out counter.” That sounded pretty final to me so I set off at my charging turtle pace intent on getting a replacement and making Snooty-Gurlz ring it up. I was grateful in one sense that as I passed many point of purchase items that reached out to my inner shopper, I was able to resist all urges to buy stuff I really don’t need.

I did stop once or twice in a moment of weakness, but managed to go relatively direct to the stacks of light bulb pallets and retrieve a package of bulbs. On the way back I was determined to metaphorically shove the pack into the customer service girls smug face and laugh at her failure, but my legs were trembling, and I noticed my left foot was swelling right out of my sandal. It just then occurred to me that I felt weak and quite headachy; more than I would normally expect from a little altercation with a seventeen-year-old Barbie doll.

I was dragging my left foot along and all my weight was on my good leg and cane. My right leg was trembling something fierce. By the time I reached sight of the first available checkout I deadheaded straight for the counter, shuffling and leaning against anything that might support me. Stubbornness has its percs, it propelled me the last few feet like a drunken sailor to the cashier. I dropped the light bulbs on the conveyor belt, and then dropped the two dollar-bills, and lastly the loose change that came with it as I leaned gasping at the edge of the counter.

“That is only two dollars the cashier said.”

“I know, it is what the customer service girl gave me for those bulbs.” I explained and dropped the marked receipt on the conveyer and dropped my head putting all my weight on the counter. All I could think at this point is I needed to get off my feet and wanted to be at home.

“Those bulbs cost $8.77 sir.”

“I know” was as clever a response as I could manage at the time and I gave up. I just wanted to go home and I stormed off in my snail-paced fashion as the cashier followed me asking if I wanted my two dollars back. I kept telling her no, I wanted my light bulbs, no, I wanted to go home, no, I just wanted to sit down. All the while I am picking up assistant managers trailing behind me like sticky toilet paper stuck on the bottom of my shoe.

“Please! Just let me find a seat for a minute!” I shouted and somewhere in the confusion someone brought me a chair.

By now I was surrounded by concerned and curious faces; employees, managers (how many managers does it take to run a shift at Wal-Mart?) and a few customers trying to extract a case of soda from behind me. Some one offered to call 911 and I insisted I was ok horrified by the possibility of further embarrassment. As I regained a small amount of composure and none of my dignity, I explained as best I could why I was there and what I wanted. I mentioned the sign out front offering assistance to handicapped people and I requested some of that special treatment then and there. I handed everything I had to the Alpha manager, ratted out the customer service girl and remained sitting, trying to work the pain out of my foot as I rested my good leg.

When did I get to be so weak? I can’t even stroll from one end of a warehouse and back? I am so embarrassed. I lost my temper, I lost my dignity, and I lost control of my life for a very short time and it scared the hell out of me.

I do not know how exactly they resolved the entire light bulb scanner fiasco, but I left with my light bulbs and did not have to pay anything more for them than the cash the service girl handed me and all of my dignity.

I might mention that from the glare of the service girls still at her staion tells me that this isn't over between her and me, I am certain I made an enemy for life. I am envisioning myself at some later date or time in my life when I am at my favorite drive through and I reach up to the window to pick up my food, and there will be Snooty-Gurlz glaring at me...

Fa La La

2007-10-03T09:00:00.001-07:00

Not much to say today. It’s hump day for some, just another day for others. I sat up until 4a.m. rewriting Tremblin’ Hands and arranging the score in Reason using a bright piano and some low and spiky old time grand for background. I added a combination of acoustic lead and electric heavy strum rhythm guitars, an upright finger bass, some driving drums and for the instrumental break a little telo-tube guitar and some (I guess some would call it old fashion now days) moog action. I played around with some bari sax and flute combos, but I lost the fifties edge somewhere in the beat and electronics so could not get them to blend well. I ended up with a fifties style song with a seventies drive and a nineties beat. An awkward bastard child of a pop duet and I may bring it out at Open Mike Friday if anyone is bold enough to try it with me.

So after I run a few pick up errands this morning that I overlooked yesterday, I am likely going to spend the rest of the day making karaoke sing-along disks. Tremblin’ Hands of course and before I do that I have two humorous song parodies on ARE YOU LONESOME TONITE and THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS for Karaoke Ron’s wife, Sue K or Suki as I call her for convenience sake.

BFFL; coincidence? maybe not...

2007-10-02T15:45:00.000-07:00

Michael Smith was my best friend in high school; we ditched school to go surfing together, worked at the same place, dated two girls who were best friends and neighbors for three months before discovering that particular coincidence.

Mike and I entered the service together on the buddy program. And discovered that not only did we share the first name, but both our middle names were Lynn. After boot cap we went our own ways. Mike shipped out to S.E. Asia and I was sent to further training. Mike returned just as I shipped out and we lost touch for about a year when one afternoon, my Filipino date took me to a theatre in Manila and as we sat waiting for the show to start, a young man and his date excused themselves as they made their way to the center of the aisle and who should it be, but my buddy Mike. I had transferred ships, and remained overseas and Mike had shipped out for a second tour and neither of us had heard a word from the other in more than a year.

After the military, Mike’s marriage broke up and he came to stay with me for a while until he met and married his new love and moved to Oregon. We lost touch over the years, and I had relocated to Needles California and opened the Desert Bronze Bakery, Luigi’s and Mike’s Deli and Catering. Needless to say those days were very busy and hectic for me. I had spent a Sunday outing with the Viet Nam Vets reminiscing and swapping war stories and the thought of Mike pressed hard on my memories as I wondered how he was and what he was doing. I felt guilty loosing touch with him, but the road of life has a way of branching and splitting into many paths over the years.

That very next day, I had just opened for business and was going over my bakery deliveries with the driver when a young man came into the store wanting to use the restroom. After a time and he had not come out, and older gentleman came in asking if we had seen his son, who was desperately looking for a restroom. That old man was my high school buddy Mike with his son on their way to Phoenix where Chad was starting college.

