caveat emptor

The Spreading Wide My Narrow Hands

Push me and I will resist
This behavior's not unique
--
Pearl Jam from Corduroy

Every day lives are crushed by injustice. Horrors abound. I know this. I can hear it in the background rumble along with the Top Forty and the slow drone of scattered silence, white noise. There are too many voices directing me to too many right paths, there are too many gods looking for prophets, panning for profits. Forgive me if I give only a casual nod to your life in flames. It's not that I misunderstand the gravity of your plight, it's just that gravity pulls me in a different direction to the same ultimate destination. We are forced to laugh in spite of awful sadness if we are to laugh at all. There are also a million shouts of joy, and we cannot heed them all. Sometimes my mind aspires to enlightened hope, and sometimes my hands clap on the downbeat. Some would wrest my soul free to spiritual Nirvana, and often would I gladly go. Today, however, I search for animal heaven. Today I kiss her neck, lost in her long, dark hair. Today I pull her close and, smiling, growl into her ear. To be a human is to balance and experience as much as we can of all the choices and voices with only two hands, two feet, two eyes, two ears, one mouth, one mind and no idea what comes next. Today I will not throw myself into the flames in despair. Today I will grow just enough to embrace just a little more. I will do this each day for as long as I can.

Hello, friends. What will you do today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 53. Thanks for stopping by.

Aerie

There is nothing a human can wear and no pose a human can strike to look so regal as a hawk high on a perch. When I see them up on the tall street lights beside the highway, I know what they are thinking. They look down at the economy cars and motorcycles and SUVs and tractor-trailers rumbling by below them and they think to themselves, "I could catch and eat one of those if I wanted to." The sit up there, fighting the urge to demonstrate to these loud, stinky animals their place in the food chain. "I have the high ground," they think. "You're lucky I'm not that hungry."

You know who the hawks and falcons and eagles really hate? David Blaine. He's always perching up on top of things and looking down. Who the hell does he think he is? One of these days the newspaper headline is going to read, "David Blaine Attacked And Killed By Bald Eagles." Of course, this will only increase his mystique. Bastard.

Somewhere in the world a madman is teaching the birds kung fu. Our mastery of the Earth will soon be challenged. It will come at us when we least expect it, the revolution. Why does he do it, the madman? Because, he's mad. What else could he do? It will be awful. It will be like a Kurosawa remake of Hitchcock. We stand no chance. They've got the high ground.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 52. Thanks for stopping by.

Razor Blunt

I am a thundering maelstrom of mildness! I am a roiling tempest of moderation! Tread lightly with me! Anger me, and you will feel the full force of my wrath like tickly fingers on your back and shoulder blades! You have been warned!

That's quite enough of that. Consider this paragraph a segue. Transition your mind to the next point. Take your time. I'll wait. Ready? Good. Let's go.

I've never been able to sharpen a knife blade. This is how I know that I'll never survive if civilization collapses. How can I rebuild the Internet from scratch if I can't even sharpen a knife blade? I'd be doomed, a lost dullard with a blunt blade.

It's not that I haven't tried. I've read the instructions many, many, many times. I'm good at reading instructions. It's what I do. You wouldn't believe how many things I know how to do perfectly in my brain. In my brain I know how to play the guitar and the piano like a master. In reality, however, I'm a novice at both. It's the same with knife sharpening. I know all the rules for various contraptions, some simple and some complex. I've even tried to apply them. On multiple occasions in my life I've gathered all the equipment together and sat down with a cup of coffee or maybe a soda and even a snack to master blade sharpening. In each case I've spent seconds, minutes even, trying with all my might to sharpen a blade correctly. Pretty quickly, however, my drink and snack are gone and my mind has moved on to guitar playing or mastery of the piano. I always leave the sharpening equipment and the blade there, usually for months, intending to get back to them soon. I'm not sure who puts them away, but eventually they're gone and I don't think about knife sharpening again for a long time. Whenever I think about it, however, I still can't do it. I'm not sure what the problem is. Maybe I'm just too smart.

But, that's enough of that. I can't even remember why I wanted to talk about this when I started writing. I think I'm going to go practice juggling.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 51. Thanks for stopping by.

So Much Rain

Matters have conspired to shuffle my schedule today. I'm all turned around and I don't even know when I am or where I've been. Nevertheless, here's something that just jumped out of my head and onto the screen. Maybe you'll like it.

We had already been pushed two days past the breaking point, past the point of no return. We were sure there could be no remedy now. If relief came, it would be too little and too late. We all wore our surety of grim reality like armor. We all knew the truth and faced it with what strength we had left.

Then the rains came.

They started last evening, preceded by the indescribable mercy of cool, moist wind. Everyone stopped and, eyes closed, turned their faces in the direction from which the wind blew in. We were certain it was only a tease. We allowed ourselves no hope. Then, less than an hour later, the winds brought the low rumble of thunder and, as if from nowhere, rain fell. We were certain it would be only a shower. We allowed ourselves no hope. Nevertheless, the rain came in sheets and torrents. It washed and then it puddled and then it ran over the ground. Some came in from different parts with wondrous concerns of flooding. All around, bewildered faces showed women and men struggling to remember what it meant to hope and how it felt to plan.

