caveat emptor

Not Very Talky or Writey

Well, today is the last day of NaLogoMo '06. I made it! YES! I am awesome! All things considered, November was a good month. I won more turkey trophies and received more cookies in the mail this past month than in all the rest of my life combined. I suspect that December will not break these records.

It's all coldy and windy and slippy and icy and wintry here in North Texas today. I like it. It's awesomey.

Hello, friends. Not much to say today. I hope you're all warm and well and wonderful. Tell me something surprisey.

Later. Love.

Philosophy Meets Consumerism

"Ah, there's the real question, my good friend, and well asked. And how shall I answer you? How can I, or any of us, living in such accord, as we do, with the push and pull of cause and effect, guess rightly what time has in store for the world. Many are they who see only the bleak, only the foul, only the maladies of the world. I am not, I am glad to say, one of these. Many things, my friend, are better now than once they were, and this improvement has not slowed. Truth be told, I feel in my heart a joy, nay, an excitement of anticipation, from a suspicion that we are, even now, on the brink of an epiphany of human evolution the likes of which..."

"Look, I don't mean to interrupt, but I'm in a hurry," she said, fidgeting with her checkbook and pen. "I just wondered if you knew the date."

"Oh," I responded, my cheeks beginning to flush. "I'm sorry. I thought you said 'fate.'"

---

Hello, friends. Do you know the fate?

Later. Love.

Thought for Food

Food is probably the center of animal existence. We are what we eat, after all. These days, in much of the world, food is so readily accessible that the relationship we have with food has become more complicated and, in some ways, unnatural. In a more primitive world food was always a good thing. Always. Today food can be a bane, a plague, a curse. How strange.

You know what rarely gets eaten anymore? There was a time when more animals, and even some humans, ate a thing that is rarely eaten today. Human. It's just not for breakfast anymore.

These days I'm trying to be more natural in what I eat. I'm eating more whole grains and fruits. I'm staying away from prepared foods. I'm munching more often on rocks and wood. I'm devouring giant mouthfuls of dirt and grass and sky. I'm avoiding all food that has a logo on it or is wrapped in plastic or is intended to be eaten by humans. I want the freshest meats. I'm parking at the edge of cow pastures and running after nervous cattle and jumping teeth-first at their jugulars. I'm doing all of this in the name of health and wholeness.

I was reading recently about the benefits of vegetarianism. According to this pamphlet, real vegetarians are, by far, the healthiest of humans. I wonder if they taste good?

In truth, however, I am at the mercy of people more animal than myself. I have no idea how to turn an animal into edible food. I assume you have to get rid of the hair and clothes and things somehow. Then you should cook them, unless they are sushi. I really have no idea.

Today I am consumed by food.

Hello, friends. What's for lunch?

Later. Love.

Putting Together Old Things

A swirling of cosmic matter, chaotic eddies hotter than fire and faster than sound, eventually solidified into the sun and the planets. If you look at them today this theoretical genesis is not an obvious fact. You might be tempted to think that they have always been as they are. According to science, you would be wrong about that.

These people we write are similar. We do not create them from nothing. They come together and are mostly inevitable. Forces beyond our control pull together the swirling pictures and symbols into these people we write. Take, for example, this woman. She is all in black and white. Her head is covered tightly by a shawl. She kneads her knuckled hands and shakes and weeps through aged eyes for her lost son. She begs panagia mou to bring him home. Some part of her knows that it is too late, that he is dead. We did not create this woman. She grew in our minds from seeds planted over many years.

A blues singer, another woman, sings a cover of When Doves Cry by Prince Rogers Nelson. She knows that we only put together existing things in new ways, regardless of the level of abstraction chosen. New words don't mean anything unless you define them with old ones. Someone once said, "Everything can ultimately be defined with only the words 'Yes' and 'No'. These are the basic words." Was this person right? No, but they were approaching an important idea, so also yes. Ultimately, however, no.

We put together old things in new ways over the weekend. It was good to see Rick and Toadman, and their wives and children. These guys are some of my basic elements, my original people, my good friends. It reminded me that I should shake hands with real people more often, especially people I love.

Hello, friends. I hope your weekend and, for some of you, holiday were refreshing and rejuvenating. Tell me how you are.

Later. Love.

