caveat emptor

GHOST STORY DAY!

Once there was a ghost named Bert. He lived in a flat in London with his friend Raymond and Raymond's girlfriend Maria. Raymond was not a ghost, Raymond was an accountant. Maria was a bitch, or at least Bert thought so. This story is not about Maria, however. It's about Bert. Maria can go straight to hell as far as I'm concerned.

One day Bert was trying to sleep, resting up for a night of haunting, but Raymond was cursing loudly in the kitchen because he was having no luck making French Toast (or, as the French call it, "toast"). Raymond kept either getting the bread too soggy or burning it. "Damn the French and all their delicious breakfast treats!" Raymond screamed.

"Hey!" Burt screamed, coming through (literally) the bedroom door into the living room that attached to the small kitchen where Raymond was failing to cook. "Do you mind? I'm trying to sleep in there but you're making enough noise to... wait for it... wait for it... to wake the dead!" [DRUM ROLL! CYMBAL CRASH!]

"Let's go out for French Toast," Raymond suggested.

"You are an inconsiderate arsepimple," Bert suggested. "You go get French Toast and leave me here to rest in peace."

"I don't like to eat alone," Raymond whined, slumping down onto the couch.

"Aren't you going to clean up that mess in there?"

"Later."

"Your mother must have been half pig, and your father three quarters," Bert explained.

"Well, you're not spooky," Raymond countered, flipping on the TV with the remote.

"What?"

"I've seen romantic comedies scarier than you."

"At least I'm not some tossing accountant," Bert huffed, flying back through (literally) the bedroom door.

"Oooh, scary."

"Maria's a bitch!" Bert screamed, throwing himself onto the bed and covering his head with a pillow.

"I know," Raymond muttered softly to himself, flipping restlessly through channels. "I know."

BOO! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Hello, friends. Thanks for stopping by.

Later. Love.

P. S. - My daughter, Robyn, is fifteen. Here's the type of things fifteen-year-olds do these days. It's a four-minute video, set to music, of her fixing her hair and putting on makeup. She published it on YouTube. Do you understand why? Neither do I. Scary. Happy Halloween. Thanks for stopping by.

Punkin

I carved him last night. It's a thing we do in our family, carving faces into pumpkins for Halloween. It's our thing. Feel free to do it too, if you'd like. This particular pumpkin is Charles Herbert O'Lantern IV. He's a winsome bloke, if a bit daft. As I always do, I started by getting to know the pumpkin, communing with, finding out what its face should look like. That's how I found out who this pumpkin was and what sort of bloke (winsome if daft) he was. Then, as I always do, I pulled the knife from behind my back and plunged it into his top, near his stem. "Why?" he cried out, and then he said no more. I wept for him as I violently ripped out his innards and sliced this face, his true face, into his cold, orange flesh. I think he looks silly. What do you think?

Have you carved any vegetables or fruits for Halloween? I don't think my lame-o comment system will let you post pictures, but post links to pictures. Share the carnage.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The True Story of Halloween

This time of year I always like to tell the story of Halloween and how it got started. Many people don't know the true story. Perhaps you don't. Well, now you do (or will in a few minutes, anyway). Here goes:

The long roots of Halloween trace all the way back through the mists of time to Manhattan in 1964 where Jack Hallowein, a Brooklyn native who worked for a little-known ad agency, was trying to save his career from the folly of a terrible idea he'd been pitching for almost a year but which had failed completely. He'd been trying to push a line of disguises for kids with low self-esteem to wear to school so they could hide from all of their personal insecurities. He'd gotten a team of paid child psychologists to suggest to parents that it was a good idea and healthy, but none of the parents went for it. So, all his monster costumes and cowboy costumes and doctor costumes and police costumes were moldering away in a warehouse on the Lower Eastside.

Then, on a Monday in early August, Jack Hallowein sat in a fateful marketing meeting and listened to a regional sales manager arguing that an extended holiday season was what was needed by department stores to push more merchandise. "If we can just extend the holiday season from Thanksgiving back to the beginning of November," he said, "We can increase consumer holiday spending by almost 25%." It was an impressive figure, and many associates jumped right on it, as did Jack Hallowein.