I was certain my heart was baked forever, turned eternal to stone. I was sure it would never flow again. Now, only twelve hours later, my heart softens within me. Walls come down and life flows anew. I was certain there would be no return. I was certain it was now too late.

And the rain falls still.

So, that's that. I'll try to be back on a more normal schedule tomorrow.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 50. (Wow! 50!) This one is a little long. It's a climax of sorts. The Maker Song! Thanks for stopping by.

No One Visits the Water God; Civics and the Infested Happy DumDum; Homophobiaphobia Leads to a Disintegration

If I seem bummed today it's because NASA denied my request to be aboard the first unmanned space flight to Neptune. "It's logically impossible," they said. "Think about it." I'm not sure what they're getting at, but I'll not be dissuaded that easily. I'm writing my representative in Congress, as soon as I figure out who she or he is. Who am I kidding, though? It's not going to happen. It took all of my proactive resolve just to write that letter to NASA. I'm not one to pursue an argument on principle. I've already moved on to bigger and better dreams. I want to be the first female and/or African American president of the United States. I know I can do it if I truly believe!

All of this reminds me of something that I've been noticing lately. Have any of you noticed that the Happy DumDum tree on the corner of Rainbow Way and Smile Street has a serious case of bagworms? I strolled up to Gumdrop Hall to tell Faerie Princess White Rose that someone should look into the bagworm problem before it spreads to all the Happy DumDum trees, but she just kept singing and dancing and sprinkling glitter on me. I don't mean to be a Grumpy Gus (since I know that is punishable by painful death,) but I'm beginning to wonder if the Faerie Princess has any interest at all in administering a successful government that provides the basic necessities and protects the essential rights of its subjects. You can't just fly around and giggle all the time. Sometimes you have to do paperwork. Oh well. I think, if she's not going to do anything, I may just chop down that tree and burn it. Sure, it will be sad for the Tiny Tree People who have lived there for more than a thousand years, but someone's got to think about the greater good, dammit.

I'm sorry. I don't mean to get all serious and address real issues. This blog is supposed to be lighthearted and gay. I mean, like, "happy gay," not "homosexual." I'm not homosexual. I mean, there's nothing wrong with being homosexual. I'm cool with all that and everything. I'm just not gay myself.

That last paragraph was just too awkward. I should delete it. And now this one? It's so boring. I don't even have a point. I'm just rambling and rambling and rambling and rambling and rambling. Sheesh. Someone should stop me. I think this might be the worst blog post anyone ever wrote. Seriously. I'm just going to stop now. I'm not going to contrive a Seinfeldian conclusion to tie together the loose strands of the post. I'm just stopping. Right now.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 49. Thanks for stopping by.

three warm, two cold

When I close my eyes or look down at the sidewalk, it's because I cannot stand to see the secretaries crawling like mantids all over downtown, walking half a block with each step on stick legs fifteen feet long with black skirts flapping around inverted knees. They call to each other in frenzied sqeauks and clicks and they bend and pluck hapless victims from the gawking crowds, lifting them with their short arms toward their clattering beaks. No one ever tries to stop them. Sometimes I lie on my stomach and press my eyes on the curb, begging the june bugs that wallow in the gutter muck to make it stop. They look at me with pity and love, but they just keep pushing around leaves and acorn caps, looking for the thing they've lost. On good nights, when it's not too cold, I float between the tall buildings and look down on our alleys and streets. Somewhere down there is the man with the miracle beard. Somewhere I lost a toe. Somewhere down there is the pretty lady who will save us all. Somewhere a road leads back out to the place from which we came. I can't remember if there are other places still. I worry most that they will see me, floating up above, and send the secretaries. My only hope is to keep from being seen. When the miracle comes, all the doors will open, and we will go into the buildings and live with the other people. The pretty lady will wash and cut our hair. Until then we have to stay low and small. I know three places that are warm and two that are cold. I know how to live until that day.

Parenting

What you're really agreeing to, and it's good to be clear on this, is the submission and investment of your life and freedom into the continuation of life and the development of freedom. Real freedom grows with each successful cycle, bringing the whole closer to being truly free. The hard work is a willingness to sacrifice all, time and life, to throw this new life, healthy and wise, out from the crucible of the present past your own vanishing point in the future. In your failure, do not despair. In your success, do not regret. These both are bitterness, abandoning the future in preference of the past. Laying these small things aside, do the big work. Most importantly, hold this new life back until the right time, when you have planted the seeds of the true freedom and poisoned the roots of the false. Close the wrong doors. Open the right ones. Don't trade real love and joy for fleeting pleasantries or manic thrills. Be the teacher, accepting the shallow hatred of misdirected outrage, knowing that it burns out quickly. Always look down the long road. Trust your good work to come, when youthful rage is spent and foolish distractions are put aside, to fruition. Love is not something you say. Love is not something you feel. Love is that new life, running away from you as fast as it can, carrying you with it unaware. Love is tomorrow.