Hatless

I don't often wear hats. The hats that are allowed for my social position and ethnicity don't look good on me. I only look good in yarmulkes and tall, wide sombreros. You can't wear those casually without giving people the wrong impression about yourself. Baseball caps, however, are acceptable even for people who do not play baseball on a regular basis. When I wear a baseball cap it's like Jay Leno in motorcycle leathers. It just doesn't work. No one is fooled.

At the coffee shop yesterday this dude started talking to me about this device he had just patented. I really just wanted to work undisturbed, so I tried to get out of the conversation without hurting the guy's feelings. I said to him, "If you don't shut the hell up I'm going to set you on fire." He just kept talking, calling my bluff. He went on to describe in fuzzy detail the vague outline of a device. As far as I could tell, it's a box to which you can connect a screen and keyboard. You can then connect the box to the Internet with an Ethernet or wireless network card. You can then browse the Internet. You can also install other "modules" into the box to perform other functions, like "E-commerce." All things considered, I think it sounds like a great idea, and I told the guy as much. "Sounds great. Do you have a match?"

My point is this: I think I was personal witness to the invention of the computer.

I want to find some sort of hat that keeps crazy people away. I'd only wear it sometimes, because I often enjoy interacting with crazy people. I wonder what sort of hat has this property? I hope it's not a baseball cap.

Hello, friends. Do you wear hats?

Later. Love.

On Work and Play, My Child

Fancy and whimsy are the luxury of the unoccupied mind, the dream of something less difficult, more wondrous, than scratching vegetable survival from the dirt or running down bloody survival in the hills or the woods. We now enjoy a season, my child, in which we, humanity, have pushed back necessity from certain hours and certain years and opened up a time for fancy and whimsy, a time for play. This is a gift we give to each other, a gift our mothers and fathers for hundreds of generations have given to us. I hope you love to play, my child, and I hope that you play every day exhausting all the strength of your body and your mind.

Fantasy, the dream of other worlds and wonders unseen, has been the subject of human play for as long as we know. To imagine these things, to push our minds beyond our senses, is to be human. As long as you live, my child, use your times of play to explore the limits of human fantasy. Listen to the stories others have told, and tell stories of your own. Dream, as we always have, of a place where your mind breaks past the influence of your hands and the limits of your strength and exerts itself magically to accomplish everything your heart desires. Give yourself a place for magic in your mind, my child, and let it live there forever.

But with that same mind, my child, see yourself and the world with clarity. Do not be sad when you hear that your time for unbounded play grows short. From forever ago until forever to come, being human, indeed being alive, means that you strive to survive. There is a joy in work, my child, and I would have you love that with all the energy you give to play. There is joy in craft and skill, and you've seen this even in your play. There is joy in starting something new and joy in finishing. There is joy in learning and there is joy in teaching. It will serve you well to remember these joys, my child, and to think of them whenever you can, because work is hard. Some days work will leave you drained. Some days you will use all the strength you have to finish the job. Some days work will be too much. Some days work will break your back and wound your soul. Someday you may claim responsibility for and entwine your fate with a job that will take your very life. Even so, my child, take joy in your work as in your play.

And what joy is there, you might ask, for the dead? Do not forget, my child, your times of play or your dreams of magic. Even more, however, do not forget that they were bought for you with the sweat and, ultimately, the lives of millions of years of humans at work. Do not, in your play, become so distracted by the dream of another world, a fantasy, that you allow it to usurp the place in your heart that should belong to this, your world and to these, your people. Remember to love humanity, my child, to love this world with all your heart and strength. Remember to love those who worked for you. Remember to love those children to come and, loving them, to choose your work carefully, that it might buy for them a time to play.

Love, my child, is the joy of work. Love is the joy of those who die having done, for humanity, their job.

---

Hello, friends. I hope you are happy, or at least hopeful, today.

Later. Love.

Earther

She was my new partner, and she seemed a little unhappy. "Is something bothering you?" I asked.

"Oh, it's nothing. I just get a little sad sometimes."

We were moving pretty fast, and I really just wanted to concentrate on the job. Still, I knew it was important to start a partnership out well or work would be awful. "What is there to be sad about?" I asked, adjusting course a little and pouring on a little more speed.

"I don't know. I guess I miss being alive," she said, staying right beside with, I had to admit, impressive skill. "I miss my home."

I had no idea what she was talking about. "You seem pretty alive to me," I said.

"Well, no," she said. "I miss my REAL life. I miss trees and water and rocks and the blue sky. I miss hands. I miss seeing people's faces. I miss touching other people."