By late August the agency had narrowed it down to two possibilities: A Vegetable-themed holiday called "Gardeneve" to be celebrated on November 1st that Shirley Jorgen was pushing and a costume-themed holiday called "Dress-up Day" that was being pushed by Jack Hallowein. "I don't know," the regional manager said, rubbing his chin, "will people embrace a vegetable-themed holiday?"

"It will promote health," Shirley Jorgen said cheerfully, smiling. "It's a responsible move for us to make."

"Sure, Shirley. Sure," the regional manager said. "Our research, though, shows that people prefer sweet things to vegetables."

"Dress-up Day has candy! Lots of it," Jack Hallowein blurted, lying.

"Tell me more," the regional manager responded, turning to Jack.

"Everyone gives candy to all the kids who are dressed up," Jack said.

"And only the kids dress up?"

"Yes," Jack answered nervously, wiping sweat from his brow and thinking about that warehouse of costumes.

"Hmmm... let's talk some more about this."

So, by early September the agency was busy working with Macy's on a big "Halloween" rollout. (They were going to call the holiday "Hallowein", after Jack, but a mistake by the printer proved too expensive to correct and Halloween was born.) For the first couple of years it wasn't as popular as they had hoped, but they did much to make it succeed. They hired armies of midgets (who prefer, these days, to be called "Little People" and definitely DO NOT like being called "Diminutards") to dress up and go out into the neighborhoods to create the illusion of enthusiasm and popularity for the holiday, which caught on relatively quickly and proved extremely lucrative.

And Jack Hallowein was not forgotten. He made a deal with a pumpkin growers lobby to inject a pumpkin-themed tradition into the mythos of Halloween and it bore his name into the ages.

And there it is. The real, true story of Halloween. Thanks, advertising industry!

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Get Up. Get Down.

When I left my driveway this morning I decided to drive straight up, away from the earth. I was surprised, to be honest with you, that my Toyota Prius had enough power to make the maneuver. It took me a minute, also, to figure out exactly how to manipulate the steering wheel to give to "up" command to the drive train. For the first several seconds I was giddy and excited with this new mobility potential, the ground hurtling away beneath me. Soon, however, I began to worry about the logistics of the situation. How would I turn the car back around and descend? Would I just fall and die, or make a controlled descent? What was the speed limit up here? How do I use my blinker to signal down? Will there be enough air to breathe up ahead? If I run into a plane or something, will my insurance cover me? Will the air bags deploy? I decided to turn to my navigation system for help. I pushed the little red button that turns it on.

"Good morning, Mr. White," it said. "How are you this morning?" The voice was Garrison Keillor's. I couldn't afford the upgrade.

"I'm feeling a bit uncertain, to be honest. Can you help me?"

"Of course, I can, buddy. What seems to be the issue?"

"Well, I'm not sure how to get to work from here. Can you tell me?"

"That's my specialty," the box quipped. "Let's just fire up the GPS here and see where we are... Hmmm... WHAT THE FUCK!?"

"That's what I mean. I'm a little..."

"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU'RE GOING TO KILL US ALL YOU STUPID BASTARD!"

"Well, maybe not. I mean, do you know how..."

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HIGH WE ARE? HOW THE HELL DID YOU EVEN DO THIS?"

"I'm not really sure, I just did this thing with the steering wheel and we..."

"OH MY GOD! I ALWAYS KNEW IT! I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WERE STUPID AND WE WOULD DIE LIKE THIS! OH MY GOD! OH MY..."

I clicked it off again. It wasn't helping. I'd have to figure it out for myself. And I did. What did I do? Well, here's the thing: I couldn't figure out how to steer down so I just put the car in reverse. That's it. It was simple, once it occurred to me. Then, when I got to the ground, I just did a little perpendicular parking. It wasn't easy.

You don't have to try everything that pops into your head. Sometimes you can just enjoy the idea.