Old World Underneath

Did you know that the old world is still in there, underneath the new one? I found this out quite by accident one day a few years ago. I was walking in downtown with my laptop on my way from Piranha Sushi to the Coffee Haus below the sidewalk a few blocks south on Houston Street towards the Convention Center. I was heading to the Haus because they have cheap, good coffee and free wireless. I had to finish a P&L review and write an explanation for a few large expenses that had shown up for the month and had to be discussed in the monthly financial review meeting. I was all set for an afternoon of fun with spreadsheets, word processors and email.

Then, as I walked quickly past the old Pier 1 on the southeast corner of 3rd and Houston, I saw a funny light coming out from a small gap in the concrete planter for the Ginkgo Biloba tree on the corner. It was curious-looking enough to stop me in my tracks. Bending to look at it, I realized it was an opening, and not into the planter. Inside I could see a field of grass blowing in the wind on a sunny day. The smell of summer wafted from the opening when I put my head near it. Carefully poking a finger just inside, I could feel warm sun and cool breeze.

"Wow," I thought. "I've got to get in there."

So, I stood up, set my laptop on the sidewalk, and turned and put my calves against the planter, standing to the left of the hole. Bending like I had been taught in weight training, I slid the fingers of my right hand into the hole, got a good grip, and then lifted with my legs. The planter hinged over with a snap and thud and, when I looked, the Ginkgo tree was on it's side blocking Houston street and there was an opening into the old world large enough to climb through. So, I grabbed my laptop and hopped in.

I wrote my financial recap (offline and on battery power) sitting beside a little running brook. I'm not sure what year I was in, but I didn't see another human the entire time. I didn't hear a sound except wind, water and animals. It was relaxing, and I found it increased my productivity by almost 27%. When my battery died I sat for another 27 minutes, until my cell phone, which had no signal but was still set to modern time, told me it was almost time for the meeting.

So, finding the opening again, I jumped back out, choked for a minute by all the exhaust in the downtown air, and lifted the Ginkgo tree and planter back into place. Luckily no one had noticed the giant tree blocking Houston street for almost four hours. I dusted my hands, made it to the meeting and everything went well.

Since then I make a point of going to the old world whenever I can. For a while I always went to the planter at the southeast corner of Houston and 3rd. Since then, however, I've learned that the old world is under everything. You can get to it anywhere; you just have to push the new world out of the way. I recommend it. Don't tell too many people, though. Then it won't be fun anymore.

Well, I should go. Meeting.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 48. Sorry I couldn't write one yesterday. Thanks for stopping by.

Unrelated Scenes and Customary Greetings

Some people live just below their skin, very alive. These people are highly kinetic, moving more, eyes never resting for long. These people make facial expressions for each of their thoughts. These people will draw you in with one hand and push you away with the other. Some people live deep in their core. These people sit perfectly still. These people focus farther away. These people are slow to draw you in and, if they do, they never push you away. Then there's everyone else. Don't even get me started on those people.

[SCENE]

Humanity is like a small dog tied to a bench in a lush, beautiful park, waiting patiently for her master to come back and take her home. Humanity waits there in anticipation,staring out at the beauty all around. Then, after thousands and thousands of years, one day someone says, "Hey, we're not tied to this bench."

There's a pause, and then, "What?"

"We're not tied to this bench."

"We're not?"

"No. We're not."

"Oh."

Then there is a long, long silence while humanity sits, like she has for all these years. Now, however, she imagines playing in the beautiful park. Now she imagines running through the green grass. Still she sits, a question forming in the back of her mind.

"So," she says finally, "does that mean that no one is coming?"

[SCENE]

Most of the text of the letter had been blurred by water. It was indecipherable. Only the last bit was legible. It said, "I don't know what comes next for me. I am greatly diminished these days, and I cannot do many things. I know my time grows short. I have always been one, as you know, to do what I can, and I can, even still, love you. So I do. I don't know if, when we die, we go on or we come to an end. If we go on, I promise you without drama that my love for you will go on. If we end, then I am truly sorry. Receiving love is a mercy and losing it a tragedy. For what it might be worth, know this: I loved you as long and as well as I could."

[SCENE]

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - TypePad is really being bad today. I know you all have better things to do, but, if you have time, drop me a note and let me know if you have trouble posting comments. You can send it to: scott at aswhite dot com. Thanks.

The Supplier

"So, uh, why do they call you Snuggle Bear?" I nervously asked the huge Mafioso that was sitting with me as I waited for the Don.

"Because I'll kill you if I don't like the way you look at me," he replied coolly, his face a mask of raging indifference to my existence.

"Oh," I said, looking anywhere but at him. "So, it's like irony." I smiled in a way that I prayed he would like.

"So one would assume," he said. He chewed on the end of his toothpick and reached up to scratch his giant neck with his giant index finger, muscles roiling under his expensive suit like deadly puppies under a terrified blanket.