Mike is still living in Oregon and we still keep touch and swap war stories online or over the phone. But when I divorced his ex wife and moved to Northern California, I had lost my contact information. But I wasn’t in Norcal a week and I ran across Mike in a Starbucks in Sacramento 200 miles south of where I now live. He stopped for a coffee break coming down for a work related seminar, and I stopped in for coffee and to use my laptop while I was visiting my boat on the near by Sacramento River. Neither of us had ever been in that shop before.

He has never been to my home and I have not been to his since our roommate days, but we have bumped into one another more often than some of my relatives.

When should we be deliberately colorblind?

2007-10-01T08:27:00.000-07:00

When the world lives in abstracts of black and white, I have always claimed to see shades of gray.
I am not a man of absolutes. That is not to say that I don’t have preconceived notions or that I don’t believe in absolutes, but I question the status quo constantly.

I cannot help myself. Someone once said, “The more you know the more you know you don’t know.” And I have had a jump on wisdom since I was a child. I have always been acutely aware of what I do not know and frustrated my tutors to no end with endless questions and suppositions.

“The sky is blue.” It would seem a simple enough lesson to learn. But for me it was just the beginning of unanswered questions like “why blue?” “What makes it blue?” “Who decided to name it blue?” “Where does blue come from?” “If it is blue, why does it look gray sometimes?” No one ever wanted to see my hand go up in class.

Eventually I gained a reputation as the classroom smart ass and that has followed me in life. I am comfortable with that now and admit to using it to my advantage numerous times throughout my many years. It can be an effective shield as well as a double-edged sword.

But ultimately I am still that classroom ass questioning everyone and everything and it is a legitimate condition. My mind really works that way. It is like a peripheral condition that will not allow me to look at an object straight on, I see hints of protruding sides and shadows from unknown angles and my minds eye want to absorb all the information to analyze and catalogue.

Nothing is just black and white anymore, it never was for me. Now I see in Technicolor. The broad spectrum of black and white and all its shades of gray have expanded into an entire rainbow of coloring.

Good is white, evil is black symbolically speaking. Black absorbs all color and white reflects all color so then shouldn’t shades of gray include all shades of color as well? My new wisdom now envisions the world through tetrachromatic filters and once again I realize how little I actually know about what I thought I knew.

So is good still good if it has tinctures of green or pink or blue? Or how evil is evil if it shows hints of gray around the edges? How do people walk around seeing only black and white?

mindless rant

2007-09-29T04:27:00.000-07:00

My sympathies go out to the local newscasters who could not keep the disappointment out of their voices as they announced a 17-year-old gunman who took several hostages in an Oroville high school band room at gunpoint did not kill anyone. No one was injured and the young man surrendered to police shortly after the inception of the incident.

I was appalled in truth, or maybe I am just addled and senile but I swear I could read the news anchors frustration on her face and in her tone as she stuttered the less than world shattering news to the local headlines. So close, but nonetheless a near miss. We interrupt this program to announce a seventeen year old walked into a classroom brandishing a gun and then announced he was going to kill himself shortly after his girlfriend dumped him.

The classroom emptied as kids fled the area with the exception of two young girls who talked the troubled assailant down and took his gun away leading him out to the awaiting police. The entire school was bussed to a local church for counseling. When asked why the two girls chose to stay with the troubled teen, they replied it had to do with a classroom project in communication their fifth grade teacher presented that inspired them.

May I have a chocolate milkshake

2007-09-28T09:28:00.000-07:00

I don’t understand the significance of dreams, and in my world this dream from last night is so far removed from my ‘normal’ Sci fi channel, World of Warcraft induced mélange of disturbia, I thought I would post it for discussion, interpretation or just for the hell of it.

I am a teacher. That is to say in my dream not necessarily in real life although a I have been known to teach a thing or two…

A poor start to my story, let me try to stay on point before the dream fades away. The kitties are hungry and restless and watching me as I type so I will hurry this along as quickly as I am able.

In my dream I stood before a contemporary classroom of children. Their age and appearance gave me the impression that I was before a fifth grade class (and no I do not watch ‘ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A FIFTH GRADER’ because I fear the answer to that title) and we were discussing communication as a class subject.

I now vaguely recall my communications course in boot camp and I suppose maybe in some way that bit of personal history crept into my dream world last night or in some way influenced it as I spoke of individuality and how it effects interpretation, much in the same fashion as our non com instructor did in the military years ago.

Now we go back to my dream. As an example of how one person will interpret and relay a simple message I explained to the class in some detail how we would perform a classic experiment on communication and then I had the child in the first seat of the first row come up to my desk. I whispered to her “May I have a chocolate milkshake.” She went back to her seat and I could hear her as she turned to the boy seated behind her as she whispered, “ In May I had a chocolate milkshake.”

Again in my dream I was only able to hear a few children’s whispers as the message traveled up and down the aisles as the children in the first line of chairs spoke, but I heard such lines as “I may have had a chocolate milkshake.” And “Mary had a chocolate milk at break.”

But when the final child received his whisper, he walked up to me and I asked him to relay what he heard to the class and he said, “May I have a chocolate milkshake.”

That’s it. I woke up just then to another stirring morning mildly missing my dream world but looking forward to a new day. I wrote this down because it stayed with me longer than most dreams and in the back of my mind it still pesters me like a mending scab. I just keep picking at it. It seems like nonsense in one aspect, but it feels like it should have significance somehow.

For those who know me this dream is well out of the range of norm for me in that there were no monsters, sense of impending doom, quest to challenge, no real adventure at all. It seemed so normal it is quite disturbing.

I think I may have a milkshake for lunch today.