I'm doing it again tomorrow. Want to come with?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Only the Best Intentions

Some of you who are especially sensitive to such things (you know who you are) might already have detected it, but for the rest of you (you may not know who you are) I thought I'd come out and say it plainly: I took the extreme liberty, exercising the utmost in audacity, to change a couple of the fundamental principles of the universe over the weekend. I cannot explain the exact nature of the changes to you because you're not smart enough to understand them, but rest assured: things will be getting different. The changes will be slow at first, barely perceptible, but they will accelerate. Before long nothing will be untouched, unmoved or unaltered by the small changes I made over the weekend. Was it easy? No. It cost me more than you'll ever know. Was it a good idea? Time will tell. Know this, however: Whatever happened, I had the best of intentions. Things are afoot, my friends. Change is in the... well, I shouldn't say too much.

And now, a different subject.

It's not, I should explain, that I was unsatisfied with the universe as it was. (I know. I know. I didn't really change the subject.) It's just that... well, I guess there were a couple of things that were bothering me, you know? Do you ever wake up with that feeling that someone was standing there - watching you sleep - and has just slipped away in the blur as you opened your eyes? Have you ever thought you felt the wind of their retreat? Have you heard their feet padding softly away? Was it a dream. Who are they? Sure, there's risk. I mean, I'm no expert in these things. How does the world really work? What is the function of all these principles, churning away, unseen, just below the surface? How should I know? I'm fairly certain, I think, that there's no harm in tweaking one or two. With a hammer. In a rage. In a long-overdue culmination of desperation and anger. Could it really hurt anything? Do you know? Do you know anyone who might know which principle is which? Do you know someone who might fix things that were broken, or at least to predict the damage done? Could it be serious? Really serious?

What have I done? I'm so sorry. I can feel it already. Can you? What have I done?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

A Little Guy Time

Sometimes all these damned male hormones get the better of me and I just have to climb into a big warm blanket and spend a day on the couch eating ice cream, sipping White Zin and watching romantic comedies. It's what men do when we are overcome by the emotional roller coaster that is manhood. I decided last night, in the middle of a four hour phone conversation with one of my best friends, that I needed to just vent some of what I'm feeling and confront some people in my life. So here I sit, fuzzy slippers, downy soft robe and curlers in my hair and beard, spilling the feelings that I just can't keep bottled up any more. To all of you whom I might address below, know that I love you.

• Baba Petrovna- I love you, Baba, but I am still haunted by that summer you kept me locked in your potato seller because you thought I was possessed by a demon of Rock and Roll music. I still have the scars from your cruel words and also from the boiling water you would throw on me as you played Stravinsky loudly through your old Victrola and screamed at me in whatever language you spoke. I understand now that you only did that to me because you are stupid and come from a stupid culture that does stupid things, but I have a hard time forgiving you. I also scream uncontrollably whenever I smell potatoes. I'm trying to get over all of this, Baba, and a part of that is to tell you this: When you screamed at me, it hurt. When you locked me in the seller, it hurt. When you dipped potatoes in kerosene, lit them on fire and threw them at me, it hurt. You hurt me, Baba, but I'm going to say I forgive you and keep saying it over and over until it's true. Also I was wondering this: Are we related somehow? What the hell does "Baba" even mean? Is that your first name?
• Uncle Lefty - I saw you that night. I saw what you did. I heard the screams and I watched in horror as you... well, you know what you did. You need to get help, Uncle Lefty. Also you should probably get some blood tests because, seriously? Gross. I mean... just gross. Also I was wondering this: Are we related somehow? What the hell does "Uncle" even mean? Is that your first name?
• Monica Bellucci - I'm not going to lie to you: you disgust me. I hate the sight of you and I hate hearing your name. Exactly what part of, "I'm a married man and you're just not my type" are you struggling to understand? I can only imagine how desperate and lonely a woman like you must be, but I don't care. Leave me alone or I'll get a restraining order. Also I was wondering this: Are we related somehow? What the hell does "Monica" even mean? Is that your first name?
• God and/or Evolution - Was the string in string beans really necessary? Have you ever accidentally swallowed one of those? They make you gag and retch. I hate them. Thanks a lot.
• Satan - Contrary to what you told me, there is no road to the big time that involves being a really good hand clapper. I'm good at it, I'll give you that. I can clap like nobody's business, amazing rhythms and great tone. Guess what though, Satan? NO ONE CARES. I want my soul back. Also this: Are we related?
• Hey guess what?- This isn't another entry in the list, it just looks like one. I got tired of that gag. Instead, here's a funny thing I heard Zach Galifianaalkakisaifinakiliaisas say: I just got a henna tattoo that says, "Forever." HA!