As the minutes passed, my trepidation grew. Before long, I had decided that this visit was not such a good idea. "L-look," I stuttered nervously, picking up my cardboard box and setting it on my lap, "I don't have to bother the Don with this. I'm sure he's a busy man. Maybe I should go."

Snuggle Bear looked at me in silence for a moment, counting in his mind, I assumed, the many ways he could make me suffer. "Well, it's a free country," he said finally, "but I already told him you were here and he might be disappointed."

"Disappointed?" I asked, swallowing hard. I wanted to kick myself for coming in here. Someone had told me it would be a good way to move a lot of product quickly. What was I thinking? Did I really want to be a supplier for the mob? "Well, I can just wait to see him then. I wouldn't want to disappoint him."

"I think that's a good decision," he said. "He loves the Thin Mints, you know? Me? I prefer them coconut ones, but he love the Thin Mints. He's probably all excited by now."

"Thin Mints?" I asked, glancing down at the box and beginning to sweat.

"Yeah," he responded. Sensing something in my posture, he cocked an eyebrow and said, "You do have Thin Mints, yeah?"

"One box," I whispered, closing my eyes as my lip started to quiver.

Snuggle Bear let out a long, low whistle and shook his head in pity.

"It's a very popular cookie," I tried to say, but my voice wouldn't come out.

"Look," he said, standing to take a wad of cash out of his pocket and pull off a five, "gimme that one box and get the hell outta here while you still can."

I jumped to my feet and tore open the cardboard flaps, grabbing the last green Thin Mints box from one side. I pulled out a box of the Caramel Delights as well. I held them both out to the big guy, my arm shaking. "My treat," I said, smiling frantically.

"Hey, thanks!" He smiled, took the boxes from me and placed the five neatly back into the wad of bills as I ran down the hallway toward the door.

When I got back to the car Wendy, my eight-year-old daughter, was pissed. "You GAVE away TWO boxes!" she screamed.

"I had to, sweetie." I told her the whole story as I drove away as quickly as I could.

"We have six whole boxes of Thin Mints at the house!" she exclaimed.

"Honey, I don't think they would have waited."

She stewed for a minute in silence. "We're going back," she said finally.

"Wendy, I don't think that's a good idea."

"We're going back," she said. I could tell she was serious. There would be no reasoning with her.

"But sweetie," I whined, my voice barely a whisper, "Snuggle Bear will kill me."

"Don't be dramatic," she said, and she turned and stared out the passenger window. The conversation was over. I was a dead man.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 47. Thanks for stopping by.

Karate Clothes

At the monastery they paint houses all day. If you ask them why, they'll tell you that it's easier and more fun than seeking enlightenment. Have you ever heard such nonsense?

I signed up for the karate class because I wanted to learn to defend myself. As a single woman, living alone in a rough neighborhood, the notion of self-defense often crosses my mind. All the neighborhood people to whom I actually talk seem friendly enough, but the strangers on every corner all seem sinister and dangerous. They peer around from under stranger eyebrows, always plotting stranger plots. Sometimes I feel like I live in a world of giants. I need a sling and a stone. I need to learn to use them.

There's only one other woman in this class, a boisterous and brassy amazon who smiles all the time. She's here for the men, not for me. I intended to take a defense class for women only, but the only one I found costs more than twice what this one costs, too much for me. Besides, this one is closer to my place. I keep telling myself that it will be better for me to get used to fighting men, since that's who I imagine confronting in the real world. Still, I don't talk well with certain men, and, apparently, those men all study karate. It would be nice to have someone to talk to before and after class.

So far we've only learned a few moves. They remind me of ballet positions. When I was a girl I wanted to be a dancer, so my dad had signed me up for a ballet class at the local Rec Center. We never danced. We just learned and practiced positions all the time. I went several times, but it made me sore and we never, ever danced. We didn't even have music. So, I quit. And now, after only five classes, I was starting to get the same feeling here.

"Now we spar," says the little instructor. "Come sit here." We all move and sit to one side of the exercise mats on the floor. "Score point here and here and here," the little man says, pointing vaguely to certain places on his body. Then he picks two people from the group, a big, dumpy, Hispanic-looking guy with a military haircut who looks to be in his early forties and a young, wiry, red-headed kid. They walk to the mat and look at the instructor. "Go," he says, and they start circling each other.

I don't even say anything. I just get up, grab my bag and leave. How the hell are we supposed to spar? We haven't even learned anything yet? The thought of circling out on that mat with one of these strange men or even with the amazon scares the hell out of me. Maybe I will just save my money and take the other class.

As I walk home, feeling silly in my karate clothes, I am overcome with a familiar feeling that everyone knows something that I don't know. Why was I the only one to walk out of the class? The red-haired kid and the dumpy guy didn't seem to mind blundering out there onto the mat. Why me? What do they know that I don't know?

"Hey, kung fu!" says the big, scary, homeless guy that sits on the corner of my block. I look over at him. He is smiling a huge, friendly smile with his hands up in front of him and his palms turned outward like a submissive victim. "Don't hurt me!"