And On Wednesday He Ate Roast Beef

2007-09-26T14:29:00.000-07:00

I inadvertently made roast beef hash today. It was an accident, a product of inattention and good fortune. I woke up this morning on the early side because I went to bed late last night. Now that may not speak of sense or sensibility but just take my word for the reasons to my early rise. Well that and Chaos decided to cannonball my bad leg and after peeling myself from the Microfilament tiles in the ceiling (I never knew that those ceiling tiles were porous enough for my fingers to dig into) I decided sleep was over rated and headed for the shower.

I don’t know why this post is important and suspect that there is little relevance or purpose or value to this story other than to put something on my blog today. So if you decide not to follow along I will fully understand. I decided that in honor of the early morning I would make a country breakfast with eggs, fried potatoes, even toast and juice, a cup of coffee…
You know the drill.

As I was scouring the kitchen for necessary equipment, materials and ingredients, I remembered why Chaos interrupted my peaceful sleep mostly because he was at my feet yelling, “Put down that knife! You don’t need a knife to make my breakfast! It’s a can! Just open it. Open, open, open!”

So I dutifully deterred from my task at hand to feed the kitties two hours early. After that little service was accomplished, I sat down with the coffee I made and watched the sun come up, forgetting about the major food project that had been begun and abandoned in the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. After a bit though, the thought of food began to creep back into my mind as my coffee soaked tummy began to rumble. It was that moment I remembered the project in the kitchen and I dashed off to resume my preparations (dashed is a euphamism in my case meaning I wobbled slowly with hurried thoughts racing across my mind).

I decided at thet moment that frying raw potatoes is a much too time consuming a project, so instead I opted for par boiling them first (why that instead of baking them in the microwave, again I don’t always understand my motivations). I maxed out my optimum standing time peeling and paring and took a break at the computer. Nothing too deep; I played a mindless game or three of Freecell until I was ready to take to my feet again.

I noted that it would have been much more time efficient if I had actually put the flame on under the potatoes while I lounged, but corrected the oversight and continued to prep onions, some bell pepper and a nice clove of garlic. Things were orderly and following a decent if casual timeline when the phone rang.

“Hello Michael is that you?”

“Who did you call Ron?”

“Um, you.”

“Well guess what? This is me.”

“Why weren’t you at shuffleboard yesterday?”

“I was, but no one showed up, and I don’t have a key or the phone contact list, where were you Ron?”

“Oh, I was fishing, I wanted to invite you but it was last minute and real early I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You mean early like this morning?”

“Yah, I guess so.”

“So why did you call Ron?”

“Just wanted to know why you missed shuffleboard yesterday.”

“I didn’t, you did Ron.”

“Oh, that’s right. Are we getting old or what?”

“You are. I’ll see you tomorrow Ron.”

“Ok, bye Michael.”

I swear some of my friends would be better off if they didn’t have a brain at all.

I went back to the kitchen and turned the heat off the potatoes, then ran them under water to cool them some and set them in the fridge. I decided to dice up some left over roast to add to my potatoes since I didn’t have any bacon or sausage in the house. Sausage reminded me of Sue’s blog, so I took a break and went to the computer and ended up immersed in the deep end of the Internet for a couple of hours. When I came up for a breath, I remembered breakfast and returned to the kitchen to finish up.

By then I was preoccupied with a witty or insightful comment or two for the blogoshere and spent my time divided between the stove and the computer. Not paying attention I caramelized the onions (not entirely a bad thing in my opinion) and pulled the skillet off the stove and returned to my writing for a bit, then took a break and dashed ( can someone give me a better word? I'll pay in kindness...) back to the stove and added potatoes to the fire. By now the skillet was cold again so the potatoes absorbed too much of the buttery oil in the pan and was not frying, as it should. So I compounded the problem by adding the cold roast beef and the rest of my ingredients. It took forever to get a crusty crust on the potatoes, and what I ended up with was;

Bon Appetit! Roast Beef Hash.

And a very good roast beef hash at that. I know that hash is on my blacklist of edible foods I like but avoid because I have to have a list of foods to avoid or I would simply eat everything. It is the thing I do to feel mature since I still can’t keep a straight face whenever I see the mud flaps on a wholesaler’s big rig that says “Eat out more often!” So I make a list of foods that are not good for me. A small list, a very tiny miniscule list more like a notation than an actual list but Hash is there and I haven’t eaten hash in over a decade.

Then last month when I went down to Rocklin for my nephews B-day we went to breakfast and everyone but me ordered the corned beef hash. I drooled into my oatmeal, fruit cup and egg white omelet as I slouched in my chair and casually leaned over to sniff my niece’s plate. I abruptly stopped that after some of the looks I received from other patrons. I sniffed my brother’s plate instead.

I swear the roast beef hash on my plate is an accident. I did not consciously plan its preparation, it just happened. And I made a lot of it. Enough to have hash all week long, and I will because there is no one here to stop me.

Mmm… roast beef hash…

Mind over matter

2007-09-25T19:07:00.000-07:00

So, as I spent some quality time with my foot elevated I put on the TV and started catching up on my recorded shows. I selected Mind Control since its queu was filled with five episodes and tuned in. The guy (I don't recall the name of the host) left his billfold on a busy sidewalk and no one disturbed it, I wasn't much impressed. Then he psyched out some kids in a bar and some exotic dancers in a gentlemans club. I wasn't very impressed in fact I nodded off a bit during the show, and not for the first time that I watched this particular program.

I woke to find the host in a bank with 21 employees whom he had apparently instructed to guess a number of gumballs in a jar. One member guessed dead on and when she opened the jar there was a scroll that described her pretty much accurately. He then had her total all the numbers guessed and divide it by 21. That total also equaled the number of gumballs in the jar. All the employees were impressed. He then said that he believed that just as there was a certain type who would accurately guess the number of gumballs, he believed there was also a certain type of person who would nod off while watching his show and they would probably be named Mike or Michael. Now I am sure that it was some form of media hype, maybe they are able to filter the program by viewer info, or maybe just random luck but this is one Michael who is damn impressed.