Ah, right. Now I got it. She was an Earther. "I don't know what any of that is," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "Just, you know, try not to think about it." I'd worked with Earther's before. They were good workers, but they all got like this sometimes.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

What is meta for?

He said, "Metaphor is a carrion bird that will peck at your eyes until you can no longer see anything for what it is. Uproot metaphor from your speech, making sure to get all the roots, and cast it into the fire. A metaphor is a hiding place where we try to keep our ignorance. Ignorance, however, should be shed, not kept. Molt, therefore, from ambiguity into clarity, leaving the old dead skin of metaphor to dry up and blow away."

"I don't know," I said. "Sometimes I think a metaphor is just a metaphor. It's okay. Everyone has seen a bird flapping furiously against the wind, getting nowhere. I'm seeing it right now, in you."

That was all he could take. He got up, angrily, and stormed out. He had hoped for an abundant harvest, but his seed had found no purchase.

What I'm saying is that he felt as though he had an important principle to promote but, rather than accepting and appreciating it, I questioned its legitimacy. This was disappointing for him. I don't know. Maybe it's just me, but I just think that "he had hoped for an abundant harvest, but his seed had found no purchase" sounds better.

It was too bad that he left. I had hoped to share with him my recent rejection of personification. "Personification hates the living," I was going to say. "She wants to steal the vitality of the vital and give it to the dust of the earth. I'll not abide it!" I was going to add, dramatically. "I'm going to kill her!"

---

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Tell me one thing you've recently learned.

Later. Love.

Confessions and Concessions

I have a confession to make. I am slow to make it, because I fear some of you, seeing my true nature, may leave and never return. Nevertheless, a proper respect for truth demands that I be forthright. Let me set the stage. Sometimes I post stories about Chuck, a gnome that lives in my back garden. They describe slow, awkward conversations I have with him from time to time. In the stories, I always describe these subtle but odd little gnomish habits of his. In one story, for example, I described him picking up a small spider from the grass and letting it crawl over his fingers as he spoke to me. Maybe you've read these posts, some of you.

Well, I have a confession. It's about Chuck, my gnome. Whew... Here goes... Don't worry, Scott... People will still like you... Okay... Okay... Here it is: Chuck didn't really pick up a spider. He just sat there that day and didn't do anything interesting at all while he was talking. I added the spider to give the story a little more color. I try, I hope you believe me, to always tell the truth in my posts. Like that one where I described my ninja invisibility training? Every word of it was true. EVERY WORD.

Please pardon me. I will try to do better. I DO realize the responsibility I bear as the host of this blog.

And now, as a bribe to get you to stay here and not forsake me, I'll post something "popular" that people seem to enjoy. In the spirit of honesty, I have to tell you I am stealing this idea from Brandon. A couple of times he has posted posts in which he begged people to insult him and berate him. These posts have always prompted an enthusiastic response, so I'm going to do the same thing here.

So, here's the deal: Use the comments section of this post to leave insulting comments about Brandon. Funny ones are preferred, but they should include elements of what you really hate about the guy.

In fact, let me expand the scope a bit. Leave an insulting post about anyone. Anyone at all. There is only one caveat: It has to be someone you actually like and hold in high regard. Insults for people you actually hate aren't funny.

Another caveat: Please don't insult ME. Only other people. I am delicate like a daisy and I will crumble into dust if I suspect that any of you have anything but warm, abundant love for me.

Hello, friends. Let the [ironic] insults fly. Heck, go ahead and insult me too. Go for it!

Later. Love.

P. S. - I was going to pimp my new poem at my cogito site, but I've changed my mind. It's too cryptic. Even I don't know what it means. Don't read it. I'm not even going to link to it. Forget it. Thanks for stopping by.

Limits. Change.

They were born and lived and died on the flat, grassy plains of long ago. They were not a people given to roam but spent their days looking always inward, to each other, building up and sheltering rather than moving on. There were no mountains in their world, no hills. They only knew flat, though even that meant little with nothing against which to contrast it.

It might be flat, but it isn't really level you know. It slopes, as everything does, though ever so gently. Were it level, the rivers would not know which way to go. Rivers are not so smart as birds.

One cannot help but wonder what these people would think if you took them, while they slept, and laid them down, ever so gently, in a mountain valley, surrounded by giant trees and walls of stone, living all day in shadows. How would they change? Would they be afraid? Would they be amazed?