I smile back and make a little karate chop in his direction, not breaking my pace. As I walk up the steps to my place, I think about how little it takes to stop being strangers. A karate chop or a dumb joke is almost enough. Maybe I won't take any class. Maybe I'll just wear the karate clothes to work.

"You missed a spot on the gable," said the Master, paint speckles all over his hair. When they were finished, they stood back for a moment and admired the house. It was good. The tan was a lovely color. "Beautiful," said the Master. "Come. We'll eat. Tomorrow we strip it down and try the green."

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 46. Thanks for stopping by.

driftinG iN intentionallY nonstandarD casE

If I had one wish, I'd wish that everyone had the ability to disagree with one another without hating one another. If I had two wishes I'd also wish for enough money to spend my days writing and talking to people. If three, I'd wish for the ability to control the resolution at which I perceived time. Four wishes? No one gets four wishes.

Fleas have markets and circuses. Roaches have motels. Snails have mail. The creepy-crawlies have come a long way. I'm proud of them.

This is the story of a young boy and his deep sense of right and wrong. This boy wondered if the sea might be full of fish tears. This boy was pleasantly surprised to find that there was no line between the states and countries. If not for the signs, you wouldn't even know that you'd walked from one to the other. This is the story of this little boy, and his dog Ethos.

When I stumbled on the road, unsure of what came next, my enemy took my hand and helped me to my feet. "Come," he said, "let's eat. We'll finish the war tomorrow."

Hello, friends. I'm drifting today. You know how it is, maybe. What about you?

Later. Love.

P. S.  - Aphter: 45. Thanks for stopping by.

Blundering Into Ecstasy With You

Any of you who have had the good fortune to have been married to Susan for the past sixteen years understand how I feel. You will understand how young we were, still teenagers when we met, barely twenty when we married. It's almost frightening to think of the important decisions we made at so young an age. I was completely unprepared and unqualified to be someone's husband. If, when my daughters are that age, they bring home some scroungy-looking, unemployed guy and say they want to marry him, I'll never be able to look them in the eye and refuse them with any moral authority. I'll just look at the guy and think, "Man, he looks familiar." If they're half the women their mother is, who knows? Anything is possible.

I think most of the time about the fact that fewer and fewer things are certain as I get older. Many things about which I used to be so sure are now so tentative and doubtful. Not you, though. I'm more certain about you every day. I grow more aware of how lucky we were to have bumped into each other and noticed one another in those mad days of teen chaos. If we had the ability, when we met the people with whom we'd spend the rest of our life, to see in that first glance all the love and work and joy and change in those years ahead, we'd be frozen in sacred terror, unable to move for fear of losing the path to that life we saw. It's fortunate, therefore, that we can blunder forward in oblivious energy and just do what comes naturally, paving the way to the future as we go, not even aware of the gravity of what we do.

I can say with certainty that what you and I have built, this family and home, is the most amazing thing either of us will ever accomplish. Everything else is just an added bonus, a perk. I've achieved more with you than I ever expected, and I'm a happy man. I won't even try to guess what's coming next. It doesn't work that way. Instead, I'll just close my eyes, take your hand and blunder on. Anything is possible.

Susan, I love you more than I have the skill to say. You are my favorite everything. Happy sixteenth anniversary.

Making Me Think

This morning I had a pleasant surprise to go with my coffee. My emiga and fellow Texan, bella of cosmic shifts, paid me a compliment in her post for today. Her blog is one of the first I started reading and I've always enjoyed her stories of love and life and art (some of them steamy!). She has a beautiful way with words and her posts are always thoughtful. In spite of these positive qualities and evidence of real intelligence, she chose to recognize me in her list of "Thinking Bloggers." Hey, everyone makes mistakes. Along with this honor comes the duty of constructing my own list of five bloggers that make me think. This will not be easy for me. She's making me think. Hmmm... Oh! She's making me think! That's one! Only four to go! Hmmm... Let me think.

The misnomered "The Fool" from Shouting in the Dark made me think about time just yesterday. He's on the short list.

There's Dan from [redacted]. (That's the actual name. It's not redacted.) Dan has a clever humor that makes me want to destroy him. People who are more clever than me give me indigestion. I mean, the other day he said, "Like a Chinese finger trap, this vicious cycle of illness ruins one’s ability to create apt metaphors." That sort of cleverness in the wrong hands could spell doom for us all. Someone must stop him.

Neil from Citizen of the Month often makes me smile. He's interesting and entertaining. Make me think? Hmmm... He often makes me think, "Why didn't I think of that?" He also talks to his own penis. Hmmm... Sorry, Neil. I'm mad at everyone who got to go to TequilaCon because I didn't get to go. Let's move on.

There's Dustin from Cotters in my Tummy. He got to go to TequilaCon in Portland and I didn't. He's a nice guy, but screw him. He's had his fun. Plus his post for today makes it look like statues have small penises. (Or is it penes?) I resent that gross misrepresentation. Next!

Asia from Deconstructionist is always thought-provoking and... Uh oh! TequliaCon! Next!

Shari from eclectic is easily the sweetest person being disqualified. Hello, Shari! I hope you had fun.