Anyone have any ideas how he does that stuff? The host claims no magic or supernatural abilities. He also claims no stooges or props are unvolved, yet I still feel like a stooge every time I watch the show. How does something come off so boring and yet facinating at the same time?

I had been hoping to watch the HEROES season premier. I fretted over missing it so I set one recorder to record new episodes with the standard five episode queu, and the other recorder to record all episodes with no queu restictions. The results? The second recorder has nineteen episodes recorded, none of them the season premier. The first recorder recorded new reruns filling the queu unril the season premier was pushed out and erased for all eternity. But I remain commercial free. I hope I can watch it on the internet tonight...

WoW Video revisited

2007-09-25T13:01:00.000-07:00

I found my INTO THE WATER Video after misplacing it for a few months and saved it to DVD to avoid losing track of it on my computer again. So for nostalgia's sake I have posted it to the World of Warcraft page for those who want to see it. It is reduced from 1gig to 26mb so clarity and size are not optimum and i have never used blogger video before, so I have no idea how it will turn out for viewing.
click here > INTO THE WATER

Meanwhile I am dilligently knocking down my ToDo list today, so not wanting to break my streak I am off to Wallyworld; new burner inserts for my stove, kitty supplies, maybe a new bookcase, and a few other various items, oh yes note to self look for coleman heaters while out...

I am not prepared for Monday!

2007-09-24T09:50:00.000-07:00

I got nothing.

Um, the dog ate my homework? After the torrents of sprinkles that deluged us locally Saturday, as expected, the nearest transformer blew and we were without power for 6 1/2 hours. Half a day w/o electronic devices can be quite unsettling to me. I know six hours does not make a half of a day, but add three hours for sleep, a two hour nap, and time to prepare meals and other personal neccesities, it easily adds up to more than twelve hours of time away from the digital world. After spending a good deal of time ranting and raving about the incompetant power company who just couldn't get around to winterizing their equipment in time for what may well be the twenty seventh year in a row, I went across the street and shared my opinions with my neighbor and we swapped horror stories about the electric companies from our past for awhile when I realized it was time to get back home and look for my power outage kit before dusk fell. I found one flashlight, the one with the tired batteries, not the one with a shake generator in the handle. My candles were used up to littlle wic stubs (when did I do that?).

I bought all new phones for the house this summer and realized that they all are cordless hand helds and none will work in a power outage. I remembered that I never got around to buying that coleman heater for emergencies like this, and thanks to the gentle touch my housekeeper wields with the vacuum cleaner, all my plug-in power failure lights are broken or missing.

I finaly remembered where I hid the box of matches from the cats (don't ask) and found I still have one gallon of water in the closet. I donated my extra blankets in a moment of summer housecleaning weakness, and gave my scanner to Ron 'cause he said he liked to listen to it when he stayed up to star gaze.

I guess the electric company isn't the only one to neglect due diligence on winterizing.

Sunday cleared up and my IP spent the day cycling on and off at random periods making internet access an unpleasant task so I looked for other projects. But mostly spent the day thinking about what to do rather than actually doing anything.

Today I am unorganized and unprepared. I am staring at a ToDo list, but I feel absolutely unmotivated to jump up and start implementing it, there is always tomorrow after all.

My treasure chest just missed Pirates Day

2007-09-21T05:29:00.000-07:00

This wonderful chest is handcrafted with beautiful detail.
I purchased it from: http://woodchests.com/
I chose the lighthouse edition, but they have a variety of stykes to choose from.

Nutmeg feigns indifference

But really she is beside herself about the new chest.

Chest at foot of bed

Top view of chest

Partial chest from bedroom door

Partial chest from bathroom door

Chest at foot of bed

Chest at foot of bed with weight bearing load (Chaos).

GRUMPY BEAR- The rest of the story

2007-09-20T22:28:00.000-07:00

Well I got impatient, dragging the Grumpy Bear ship logs out too long. So here is the rest of the story:
GRUMPY BEAR The rest of the story

Laundry Day Again!

2007-09-19T10:23:00.000-07:00

Just behind the galley is a full walk-in modern Head facility. Complete with flushing privy, a sink with running water and electric outlets, cabinets for toiletries, cosmetics and linens and a stand up shower stall.

And just ouside a brand new polished chrome pumpout cap that is already frozen or rusted shut ( I wonder what I did wrong in the installation?).

Santa Barbara was a nice place to visit but it is time to be moving on.

GRUMPY BEAR Day 25 of 27

We interrupt Grumpy Bears Sea Log for this very important announcement

2007-09-18T16:08:00.000-07:00

THE TAGGING GAME

I have had the honor of being tagged by Olivia.

Rules:

Players, you must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each
letter of your middle name. If you do not have a middle name, use the middle name
you would have liked to have. At the end of your blog post you need to choose one
person for each letter of your middle name to tag. Do not forget to leave them a
comment telling them they are tagged and to read your blog.

L oyal, trustwothy, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and irreverent.
Y earning for wisdom and begging for lessons that might one day make me a complete artist.
N erdy cause I get real excited about things.
N uerotic about the oddest things. When Stephan King was quoted as
saying he had the heart of a small boy, All I could think was "Does he keep it in a glass jar?"

I will tag

Em

Heather

Thelma, if you really exsist...

and Sue, you aren't getting off so easy. If you wanted to avoid using your middle name you could have made up a simple one
like:

Sexyiowawenchwhostalkscornbythebushel.

If you don't want to play along, thats ok too, you can just email me your middle name
because knowing your middle name will give me power over you? Or not, lol.

We will return to Grumpy Bears Sea Log tomorrow...

HURRY UP AND WASH!