Even our imagination is bounded and constrained by what we have known and what we have not known. There is more in the world than you can imagine. There are sounds you cannot distinguish until you have heard them a hundred times. Once you know these things, you are changed.

Hello, friends. I love change blindly. I find that change helps you realize which parts of you are truly, essentially you and which parts are just a reaction to your surrounding. To what degree does your context determine your character? Which traits are immutable? What do you think?

Later. Love.

Bonzo

You never stopped drinking coffee. You drank it fast, while it was still hot, with all the urgency of a man who spoke with pride about his father's strength. "Once he punched me and I flew over the couch." You laughed when you told that story, that loud, bullhorn laugh, oblivious. "He showed me who was boss." You hovered at my desk in your janitor's uniform, fidgeting like only a meth addict can fidget. "I think I could take him now."

You were the least likely Bible school student ever, trying in vain to fix yourself, broken beyond repair. Sometimes I would sneak into the chapel with you and play the piano and sing while you wailed on the drums. It was your passion, and you talked about it incessantly. "John Bonham was the greatest drummer of all times," you'd say. "Neil Peart can kiss my ass." Sometimes I would just sit and listen to you. Damn, you were a good drummer. If only that were enough to be a complete person. If only you could have stayed there, behind those drums, you might have been okay, but eventually we knew they'd find us and tell us to get back to work.

When, in a display of terrible judgement, they promoted you from janitor to security guard, I remember how proud you were. Later, when they fired you, you laughed about it. "They said I was peeking in the girls' dorms. I was just walking around, doing my job, but they said I was peeking in. I got news for them, I've seen better."

You were the least likely friend for a straight lace like me, you were crooked and bent. Nevertheless, you always had to tell the truth to your friends. I remember very well that day in the staff lounge, when, with tears in your eyes, you told me that you had wanted to kick my ass. "I thought about it, though, and I decided you're right. And well, I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry." Do you have any idea how rare and amazing that is. "You're a big guy, but I think I could take you," you said, smiling. "I'm scrappy." I bet you are. I remember also the time you wanted to kick Carl's ass because he said he didn't think the book of Hebrews should be in the Bible. You couldn't afford doubt, after all. You knew where that would lead you. You had to make your belief last as long as possible.

Last I heard you were back in the gutter, back on meth. You beat up your wife and took off. That was a few years ago, and no one has seen you since. No one was surprised. You wore your brokenness on your sleeve. Everyone knew where you came from and where you were headed. I wonder what broke you. One too many trips over the couch? One too many hits of the pipe?

Society categorizes people according to the worst things they've done, according to their crimes. It's a defense mechanism, a practical exercise in abstraction. There's just not enough time to consider everyone individually. You are a bastard and a criminal, and you deserve whatever hell you're in. Nevertheless, you are my friend. I hope you have some happy moments. I hope you get to play the drums sometimes. You deserve that too.

---

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Looking for a laugh? Check out Todd Levin. Funny.

Later. Love.

Fuzz, Plot and Dig

Sometimes I just stop shaving and stop getting my hair cut for a while. I'm in the middle of one of these times now. I don't know why I do it. It doesn't really look good. I can't grow a proper beard, just scruffy fuzz. My hair is so curly in the back that it quickly becomes a fluffy mess. My hair is so thick on the top and sides that it immediately becomes a mop. I am fairly sure that no one in my life prefers me this way. Nevertheless, it makes me happy. I come from fuzzy people. I may work all day in an office with my name beside the door, and I may spend my Saturdays with soccer moms and dads, but I come from fuzz. I come from good people.

You know those really choppy satellite transmissions they use to add ambiance to battlefield reporting? You know, the ones that cut out every few seconds and add delay and latency on purpose to create a sense of presence and urgency? You know?  Well, they should make a Blair Witch Project type of horror movie with those. It could be filmed entirely from some creepy, abandoned town in a war zone by a lost, frightened, embedded reporter whose entire unit has disappeared mysteriously. (I wonder if Geraldo would do it?) "These choppy transmissions are all the evidence we have. No one was ever found." Wouldn't that be cool? Someone should do that. If you decide to do it, please give me half the money. It was, after all, MY idea. Okay, one third, but that's my final offer.