J!ll? You know what you did. Next!

Greg from Geese Aplenty? Funnier than me. Next!

Heather Anne... Hmmm... You gave me a turkey trophy. You didn't go to TequilaCon. You post funny, sweet and thoughtful posts every day. You're on the short list.

Jake from Hello World keeps me up to date on all the things that are happening in the world. He's like my own private technology consultant. But, he went to the beach for Spring Break. Let it never be said that I'm prejudiced in my jealous pettiness (or is it my petty jealousy?) DISQUALIFIED!

Karindira? She's easily the blogger I know best (with the exception of Toadman, whom I've known all my life.) She makes me think every single day. She's a the top of the list.

Caitlin from I Am The Caitlinator. doesn't have time to make me think. She's too busy rebuilding her entire life. I still enjoy hearing from her from time to time, though. Hello, Caitlin!

Jill from Jill Writes draws and writes and takes lovely photos. She's funny and creative and smart and sweet. She's on the short list.

Julie from Jul of the Day has been posting again lately, and I've been happy to see it. She has a kind spirit, and she didn't go to TequliaCon. She's on the short list too.

LSL from Long Story Longer, whom I've known for a while since back when she was called [redacted] and she lived in [redacted], though she's since changed her identity, makes the short list too. Why? She's sweet and she sent cookies.

Jennie? Jennie from Long Story Short? Funnier than me. DISQUALIFIED!

Marisol from Miss Hag is all about the lovely photos these days. Her musings this week about body image were thoughtful. She's on the short list!

Abigail of My Life According to Me talked the entire Internet into sending me cookies. Do you think she's on the short list? Do you think so? Duh.

Amanda from Orchestrated Happenstance always posts thoughtful and beautifully written posts. Short list. (I'm beginning to think the moniker "Short List" might be a misnomer.)

Peefer from Peefer's Home? Brilliant. He's on the list, no doubt.

Wendy (aka The Psycho Therapist) from Her Royal Holiness can bend your brain behind your back. I'm serious. Don't mess with her. She's on the short list.

Sarah from Sad and Beautiful didn't go to TequilaCon this year. She's been too busy with her camera. Her photos are lovely and skillful and provocative. She's on the short list.

Schnozz from Schnozzfest could easily be disqualified for being funnier than I am. I mean, her blog banner says, "I am super important." HA! Plus she could be disqualified for having a rabbit whom I hate with all of my soul and strength. But, several of her posts lately have been thought-provoking. So, she's in.

Kehlers from Slouching Towards Bethlehem is a genius. I love her writing. In!

Supine of Supine Fever is an artist. I like artists. She's also one of the bloggers I've been reading the longest. She's on the short list.

Toadman from | synaptic disunion | has been my friend for, literally, my entire life. Plus he writes cool stuff, including his recent Don of the Universe posts. He's on the short list.

Cathy from Thoughts From the Deep Recesses always posts sweet and thoughtful things. Plus I've been reading her forever. She's on the short list!

Treespotter from Treespotting is consistently thoughtful and funny. Short list!

Mike from Unremitting Failure is an evil comic genius and a prolific producer of posts. If you don't read him, and you're not easily depressed, you should read him. He's on the short list too.

[redacted] from [redacted] is... Oops. I mean Iris from Where I Left Off... has been a source of inspiration and entertainment for a long time. "But she's only been posting since January, right?" you ask. Uh... yeah. Sure. Short list!

There are others, several of them. I, however, am out of time. The assignment is not to list all the people I love, it's about bloggers who make me think. When it comes down to really making me think on a regular basis, here are my five:

1. Karindira (I am not a pie.)
2. Kehlers (Slouching Towards Bethlehem)
3. Peefer (Peefer's Home)
4. Mike (Unremitting Failure)
5. [secret blogger] (secret blog)

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I am off work until Monday, so no Aphter posts will be forthcoming until then. For the millions (or is it billions at this point?) who follow the Aphter story, you will have to find ways to cope. Sorry. Thanks for stopping by.

Reverse Psychology

"It's not so bad when they run away," she said. "When they run away there's still life. What's worse is when they just walk away slowly. Then you know it's over. Even then, though, at least they're gone. At least you can imagine what it's like for them." Her dog, a Labrador mutt, seemed to sense her wistful sadness. He stood from where he had been sitting on the cold, damp sidewalk beneath her chair and rested his chin on her lap, his friendly eyes peering up at her downcast face. "When they stay it's hell." She placed her hand lightly on the Lab's head and took the edge of his ear between her thumb and finger, rubbing in soft little circles. "They stay and it's like your skin becomes camouflage. You're invisible. You're furniture." I could hear the beginning of new tears in her voice.

"Wow," I started tentatively, "that would be rough, I guess. Maybe you could leave."

"Right," she said, taking a sip of coffee and staring into the distance. After several minutes of silence she said, "I think meeting out here was a good idea. I think it's better out here."

"Yeah," I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. "I have to be honest with you..."

"It only works if you're honest," she said.