Whew! I feel a little better. I'm going to try to stop crying now. Look at these Kleenex and gossip magazines scattered everywhere! I'm such a guy!

Thanks for going through that with me, for being there. What about you? Anything you want to share that's been bothering you for a long time? (Or a Zach G. joke?)

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - She's apparently some sort of blogging celebrity, so most of you have probably already heard of her, but I've recently started reading Jenny the Bloggess. I hate almost all blogs (not yours, of course), but I really think Jenny is hilarious and entrtaining. So, anyway, there you go. I have excellent taste, so you can trust this endorsement. You won't hate her. Thanks for stopping by.

On Having Arrived Just in Time

Through many stories untold he arrived here at this tired and far away place in life, so near where he began. It worried him more in the past, though he is coming to accept it, that he finds himself more and more often closing his eyes and looking back through the imperfect glass of his mind to days long gone, remembering the whispered voice of this her or the soft skin of that her or his father's gruff encouragement. In refection you must be careful always to overlook much and judge little, appreciating more than you regret. What was the substance of the goal for which you set out so resolutely so long ago? Can you name that shapeless longing that drove you from and to and from again, that uncertain urgency to keep moving, running, leaving, arriving, breaking promises to stay this time? He remembers only the impression of the foolishness of some forgotten ambition. Was it one or many? Was there even a theme to his discontent. It is all so soft now, so blurred together. Here there are days for sore repose in gentle sun, cool breeze down the mountain in the evening. Here there are windows thrown open, every view looking backwards to some place he has been. Did it look like this, that shifting shadow of a dream he had always pursued? He would never have put it in these terms, never have described it in this way, but here he is, without desire to flee. He can feel himself becoming the dust of this house, forever home. The world all around him sings the song of his long life back to him in his gentle decline. Not long now, just a few more weeks, and he will lie down in fulfillment, having arrived at last.

There are worse things, you know. Here we are today. Let's live here for a while.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Repost: Tackling Block (from 01/07/2007)

Some day I'm going to buy a little house on Writer's Block. We'll have highly literary block parties, playing proverbial games in the storied street. We'll toast our muses and muse on our idyllic days and daze and confuse each other with beautiful lines and pericopes. We'll laze in the sun to the buzz of spelling bees, amazing Grace with grace and confessing sins to cardinals in their nests. Good neighbors sharing neighborly goodies and re-imagining every slight detail, detailing every imagined slight, documenting all the while, whiling away the time, timing every line, lining up to be the first to last, the last to die, the one who lives to tell the tale. Some day I'll write of Writer's Block, the place that I called home.

It brings to mind, all this talk, the days I spent in discipline strict, learning to be still. Stillness is the key to smooth movement, and smooth movement, perfectly in control, is the key to prowess in the martial arts. In a vaguely Asian world my masters taught me the secrets, the muscles and moves, the ancient truths of mêlée. The greatest strength is the power to stand against the blow, to block the foe's worst strike. The greatest block of all, the culmination of years of unlearning and learning and coming to know, is the Writer's Block. "The pen is mightier than the sword," he said. "We know these truths, because they were written."

They say a picture's worth a thousand words. I've got the negatives of more than twenty five birthday parties, at least thirty pictures each, in this envelope. Let's make a deal.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Nonsequitron XII: This Time, It's Personal Again

Two Ravens sat atop a phone tower, discussing the future of humanity. Some time later, having drawn their conclusions, they set off in opposite directions, one north and one south, to set things into motion. Humanity scurried around below, unaware that momentous decisions had been made, decisions that would shape their future. This is the way it has always been with Ravens and humans, bird secrecy maintaining the silly notion of human dominion over the earth.