2007-09-18T06:03:00.000-07:00

Ok, this boat needs bigger closet space.

For the next installment of the

Grumpy Bear sea logs click below:

GRUMPY BEAR Day 20 of 25

STILL ALIVE IN SANTA BARBARA

2007-09-17T17:05:00.000-07:00

Catalina was exotic in a sleepy village kind of way,

Santa Barbara was much smaller than I anticipated.

GRUMPY BEAR Day 16 of 21

GRUMPY BEAR at sea!

2007-09-17T10:35:00.000-07:00

I am actually underway!

Sue here is another shot of the cabin's interior.

GRUMPY BEAR Day 15 of 20

If truth be told, I was a little green after eating a sandwich for lunch. It had been awhile since I'd been to sea and the little choppy waves were wearing me down a bit. But by days end I had my sealegs.

GRUMPY BEAR still dockside

2007-09-16T22:24:00.000-07:00

Is this boat ever going anywhere?

You can tell how much you love

something by the amount of crap

you are willing to put up with.

I heard that somewhere

GRUMPY BEAR- Day 13 of 15

The Grumpy Bear Saga Continues

2007-09-16T18:24:00.000-07:00

If you are concerned about the discrepensies in the chronology, I kept pushing back the time of arrival, so at first I planned on a three day cruise, but later realized it may be ten days eventually modifying my itenerary to include 30 days total

Grumpy Bear Day 10 of 15 really there's a voyage in there somewhere.

and Thelma if you are looking, yes the pictures with the story are of my boat. She is a 1986 30' SeaRay if I wanted to add dummy photos, I would pick a nicer boat like this one.

but I bought this one:
and she was half my age and
the answer to my dreams !

GRUMPY BEAR Day 5 of 10

2007-09-16T07:03:00.000-07:00

If there is such a thing as predestiny, why is it so difficult to plan ahead?

When I first looked at the Grumpy Bear, I thought that I would pay for her, outfit her and immediately set out into the blue for the Sacramento River arriving near my brothers doorstep in time to house sit for him. Boy was I naive, unprepared and uninformed.

VOYAGE OF THE GRUMPY BEAR

A three day tour?

2007-09-15T20:01:00.000-07:00

I am going to cheat a little and post my ships log from a voyage I undertook a few years ago.

Please feel free to follow along and laugh and my bungling Gilligan like escapades. I just had to go back and relive this fun and exciting misadventure after reading about

Heather's Grand Adventure off of the coast of Brazil. And looking at all the wonderful photos.

seasons change

2007-09-14T13:43:00.000-07:00

Some may not be aware of my other myriad blog pages, I recently posted this years fall collection of poems:

THE FALL OF THE DYING LEAFAWOKY
I don't know why but I just go mimsy for Jabberwoky poems, this is one of mine-

Today it's Autumn

FALL

AUTUMN

My Ship has come in

2007-09-13T18:38:00.000-07:00

OK, maybe not a ship, and I don't mean the kitchen is open either, but my very first printer galley has arrived and I must say I am pleased.

these are a few preview pics of the digital galley from xlibris.

A new bed means new stuff, right?

2007-09-12T23:25:00.000-07:00

So I received the egyption cotton sheets for my new bed, the Ronco Terminator 5000, it lifts, it bends, it seperates, it vibrates and has a kitty approval of 4 paws and a tail.

I also bought a new Hunter green comforter to go with the chocolate sheets.

I thought to myself that this reminds me of my sleeping accomadations in the Navy. What I need is a sea chest to hold my new comforter when not in use (otherwise the cats may steal it when I'm not looking). The chest isn't real I just super imposed it into my bedroom photo to see if I liked it.

I did, so I went ahead and ordered the set. I am pretty excited, I can't wait until they arrive. As long as I was in a Nauti mood, I figured maybe I should go with a seafarers theme so I began exploreing the internet for some new "stuff" for the bedroom.

These are my new antique hand carved Light house storage chests.

I also found a nice brass anchor with USN for mounting on a wall.

And a J. Rackman Instruments plaque

This is a pretty cool ships wheel, made from wood and 30" across

There are actually two of these lamps for my nightstands as shown in my fantasy room, None of this stuff is ordered yet, except the carved chests.

I think the port and starboard candle lamps might set a calm sea mood in the bedroom.

More plaques for the wall. I am going to list these in my Christmas wish list for the family members who alway complain they never know what to get me.

Or for the ones who want to get me something I really can use. Now who can't use book ends, mates?

I ams till searching for the right curtains, I have not had much luck on the inet yet, and I grow weary of the unmanly granny rose pattern drapes that hang now. Keep in mind I am often a day sleeper so I like dark drapery as a rule. The cats don't seem to care one way or another.

Spam Pornados - a continuing rant

2007-09-11T22:57:00.000-07:00

I am not pointing the wrinkled finger of blame or naming names Sue...
it's just someone inspired me to rant today and it has nothing to do with stir fried spam!

It's not that I am a prude, although I suspect recently I was maybe transformed into one by the old grump faery in my sleep, but I just feel personally violated when unwelcome crap is shoved in my face and into my online mailbox. Uh oh, I feel a rant coming on, lol.
It irks me that someone would sift through my personal stuff and come up with catch phrases and names to trick me into opening their advertisements.

Don't tell me I am the only one who falls for this stuff. After the first email I got from my sister in law Mari (just as an example) I received mail from a plethora of Mary's, Marryme's, Mariannes, Marty's, Mari's and one Jose (don't ask...) selling everything from real estate to relationships. Along with emails from my alleged BofA, Ebay, Searay, and Paypal accounts, (to mention a few) telling me alarming tales of account discrepancies and suggesting I log on right away to clear up any misfortunate misunderstandings by using their quick access link included in the email; "Just log in with your usual information sir, don't be afraid."