"Right. Well, I was really just hoping you could help me with some depression issues I was having. For the last three sessions, though, I've just listened to you. Now, I don't mind. I like listening to people. But, I mean, I'm paying you $250 an hour. I just can't afford to keep doing this."

"I'm sorry," she said, tears running down her cheeks. She was losing it. "You're just the first person that's been willing to listen while I talk for a change."

"Don't cry," I said. "And don't apologize. It's okay. I'm not paying you anymore, though. You have to understand that."

"But," she began to sob, "you signed a contract!"

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 44. Thanks for stopping by.

Ever After

People are quick to say, "This is what I would do if I were you." This is a silly, mistaken notion. If they were me, they would do whatever I am doing. What they really mean to say is, "This is what you would do in that situation if you were me." That's more accurate, I think.

My point is this: I've been thinking about your situation, and I think I know what you should do. You should get away. Permanently. There are many ways to do this. For you, I recommend the following:

Find a small town in Texas, somewhere in the Hill Country. Not too small, they don't like new people. Make sure it's big enough that you could live there for a year without having driven down every street in town, but no bigger. Find a nice, modest house that needs a little work. Not a lot of work, just a little. Live there for a few months, just you and your children. No visitors except your family.

Once you're settled in, once everything is unpacked, once you got all your simple things set up the way you like them, then start meeting the people. Avoid bars and churches. Find the local cafe or coffee shop where people meet in the morning or evening. Sometimes there's a market or a restaurant on the square. Each town is different. Figure out where the real people go, and start going there. Bring your children with you most of the time, don't leave them with anyone. Don't talk too much and don't talk too loud. Listen to people. Get to know them.

After a while - don't move too fast - you'll meet him. He'll be a local man. He'll be a little older than you, but not too much. His work will involve driving a truck around town and wearing a uniform. He will look really good in that uniform. He will smile a lot. He'll be shy enough to wait until he knows that you're interested, but confident enough to take it from there. He will love your kids. He might even have one or two of his own from a marriage that didn't work out. Maybe she wanted to live wild. Maybe she wanted to get the hell out of this town. But him? He wanted to make a life here. He wanted the house and the wife and the kids and to come to this place on Friday nights. He's the one. Go to him. Make it work.

All you have to do then is let him take care of you. You can get a job if you want, or not. Work out and stay fit, or don't. Spend time with your kids. The money? Call it a trust fund. Dip into it a little when times get tough. Pretend it isn't there. Let him pay the bills. He'll be glad to do it, because he loves you.

Now, here's the most important part: Don't tell anyone who you are. Oh sure, tell him. He deserves to know. Don't tell anyone else, though. When young girls squeal, "Oh my God! Aren't you Britney Spears?" just smile and say, "Oh, no. I get that all the time." Change your name to Tammy Jean or something like that. Pretty soon the locals won't think about it anymore. You'll just be Tammy Jean Wilson, Ricky's wife.

Doesn't that sound better? You know that it does. I think it would be great.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 43. Thanks for stopping by.

Garden

We were fortunate this day. We stumbled upon a wonderful garden. We could sense from the outside that this was a place of lush beauty, a place to restore the weary soul. The garden was surrounded on all sides, however, by a large, wooden wall with a guard posted at the gate. It occurred to us to slip, unnoticed, over the wall and into the shadows of the bamboo beyond. We discovered, however, that the guard could be bribed, so we slipped him a sum we could afford and he looked the other way as we went in.

The garden was lovely and well-kept. Water flowed down over rocks and along a descending progression of terraces and ponds through the center of the garden. The tiny islands of these ponds were dotted with statues and pagodas. Huge koi, white and orange and gold and black and pink, swam in giant, swirling schools in the ponds and tiny turtles lay here and there in clumps sun-basking on rocks and fallen branches left for just this purpose. Between the ponds the water flowed down over the rocks and bridges of various fashions crossed the streams here and there.

The soil, where it was exposed, was a swarm of bamboo roots snaking like invaders out through the entire garden and beyond. Only diligent work, no doubt, kept the bamboo restricted to its designated groves throughout the place. Cypress knees also broke the ground all around the water, jutting up everywhere tiny mountain peaks.

Beside the great pond was a small, wooden tea house. Hovering high up on the upper terrace was a deck for moon viewing. Huge beams of cedar swarmed with vines held the deck like a canopy over the ivy-covered ground that fell sharply away beneath it to the shaded benches at the bank of the water below.

The children knelt or sat on the rocks at the water's edge and tried to attract the swirling koi. She and I sat in the benches in the shade, my arm around her and her head resting on the front of my shoulder, and we listened the water running over the rocks. Spirits could be heard dancing on the huge stone taijitu above, and you could see others dancing in the mists above the surface of the pond. Every now and then the flicker of a shadow told you that dragons flew overhead. If you closed your eyes, you could hear the furnace of their breath. We sat as long as we could, and then we continued on our way.

The road is long and the way is hard. Along the way we take all the joy we can. At the end of the road is a garden. For this, we walk on.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 42. Thanks for stopping by.