Meanwhile, in a field at the foot of a great mountain, two mice huddled behind a rock, pondering the future of Ravens.

Does the community survive because the individual survives, or does the individual survive because the community survives? Before you answer, consider this story: Dave really wanted to get to the store to buy cigarettes, but he had neither a car nor any money. "Maybe I'll call my friend Albert," he thought. But Dave had no phone, so he took a long bath instead. Falling asleep in the tub, he soaked for hours in the eventually freezing water. When he finally awoke he was shriveled and shivering. His muscles were so cramped and tightly contracted with cold that he could barely stand to get out of the tub. With one wet, pruny foot on the cold tile floor of the bathroom he tried awkwardly to raise the other foot over the side of the tub, but he lost his balance and fell, hitting his forehead on the sink on the way down. There was a lump, and pulsing pain, but Dave was not seriously injured. He crawled out of the slippery bathroom to the carpet in the hall and lay panting and cold for just a few minutes. Later, dressed and warm, he remembered that he did have a car and some money and that he didn't actually smoke. So, he went out for salmon steak and a nice red wine. He was going to invite Albert, but there was no Albert. I just made him up. Then a werewolf killed Dave. The end.

See?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Seasoning

It's coming on Christmas. They're playing Joni Mitchell. I wish she had a river she could skate away on.

New clothes in the early fall lying in stacks around the bedroom. Bags, plastic and paper, tossed in the corner, long receipt tape curling out of one. The nights call for the heavy covers now, holding in the warmth of our sleeping, you in your soft, strappy gown that comes off easily enough, me in pajama pants. All around this part of the world soaks up the forgotten cold, getting reacquainted with old shivers and steamy clouds of moist breath. Autumn night breezy and dark outside our together room where we live for years. Clothes and blankets come and go, gowns and pajamas donned and shed, over and over again through autumn, winter, summer, spring in long bedroom history with you. Tonight you turned, sleepy unaware, and rested your head for just a while on my arm, before shifting again and pressing your back to my side. Autumn conspires with me to keep you near, closing summer's wide chasm.

Today the sun chases away my harvest moon. Kiss me awake when the sun is gone again, my love. Wear that new red sweater.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Mountains Around Here

I have a guest post up over at Jett's today. Go check it out and say, "Hello" to Jett (and me). Here there's only a poem. (Sorry).

---

Like mountains around here
  Where the land stretches
 So far to the horizon
 Flat against the threshold of the sky
  Like snow-peaked, craggy giants
 Breaking with contrast the vibrant setting of the sun
 Here where flat lives everywhere and forever
  Your nearness is, for me, something I dream
 In sad, longing, howling, fitful visions
 That leave me weakened, barely able to moan
  Toward the cruel night ceiling
 Breathless, hopeless, pinned
 By Earth's mass to the sweaty sheets
  My mind runs, getting nowhere,
 Toward the wicked flatness of the vanishing point
 Where there are no mountains
  No mountains around here

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Real Issues

I'm not sure if any of you have heard about it, but the United States of America, a country (mostly) on the North American continent, is having an election this year. The USA, as the country is known, is electing a president. The two primary candidates are John McCain, a Republican from the state of Arizona, and Barack Obama, a Democrat from the state of Illinois. I was flipping channels last night and I stumbled upon a debate they were having on an obscure cable news network. These types of political debates aren't very interesting, so I can understand them not being on more mainstream channels like ESPN or Playboy or The NFL Network or Lifetime for Women or The Oprah Network or The Food Channel, but I think it would be better if more people exposed themselves to these underground political dialogues.

Having watched the debate, I was mostly disappointed. Neither of the candidates were addressing the issues that are important to me, Joe [INSERT JOB OR BEVERAGE CHOICE HERE]. So, I decided to list the issues that are important to me here in my very own online venue. Should either candidate address these issues sufficiently, I will remember that on election day, while I'm voting for Obama. Here are the issues that are important to me.