Then there is the desperate third world leader of Junagadh who writes his family is being held hostage and will die if I don't help out in a very small and humble way to pay off their ransom by allowing one hundred million Dokdos to be channeled through my bank account of which I will be handsomely rewarded. And let’s not forget the Minister of Finance who needs my bank account to transfer millions of U.S. currency before rebels topple his government. There’s the deposed Prince, who desperately begs my services to assist in obtaining his rightful inheritance by way of using my bank account to transfer the funds in my name, at grave risk to himself and with little choice available so that he must trust me to take possession of his fortune and return it to him for a sizable reward. Or the similar government official who has discovered that I am a distant relative of the late King of Abkahzia and wants me to declare my right to the inheritance that is in risk of being seized by the government if no one makes a claim for it immediately. I must have a great big target painted on my forehead or something.

Finally, I do not need breast implants, require penile reduction, discount drugs from Canada, care to subject myself to priapism stroke or kidney failure by some trendy recreational prescription drug, I don’t want to buy real estate in Honduras, change my insurance carrier, pay someone to tell me how to work online and make millions (I know that secret, get lots of people to pay me to tell them how to make millions), lose weight through your money back guaranteed miracle drug, join the pyramid sales scheme of the week, start an online franchise, become an ebay mogul, I am not going to look for my perfect mate through your website, I don’t want to see what the farmers daughter is doing in the barnyard, I know what my credit score is, I don’t want a loan, I am not interested in your lifetime supply of discounted ink cartridges, I don’t want a free sample of waterproof mascara, and I don’t care if Kate Hudsen works on her tan in the nude. Wait, who is Kate Hudsen? Never mind it doesn’t matter I am not interested in exposing myself to an even larger spam burst by visiting a spam site even if I might be remotely curious which I am not, ok I just googled Kate and I guess she made a movie with John Kusak. I didn’t know! But now I am less interested.

I am a man, a hunter-gatherer. I want to conquer my prey, search for it (not too hard) and make it my own. I don’t go to malls, bazaars, or flea markets to have stuff shoved in my face; I like to hunt the wilds of the internet track my prey find just the right treasure, then make my purchase. I don’t need advertisements to attract and annoy me like too many flies over a dead carcass. I just want commercials to go away.

The author of this blog is unable to continue with this installment as he is curled in a fetal position alone in a dark room muttering to himself “Make them go away!” Perhaps he can come out to play later…

Rememberance

2007-09-11T08:56:00.000-07:00

We Remember

Sadly I was up most of the night staring at photos and reading past memorials to 9/11 and found myself with nothing new, clever, or inspiring to contribute to the myriad collection of prayers and thoughts and memorabelia. Instead I was infected by a remote sadness and reverence for those people and families involved. Time marches on and we learn to accept and deal with pain. I did reflect however on the resilience and perserverence of people who live in a sociey filled with freedoms. We are much stronger than we appear and although we live our lives independant of one another we can unite in a flash of an instant as one very powerful voice.

2007-09-10T03:18:00.000-07:00

Well here I go again, Sue is in a questionaire mood again so these questions have been asked of me.

1. Tell me something you really like about yourself.
You picked a tough question for me; I am so not about me it is excruciatingly painful at times. I suppose saying there isn’t much I don’t like is a cop out so let’s focus on something a little more specific. I like the way I sing, I can listen to me for hours. I am not always thrilled with how my recorded voice comes out, but I have been known to sing for my own self absorbed pleasure from afternoon until early on in the wee hours of the morning, as much as 12 hours straight. Vanity? I don’t see it.

2. If life gave "do-overs" would you have many? Tell me one.
If I had a perspective of where my life would go and had an opportunity to change things I should leave well enough alone and enjoy all the good fortune ahead as well as the painful mistakes and events that shaped my life. One thing I might like to hold onto is the confidence of knowing how my life would reward me as it progressed, but then I would lose the unique surprise and wonder and most of the magic would disappear, so again the right thing would be to leave well enough alone and just hold on tight for the roller coaster ride. But… if the opportunity arose, knowing me I would likely try to do something to make the world better, like joining the Peace Corps or a Monastery or both.

3. What would you like to be remembered for after you're gone?
I want to be remembered for unleashing massive peace on the world one person at a time. Seriously I just want to be thought of as that “nice guy, kind of quiet, but real friendly”. I don’t want to be envied for what I had or made fun of as that oddball who had too many hobbies, too much time on his hands and never took anything serious. I would hope that I leave a small vacuum behind that someone younger and smarter will step up to and fill.

4. Knowing what you know now, what is one piece of wisdom you'd like to pass on to future generations?
Don’t ever get too busy to appreciate life and those around you. The reward isn’t about who finished first or finished with the most toys, the reward is based on the journey and how you get there.

5. Is your life a.) A harlequin romance b.) An atlas
c.) A mystery d.) Sci-fi or e.) other? Explain.
At the moment my life is a C, but it has been an A, a B, a D and an E. I am still transitioning into old coot mode adjusting to retired life and the many wondrous ever changing phases of decomposition and deterioration the body takes on in advance codger stages. But I have had romance, adventure, real life shoot-em ups, drama, comedy, I traveled a lot, settled and resettled, watched the Dick Tracy radio watches step right out of the comic strips and into real life, saw Hal 2000 rebel on extra wide screen theater and one day named my own pc Hal only to nervously reflect on the wisdom of tempting fate with such a legacy. I watched George Jetson trip over a vacuuming robot in a cartoon and I myself have tripped over a robot vacuum cleaner. I witnessed a man step onto the moon, seen snaps shots taken from mars, the cure for polio, small pox, and diphtheria, I’ve seen inflation, deflation, saturation, commercialization, smart bombs, smart bullets, dumb wars, street riots, street gangs and the deification of Rap music. So there has been lots of Sci fi turned into sci fact in my lifetime.