When they dig us up, the archaeologists and paleontologists of the future, what will they think of us? What will they have to say about us? I wonder how wrong they will be. I wonder how right. "Look at this one over here," they'll say. "He was a big one for that era." They'll work for hours unearthing the bones with tiny tools, trying to figure out what kind of person this was, how he died. "This simple stone here - by his head - it must be a monument." Brushes will sweep away dirt slowly, making sure not to damage these artifacts. "It looks like ancient English script." They'll uncover the letters one at a time and then puzzle over them. "What does it mean?" "I have no idea." "I think the second word means 'Love.' I've never seen the first word before." They'll take photos for the translators, and copy the letters into their notes:

 

L A T E R . L O V E .

 

Hello, friends. If you could send a single, short message to paleontologists of the future, what would it be?

Later. Love.

Life Begins at Hoagie

Well, there will be no living with me now. I won. A Hoagie. I won a Hoagie. More specifically, I won the "Cleverest Commenter" Hoagie. 2006. There are so many people I need to thank. I need to thank Heather Anne, without whom none of this would have been possible. I also want to thank my beautiful wife Susan for sticking with me during the tough times getting here. We did it, babe! Of course I should thank Allah or Jesus or Buddha. I'm not sure which of you guys, if any, came through for me, but thanks for maybe being there. And last, but certainly not least, the fans. I could never personally and individually thank the millions and millions of people who come to this blog every day, though I'd like to. Nevertheless, I am eternally grateful to all of you and I love each of you individually in special and oddly specific ways.

I have the perfect place to display the Hoagie when it arrives. Susan thought it was a waste of money but, when I started blogging, I hired a team of contractors to hew out a 75,000 cubic foot Hall of Accolades chamber in the limestone 500 feet under my house. I had a feeling awards would start pouring in and I wanted a place where they could be displayed and protected. This weekend I'm going to fire up the elevator for the first time and go down and sweep up the place in preparation for that golden turkey. I know it's just the first of many. I wonder if I should expand the Hall of Accolades? Hmmm...

Hello, friends. Tell me about your secret, hidden chambers.

Later. Love.

P. S. - Wendy (a.k.a. The Psycho Therapist) left a comment at 14:12 CST on yesterday's post. It was an historic comment. It said, "Balloons." Why is this historic? Because it was the 4000th comment on this manifestation of Caveat Emptor. As is our corporate policy here at Caveat Emptor, this entitles Wendy to a $20 gift certificate to the online purveyor of her choice (Amazon, iTunes, NaziOutfitters, etc...).  Congratulations, Wendy! Let us know what purveyor you prefer. Thanks for stopping by.

Thoughtless

Yesterday was too thinky. Think thinky think think. Today I think I'll refuse to think.

If life has taught me anything, it's taught me this: If you're going to sweep up the Sahara desert, bring garbage bags and bag it as you go. You can't just sweep it into a pile and pick it all up when you're done, it will blow around too much. It's a lot of work, but it's worth it. Underneath all of that sand is a beautiful, ancient tile mosaic of the creation of the universe. All the answers are there.

Last night my spirit guide told me that I was just imagining all of these conversations with him. He told me that he doesn't exist and that I should quit pretending. I've always taken his advice in the past, but I'm not sure what to do now. If he doesn't exist, maybe I shouldn't listen to him now. I'm very confused. If Dr. Phil actually existed I'd ask him.

I'm just going to stop. I had four other things to say, one of them AMAZING, but I'm just going to stop. I'm starting to feel all thinky again. Think thinky think think.

Hello, friends. Without thinking, type the first thing that pops into your head.

Later. Love.

Wow. An Actual Political Post. (Sorry)

Well, the election is over. That's good. Conservative Democrats made gains, enough to claim a majority in the Hizzie of Represizzletives. I hope that leads to good things, though I wish the victory represented an embrace of more liberal ideals by the public and not a backlash against the President and the war. Conservatives are still conservatives, regardless of the label. I don't mind conservative people, but I don't like to see them in charge because, well, I'm not conservative. (Why do I feel a need to elaborate on the painfully obvious?)

Maybe this is a good segue government. People who like the Democratic Party can be happy for the win and conservatives don't have to feel too bad, since this indicates for them a continuation of the grassroots embrace of conservatism. Party-line Republicans will, I guess, not have much about which to feel good. They might have retained a slight majority in the Senate (I always feel Roman when I say, "The Senate"), but even that looks bleak for them. They've lost ground.