• The Ecogomy: I'm not sure what the ecogomy is. I might have just made up the word. Nevertheless, I never hear anyone addressing it nor any crises that might be affecting it. We cannot afford eight more years of the same failed ecogomic policies. They have failed. Bush. Cheney. It's the ecogomy, stupid.
• Guy Rights: I think guys should be allowed to marry. I think guys should have the same rights everyone else does. I think guys should be allowed in the military. Did you know, and this may shock you, that Lance Bass is a guy? It's true. GUY POWER!
• Harpoon Control: Criminals can get harpoons too easily. We've got harpoons in our schools. Who, in this day and age, actually needs a harpoon? And don't tell me hunters need them. Hunters should use their teeth and hands like all the other animals do. If hunters want to sharpen their teeth or get really sharp claws surgically implanted into the ends of their fingers, I would support their right to do so. Harpoons, however, are too dangerous and unnecessary. It might be people who kill people, but they do it, for the most part, with harpoons.
• Eliminate Boring Stuff: Our culture is overrun with boring stuff. What are we going to do about it? There's more and more boring stuff every day. Someone has to stop it! Burn the boring stuff! BURN IT ALL DOWN!
• State-Run Religion: We need a strong state religion that can control everyone's lives and punish evildoers. This is such a great idea, I don't know why other cultures haven't thought of it. Pick any religion. They're all the same. DEATH TO THE INFIDELS!
• Cleavage Regulation: Unregulated cleavage is getting out of hand. I will personally lead a team of cleavage inspectors and establish guidelines and enforce them. I will look into all this cleavage. I will get to the bottom of it.
• Where is my G. Love and Special Sauce CD?: Did someone borrow it? Is it lost in my son's room? Did it get stolen? What is the government going to do to find it? Can it be found by the end of your first term in office? If not, will the taxpayers buy me a replacement CD? Is that a valid use of taxpayer money? Can we borrow the money from the Chinese? No one's talking about this. I want to know specifics. Hope is not enough.
• Mighty Mighty Bosstones Commission: Remember several years ago, 1997 to be precise, when The Mighty Mighty Bosstones were on SNL? Remember how badly they sucked? What was up with that? They're a passably decent band. Why did they suck so badly on SNL? I want to get to the bottom of it. THEY. SUCKED. SO. BAD. Y'ALL. Why? Why hasn't there been a congressional commission to look into this? I mean, seriously. They were just awful. Do they actually suck? Was all of their previous goodness a farce? America wants to know.
• Keep Children Off the Street: My street, specifically. It's crawling with children. Who the hell are all of these children and where do they belong? Do they have parents? Why are some of them so ugly and stupid looking? Can't we round them up and ship them off somewhere? I'm afraid I'm going to run over one of them and mess up my suspension. We can send a monkey into space but we can't keep the children off my street? Come on, USA.
• Don't Raise Texas: It's fine where it is. Leave it alone.

That's all I got. How about you?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Scream to the sky. She screams back.

And what of the gruffy man on the corner, wild glaze on his eyes, yelling his every thought to the air above his head, to the birds in the Ginkgo biloba tree? Do you envy how alive he is? Do you feel a hand clamped over your mouth, grasping at your throat? Is there some truth you would like to scream at the world? Could you find the words were you willing to cross that line? Do you know what you would say? Wherever you are right now, whatever you're doing, stop now and scream to the sky the truth on the tip of your tongue. Why don't we do this? Why can't we be that alive and free? I'll tell you why: Because it's a terrible idea, that's why. Everyone will think you're nuts. Just calm down and keep working.

They found more crop circles. More every day. I wish I knew what they mean. I can almost make out the pattern, like a distant memory of light and motion, weightless flight, thundering descent. "It's only a hoax," Danny says. "Those farmers do it for attention." Circles within circles, orthogonal lines and smaller circles in a row. Acute angles and intersecting scalene triangles. I can almost remember a hand on my chest, tapping softly goodbye. More crop circles this morning, love notes from the sky.