Purring, Pranks, and Pain

2007-09-06T10:39:00.000-07:00

It is so funny that my number 1 (only?) blogger fan should comment about my kitties and new bed. Last night I woke up too screaming pain in my lower back and I managed to roll to my unsteady feet in the pitch-black room. OK, not as funny at the time, the pain was tremendous but I managed to use my granny walker for support and scour the house for my back pills. Even the pain wasn’t motivation enough to jog my muzzy mind so it required a slow and yes painful (I want to see how many times I can say pain in the same rant.) stroll until I came across my little white pills. They were right exactly where I left them. Guilty Conscience surged forth gushing all kinds of details about the pills location after I found them; when I took them, where I was when I set them down, even what I was thinking at the time I set them down rushed back to me for all the good it did me now that I had them in my sleepy hands. The pills are not instantaneous with the relief as advertised but close enough to feel the pain slowly subsiding as I set down the empty water glass.

I generally do not like to take these pills on the principle they don’t fix anything; they just mask the pain so I can continue to do stupid things to lengthen my recovery time. Quite honestly, of late I am just sick and tired of the pain so I have been munching down on these caplets all week. I even went to shuffleboard Tuesday and was miserable and yet I am actually considering going again today as I write this. I am hopeless.

As a nice warm fuzzy wrapped around my lower back I eased myself down the hall and into the bedroom then turned on the lamp next to my new bed so I could see to straighten the covers I likely tossed in my turtles dash from the room. What I saw was that the head of the bed was raised completely up as well as the foot in a victory “V” wedge. I felt a tingly sensation running through the floorboards as 'magic fingers massage' coursed gently up and down the length of the bed. Amidst it all, there was Chaos smack dab in the middle laying sprawled out on his back out- purring the bed.

For now the remote control has gone into the nightstand drawer, but I am not so confidant that will be enough. Nutmeg the Mcguyver kitty can break into anything. I may be destined to become a human pretzel at my kitty’s whim for their sole entertainment in yet one more demeaning and embarrassing manner.

Random Thoughts Over Labor Day Weekend

2007-09-05T13:44:00.000-07:00

If bone were stone then my backbone would be made of granite. Coarse and porous, rough and brittle it would shred the nerves than ran down its path, transporting wave upon wave of pain and misery.

If bone were made of jelly, then my spine would be more flexible but less controlled; drifting around out of place and bending upon itself until nerve met nerve and then send great arcs of pulsing discomfort.

If bone were made of bone and well, likely it is; then mine is old and brittle. Cracked and yellowed scrimshaw weak and worn with age, it no longer repairs itself. Instead it grows barnacles like the hull of an ancient ship sharp and spiny it spurs my nerves and spears my flesh. And when my aching muscles swell from exhaustion and abuse they embrace my spine and wrap snug and tight until I am flat on my back near to unconscious from the pain.

I spent a lifetime learning the value of hard work, pressing myself farther and farther, and fighting the overpowering urges of my youth to pass through life in leisure and sloth. To live a pampered life as television and society often portrayed, showing the rewards of hard labor without the actual painful tedious often boring repetitive actions necessary to achieve success. The world appeared as the haves and the have-nots. To have was a gift and to have not was a sin.

Later in life I learned that the people who have are not always products of Gods great mercy. Quite often they were sons of carpetbaggers, grafters, shysters, corrupt exploiters of innocence and virtue, sham artists and liars of every degree. They are politicians for power and often oblivious to their own cruelty. “Child labor in third world countries? If not for my company giving them work those children would be starving and begging in the streets!” Of course they are still starving but much too busy to beg in the streets now.

I am a man of too much stuff. I have more toys than I can play with and still look longingly at every new contraption that comes along. I have eaten like a slovenly sow and have consumed far more than my share of natural resources in my short life and often bragged about it. Yes I beat the restaurant in New Mexico that claimed if you ate their whole steak dinner, the meal was free. My cousin and I both beat the house that day. I used to take pride in my ability to eat a whole pizza in one sitting with a pitcher or two of ice-cold beer. So it is only fair that now I am unable to enjoy many common delicacies readily available today. My meals today tend to be meager in comparison to a portion of my past and yet no less enjoyable. I remember little of what I ate in quantity, the junk the gourmet and the periodic home cooked meals all blur together as time passes, but the hard to come by meals scrapped from poverties recesses heated over a second hand hotplate from the dark and early days of my life, and the occasional splurge I allow myself these days are ingrained in my memory as feasts of value and sustenance that the McClowns and Taco Dogs and Casino Buffets of the world will never match.

Well that is about as random as they come. I bought a new bed this weekend and in the process of moving furniture around (I know I swore I was done with doing that) I put my back out again. I am back to the life of leisure and lounging. Lazy Boy has competition now, my bed raises and lowers and has magic fingers, just the thing for an old(ish) man.

Little Orphan Bloggy

2007-08-27T23:48:00.000-07:00

Someone was weeping for the orphaned blogs out there in cyberspace, wondering what ever happens to the lonely abandoned baby blogs that no one ever claims any more. There are so many reasons and possibilities that may explain the wanton abandonment of pubescent pages of bloggery.I for one have walked away from several personal blog sites before I finally manned up and took responsibility for this blog cluster. Now I know what I am doing unusual for blog sites, but I am certain I am not the originator of cluster blogs. I just have a simple mind that appreciates content seperationism. OK, I like the backgrounds, couldn't decide on one so I went with several.

The reason for my reckless abandon of previous blogs was initially steered by ignorance. I signed up for a couple blogs without knowing wtf a blog was. Once I got wrapped up in micro design and theme construction I was in over my head and ran the opposite direction as fast as I was able, trying my best to forget the entire episode. Thus the repetition. Finally my mind worked around the discomfort and set up alarm whistles and blinders to prevent me from blundering into another frantic evening of "What does this do?" ala carte for one please.