I have this funny thing where I tend to prefer the demeanor of many Republicans (George W. Bush notwithstanding), even though I agree with Democrats in most cases. I find Democrats annoying and undignified sometimes. They just don't seem likable to me. I think it's the anger thing. Anger turns me off, even if it might be justified. Oh well. Different people like different things. I like friendly, intelligent, well-spoken, reserved and dignified people in positions of power. People who whine and bitch and are quick to criticize or raise their voice turn me off, especially if they hold positions of power. (Friends? That's a different story altogether. I like all kinds of people as friends, and sometimes gravitate toward difficult people. Many of these people whom I love dearly, however, would NEVER get my vote if they ran for some public office.)

I really hope this election makes a positive difference. I have this cynical notion that anyone who is willing to acquiesce to the compromises demanded by the current political process and still prevail is probably not fit to lead people.

That Barack Obama guys seems cool, though. If he ran for an office I could vote for, I'd vote for him. Check these out.

When we send our young men and women into harm's way, we have a solemn obligation not to fudge the numbers or shade the truth about why they're going, to care for their families while they're gone, to tend to the soldiers upon their return, and to never ever go to war without enough troops to win the war, secure the peace, and earn the respect of the world

...

The pundits like to slice-and-dice our country into Red States and Blue States; Red States for Republicans, Blue States for Democrats. But I've got news for them, too. We worship an awesome God in the Blue States, and we don't like federal agents poking around our libraries in the Red States. We coach Little League in the Blue States and have gay friends in the Red States. There are patriots who opposed the war in Iraq and patriots who supported it. We are one people, all of us pledging allegiance to the stars and stripes, all of us defending the United States of America.

From the Keynote address, 2004 Democratic National Convention

I'm not a fan of the overtly religious speech in political discourse because it is, by nature, divisive. I love the statement, "There are patriots who opposed the war in Iraq and patriots who supported it." This is so much more balanced than the typical angry rhetoric in which the opposing side is hatefully blasted and demonized.

I promise I'll never write a post like this again.

Hello, friends. Are you happy today? Tell me what you're thinking.

Later. Love.

Imagine. It's Better.

As far as you know, most of you, I can dance. I'm sure you've never really thought about it but, if the occasion presented itself, you might imagine me dancing. I'm no Fred Astaire, but I've got a few sweet moves, and I always look like I'm having fun when I'm out there on the floor. I look alive. In truth, I don't dance. I'm way too inhibited to dance, but I'll never tell you that. I'd rather you think of me the other way.

As far as you know, most of you, I'm the life of the party. If I gave you reason to consider it, you might imagine me as a really fun guy. You can always tell where I am, you just have to follow the sound of laughter and boisterous talking. In truth, I usually avoid crowds at parties and often prefer puttering around and being host rather than participating. I don't relate to most conversations, and most people don't get my jokes (not because my jokes are too clever or intelligent, just because they're too abstract and dry). I'd never tell you guys that, though, because I'd rather you think of me the other way.

What most of you probably do know, however, is that I use too many commas. I know this. I do. I over-punctuate and my sentences fluctuate from too choppy to too long and incomprehensible. I think about it sometimes, though I usually just write and write and never look back critically. Sometimes, though, I go back with the intention of eliminating commas. I always like them too much once they're there, however, and I can't bring myself to delete them. They give me a chance to breathe when I read over what I've written, a chance to lose my train of thought and think about something new.

There was a thick fog this morning. As you might guess, I love fog. It leaves so much to the imagination. I like that. I can relate to it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I've been nominated for a "Cleverest Commenter" Hoagie Award. Click on the logo on the top left, check out the nominees and vote for your favorites. It's your civic duty. Thanks for stopping by.

Pack Press

And now, a recap of the weekend's top story. The wolves have given humanity an ultimatum. Due to cost-of-living increases and reduced hunting land acreage, the wolves will no longer be able to raise lost human children without some form of compensation from humanity.

"Meat," the spokeswolf growled. "We have no use for your money. We need meat or hunting land that is populated with meat."

Vegan activists attending the impromptu press conference were conflicted over the issue. "Although we are definitely on the side of the noble wolves in this, their struggle against wicked humanity," said Autumn Starfire, high priestess of the United Sisterhood of Vegan Volkswagen Owners, "we cannot give in to their deplorable demand for meat."