THUNDERBABIES UP!

The warnings that you've heard are true: Cloud skiing is shockingly dangerous. Nevertheless, it's what we do. There are four of us: Armand, Zizo, Skates and me. We are crazy good at this sport, and we've never been injured doing it. Why? Because we compose ourselves like pros, that's why.

Chances are good, however, that all that might change today. Today, even though everyone knows it's impossible, we're skiing cumulonimbus clouds. Thunderheads!

I know. I know. It's crazy. We'll all be injured or killed. The roiling surface is too chaotic. Drafts shoot straight upward. Holes open right in front of you. Lightning! We are familiar with all these risks, but we have to try. It's the only challenge left for us. We're all wearing skydiving gear and we're not exactly grounded up there, so the juice shouldn't be an issue. No worries. We're going for it.

THIS IS GOING TO ROCK! Wish us luck. Skates' Dad just called and he's at the airstrip prepping the plane! YES! I AM SO STOKED! Zizo screened us up some black tees that say "THUNDERHEAD MAFIA" in this Graffiti script. YEAH! LET'S ROCK THUNDERBABIES! WOOOOOOOO!

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 41. Thanks for stopping by.

Forward-Looking Statements

The Birkenstock corporation announced yesterday that it had completed negotiations on a deal to make Birkenstocks the official sandals of the Second Coming of Jesus. Some see this as a real shift for Birkenstock away from their more typical, left-leaning client base. "It's just a gimmick advertising campaign to promote our new Eternal Sole," said a Birkenstock spokesperson. "If the Second Coming of Jesus ever actually happens, well, that will just be upside."

Jesus could not be reached for comment.

(The Caveat Emptor legal team requires that I tell you that everything preceding this sentence, and some of this sentence as well, is fictional and fanciful. There is no truth in it.)

In other news, I'm still working on my Oscars recap post. I fell asleep before any of the interesting awards were handed out, so I have to research and find out who won. I'm not really interested in the Oscars that much, so I've been procrastinating. Sorry about that. Once I've gotten around to doing the research and writing and posting the Oscars recap, I'll begin work on my Red Carpet Fashion Report. I have to be honest, I'm really not looking forward to writing that one. Firstly, I don't give a damn what anyone in the world wears EVER, not even me. (I am occasionally interested in certain clothing my wife wears, actually.) Secondlish, who cares what I think about fashion anyway? Not me, that's for sure. These are the burdens I bear, however, to keep you people entertained and informed. You're welcome.

That's all I have for this post. I was going to reveal the seventeen and a half keys to enlightenment and transcendence, but I feel like this is getting a little too long.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I think that might be a UFO outside the window over my right shoulder in this picture I snapped last night. What do you think? Thanks for stopping by.

P. P. S. - Aphter: 40. Thanks again.

Drinking With Wisdom

Sometimes I have coffee with Wisdom. Whenever I have coffee with Wisdom she always orders tea. She sits across from me and inhales the aromatic steam. She doesn't speak much, only when she really has something to say. She mostly listens instead of speaking, so there are long periods of contented silence, because I am the same way.

Today I was telling Wisdom about some things I have been thinking, but I felt I was getting on her nerves a little. I was in a giddy mood, carried away by a silly humor. Wisdom is quick to laugh at a funny idea, but I get the impression that random and fitful whimsy annoys her.

"Animal violence is pathological," I said, "unless it serves to meet a real and present animal need. Like the need to TiVo reality television, for example."

She glanced at me over her cup and communicated her opinion of my mood very clearly with a single blink that lingered just an instant too long.

"It's true," I continued. "Although we cannot escape animal life and its demands, I believe we spend - and rightfully so - an increasing percentage of our time as humans on activities less and less animal. In these fantastic activities, I believe violence has no place. Violence is a demand, valid at times, of the flesh." I was going to make a joke that referred to the Billy Idol song "Flesh for Fantasy," but I couldn't construct a funny formulation quickly enough.

"So," she said softly, "you're perceiving and communicating through the filter of radical dualism between flesh and mind. You fantasize mind and vilify flesh. It's an old Gnostic notion."

"Well, not exactly," I said, "I don't think violence in service of real animal needs is wrong. I don't think it's wrong to be an animal. I also don't believe that Elvis is still alive, so I'm clearly not falling into Gnostic heresy."

She sighed quietly and shook her head. "Your words betray your opinion that the terms 'violence' and 'Gnostic' are pejorative. In your mind you condescend to be animal."

"Sophie, Sophie, Sophie," I said. "You can read me like a book. I hope I'm better than the movie."

"Did you know," she asked, "that 'Elvis' is an anagram for 'lives?'"

"No!" I said in mock shock, clapping my hand to my cheek. "You should tell Priscilla! 'Wisdom' is an anagram for 'widows,' after all."

"No it's not," she laughed a little, in spite of herself.

"It is an anagram for 'dim sow,'" I replied.

She glared at me in mock anger.

"I'm sure it's just a coincidence," I said, smiling a little and peering down into my coffee.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Aphter: 39. Thanks for stopping by.