Later I was forcefully shanghied as I strolled peacefully through the internet. Someone told me to check out their website and read some nonsense they had posted there and as I approached the address unsuspecting like, I was accosted by info thugs wanting my life history before they would allow me to pass. The added stress and time spent to access the blog site must have kicked over a pail of adrenalin because before you know it I wanted to post a comment and let the world know that I had been there, and all of a sudden I was chewing on my lower lip, chewing on my nails and pecking out a clever comment. As I went to post my valuable input, I spied a fill in box requesting my blog info. It would not accept "none available" in the data entry space, so I went in search of an easy one night stand blog space. I actually kept that site for awhile as a resource to comment on those rare evenings when my friend motivated me by a unusually clever blog entry until one day I couldn't remember my password and realized that it wasn't all that important after all and walked away from yet another blog site.

Then a couple years ago I became a wiser man (ding!). By then I understood the term blog and was intrigued by the concept so I endeavored to set up a simple blog site for my own personal storage of thoughts and story ideas so the next time I suffered an Fwipe from a seasoned computer repair guy ("oh, did you want to save any of that data?") I wouldnot lose three quarters of my personal knowledge (how did I keep all that in my head before computers?). I tried to be faithful to my blog site and for a while I visited it often and found myself writing far more than I had in the past and was enjoying it. But life has a funny way of messing with contentment in my crazy world and one thing led to another and writing was on the back burner once again. Another orphan cast out into the cold.

Recently I opened a blog because a friend was using the same blog service, but by the time I activated my account, she had moved on to greener pastures. I did not care much for my own site myself, and spent more time playing with the settings than I did posting so eventually I moved on to a meadow with more appealing hues and shades of proverbial green than my own. I stayed there a year and strange things began to happen, posts would disapear, then entire months began to erase themselves. When I contacted support I was told in plain english (as plain as an indonesian accent can get) that my posts were still there and it must be a glitch in my computer, so I made inquiries to my loyal blog readers who initially alerted me to the fact that they could not find a certain blog entry, or that they hadn't seen anything new for some time... Odd, we must all be suffering from the same computer glitch. So I made one more move abandoning yet another blog site.

I am happy where I am now, and am committed to feeding and caring for this cluster blog until my fingers bleed. God save the keyboard.

Hang in there, I'll think of something...

2007-08-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

Ok, I have an opinions page now. Maybe I should have consulted my remaining three braincells and asked if I actually had an opinion to share. I thought I was pretty much full of lots to say about just about anything and now for the week or so that I have been staring at my Gossip Galaxy page, I seem keyboard shy, digitally illiterate and without an opinion, rumor, independant thought, idea or anecdote to share. Cold feet(fingers)? Preoccupied with important real life matters that are yet unworthy of mentioning?

Performance anxiety?

I'm not sure I know the answer yet, but maybe I have been micro managing my life just a miniscule too much to find the time or energy to put forth an intitial permanent record on my editorial page. I am going to cop out by saying these first few posts will require more time and consideration so I might put my best foot forward.

Hell of a start so far.

So my thoughts for today:

I have sent my manuscript of EYES to the Copyright House and am on the verge of finally selecting my publishing house. It looks as if Random House is going to win by virtue of being middle of the road. Nothing like making a leap of faith with an ounce of drama and a pound of moderation.

Man have I grown old or what? What ever happened to that youngster that was never afraid to jump in with both feet and a five pound cinder block?

This entire venture is the brainchild and prodding result of friend and blogger Sue the official Iowa state 'wench'. Aside from Sue's embarrasingly eager support, my editor had some very nice things to say about the EYES ( as in EYES, A COLLECTION OF 13 UNSTABLE TALES )manuscript (of course as my editor she may be slightly biased since I paid her gobs of money). And to my relief she was relatively merciful or exceedingly lazy in her editorial notes. So I can tell myself that if I am a complete failure it will at least be in some part due to poor marketing. Finger pointing is never a good sign of success, wouldn't you agree?

I have never claimed to be on a level of King, Capote, or Steinbeck for that matter but I have purchased and read more than a few books in my life that I have considered to myself I was capable of writing that story better, and truly there are some mass marketed books out there that a furry gerbil's input could improve (even if by just shredding the works at the bottom of a cage). So why not me? If someone wants to pay for material to line their birdcage with, who am I to say no?

I wonder if my writing here reflects in any way the incredible fear that has been building in the pit of my stomach for the past few days. This is really happening, ok. I'm ready. It's just that it brings to mind me on the night before presenting a book report in front of three dozen critical and ruthless prepubant peers for the very first time. Only this time I really should know better, and I am not naked. You've had that dream, right? Standing before the world in your all-together, waiting for judgement. No? Me Neither. And I don't recall having a dream similar to that from my youth either. This is just another adventure, an experiment and hobby to keep me occupied and generally out of trouble.

What can go wrong?

PAY IT FORWARD

2007-08-23T15:52:00.000-07:00

Sue made me do this!

Here's the deal, I think. The first 3 commenters to this post asking to participate will, in the next year, receive a fun crafty item personally created by yours truly ( in this case a book of short stories). In return, you must post on your blog and in the next year send the first 3 people to request something in return. A year is a long time to figure out and make something to send… just don't let it be so long that it gets forgotten! I've mostly seen the rules to be send something hand-made, but if you are not the crafty sort, make up your own rules… I'd say just make sure whatever you send is something fun that you yourself would love to receive! If not crafty, perhaps something unique to the area where you live?
So, who would like to participate? If you do, let me know some of your preferences… if you've seen something I've made (which would be a stretch, seeing as I've barely posted anything I've made!) that you especially love or know you'd never use or if you have certain colors you love or hate?

Welcome to Gossip Galaxy

2007-08-23T15:50:00.000-07:00

This is where I will post my opinions, commentaries, random thoughts, and whatever miscealleneous mischief I might think up.