It was around this point that talks broke down yesterday. "I appreciate your offer, Ms. Starfire," growled the spokeswolf, "but I cannot eat love. I need meat." Starfire, producing an acoustic guitar from her bag, disagreed saying, "I think this Sufjan Stevens song will change your mind." At this the spokeswolf howled in protest and stormed out, pausing only long enough to growl, "That's it. Any human kids we find from here on out get eaten."

"The wolves will come around, I know they will. My VAGINA tells me to expect good things from animals this month," said Starfire, referring to the famous Vegan Astrology Guide for Involvement Natural Affairs, a sacred handbook among Vegans and other Volkswagen owners.

On location at Yellowstone Park, this is Scott reporting for Caveat Emptor News. Back to you in the studio, Scott.

Thanks for that report, Scott, and that's going to be all the time we have for today. For the entire Caveat Emptor News team, this is Scott, saying, "Hello, friends. How are you today? Later. Love."

Picture Day

Not much to say today. Look, though. I brought pictures.

My son River last year, before the haircut
	My beautiful daughter Robyn after her haircut
My beautiful daughter Rayn at a choir field trip
	My beautiful wife Susan (The color on this one is a little weird, but I like it.)
My dad at Easter
	Robyn, Rayn and Me at Robyn's 13th birthday party

Aren't we all so adorable? Don't you just want to pick us up and hug us? Don't you want to send us cookies?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

NaLogoMo: Day 2

Today is officially day two of NaLogoMo '06 and, I have to say, IT ROCKS! I can easily see that I am going to succeed in this thing, as long as that logo doesn't disappear from my blog. It's such a relief to have at least one thing in my life going well without adding any additional pressure to my already unbearable load. Feel free to participate. You're allowed to get a late start. National Logo Month '06: Post a logo on your blog but don't actually DO anything! (Official NaLogoMo '06 website here.)

Don't you love the way cookies just arrive in the mail for you every day? Doesn't that rock? What? That doesn't happen to you? Hmm... that's too bad. It's awesome.

In honor of fall, I thought I'd share with you my top-secret recipe for my world-famous Apple Crumb Strudel Cake Chocolate Latte Sandwich Pie. Here goes:

Ingredients: 24 Apples (sifted), 815 Crumbs (packed), 8 Strudels (filched), 2 Cakes (heaping), 112.4 Chocolates (level), 3 Lattes (no foam, non-fat, extra-hot, half-caf), 21 Sandwiches (Ham or PB&J or Ice Cream) and 10 pies (humble). Mix in big bowl. (Seriously, guys. It has to be really big. More like a tub or cauldron.) Smoke until baked, but don't forget to bake the pie. Cut into squares. Serves two masters. Eat at your own risk. Caveat emptor. Bon appétit!

Hello, friends. Tell me a truth wrapped in a lie.

Later. Love.

The Front

You know as you drink that a warm brew of coffee, though efficacious in its way, cannot take this stinging from the eyes, this dryness from the throat. On mornings like this, when your back hurts all the way to your front, when your teeth are tightly packed and your hands seem too heavy to write the lightness of your thoughts, wispy like clouds of mist, the wind blowing through the canyon of your chest whistles for the miracle to happen, for the time to come. Your time these days ticks to the click of the clockwork machine, the mastermind rhythm with no backbeat for dancing. You weep and you ache to heed the fading echoes that say, "The answer rides the wind. The clouds are building on the horizon, waiting to crash. Hold on. Hold on. It comes on the clouds. Hold on."

And then I think, "You are sugar on the moon. You are cinnamon on the stars. You dip the universe in chocolate and sell it on a stick." But that isn't what they told me. They told me I was salt, salt for the earth. You must be salt for the earth, lest you be trampled by men, lest you be worthless.

I rise up. I ride the front. We pause on the horizon, building our strength. We pile up, billowing, spoiling for the fight. Soon we will plunge, pouring and purging our wrath upon the trees and the stones. Thunder will be our howl and lightning will be our blade. We cannot win, but many will see our passing.

When it's done I lie in the mud, the last of the cold rain, gentle now, showering down on my shivering body. I might be injured, I cannot tell, but the stinging is gone from my eyes, the dryness from my throat. I shiver in the cold gusts of wind and shake with bouts of laughter, drowned out by the fading roar of the storm.

---

I don't know. I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better.

Hello, friends. Cookies have started to arrive, a kindness so sweet that I am bewildered and I don't know what to do but to say, "Thank you."

Tell me something I do not know.

Later. Love.