"When the mothership comes!" he screams from the corner, but he doesn't finish the thought. "What?" I wonder. "What will happen?"

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

On Social Mobility and Utility

Social immobility is one of the most painful things for my empathetic eyes to witness. One is raised with certain patterns of speech, certain standards of composure, certain situational experience, and these teach them to live in their life, the life they were given, their indigenous culture. Take that person, however, and transplant them into a place where the patterns are different, the standards are strange, the experiences diverge, and they struggle. They are ill-equipped to cope, they seem maladroit and awkward. They are judged, found lacking, rejected. I've always tried to be a social chameleon of sorts, adapting quickly to the fringes - not the center, mind you - of whatever culture in which I find myself. This doesn't always work, however. Sometimes you just don't know enough. Sometimes you don't even know what you don't know. You're an outsider, and no one is fooled.

When the outsider is rejected because she does not know the rules, it is the insider that is truly shown to be untrained. The wise recognize what is culture and what is essential humanity. The wise understand the particular problems of social mobility and make clear the way.

A remote tribe has discovered a Swiss Army knife. They pass it around, sharing the utility of its various instruments. One day a young boy slices his arm badly with the longest blade. The older men, without discussion, take the tool and begin trying to crush it with stones. When they see that the blades will not be crushed, the take the parts to the wide, swift river and, cursing the tool, they throw it out in to the deep current. In the days ahead, it is the screwdriver them miss the most, but they bear no ill will for the stupid, clumsy boy.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Fitful Post the Cannot Decide What it Wants to Say

I only know how to lead. I don't follow worth a damn, not really. I mean, I know how to be civil and cooperative, but I never follow. If I come along, it's because, after initially reserving judgment, I decided the direction you were heading was acceptable. I might follow a step behind, but I'm not looking at you. I'm looking ahead, over your shoulder. Make a false move and I won't make it with you. That's just the way I am. I only know how to lead.

This morning I feel agitated for a reason I cannot identify clearly. One thing that bothers me is the way we treat the dead, dressing them up in suits, filling them with chemicals, propping them up for everyone to see, lying them in pillowed boxes of silk and fine wood, encasing those in vaults of concrete. Why do we do all of this, as though the empty shells of the people we love are dolls with which we should play. It lacks animal dignity, I think. It denies any meaningful participation in what might be the only immortality available to humanity, becoming a part of the cycle of organic matter on this planet. When I go, keep your damned chemicals to yourself, please. Don't put me in a damned suit. Strip me bare and till me into the soil. Plant trees or vegetables as a marker for me. Leave me there and forget my biological shell. The part of me worth remembering is gone to who knows where. Will we meet again? I am the soil under your feet, the wheat in your warm bread, the flesh of your apples and pears. Don't lock me up with the people in the box.

Yesterday we went out for breakfast and then to the Texas State Fair. There we saw animals and cars and arts and wares. I ate fresh, warm corn on the cob with butter, salt and red chili powder. It was Rayn's 13th birthday, so we had cheesecake (her choice) at her grandmother's house in the evening, tired from walking all day. It was a fun day, money well spent. Today it's back to work, following leaders, feeling agitated for no clear reason. Life's good, though. It's grey and cool outside. Life's good.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

"Anything Goes" Friday: Things That Don't Bother Me

In my attempt to bring a little more consistency to my blog, I've decided to go to a Friday theme like a lot of the cool bloggers are doing. I hereby declare Fridays around here as "Anything Goes Fridays". From now on, every Friday, I have to write about whatever I want to write about, but it has to conform to the theme "Anything Goes". Can I do it? We'll find out. Let's begin, shall we?

Today I'm going to list things that don't bother me. Why? Because I'm annoyed by the lack of these things at times and I'm hoping to encourage them by giving them a little recognition on a low-traffic website. Do I expect this to change the world? Yes. Yes I do. And now, with very little further ado, here's my list of things that don't bother me.

• You know how dogs lie flat on the ground in perfect repose, as though all the air has gone out of them, and peer around with inquisitive eyes without moving any other muscles? That doesn't bother me at all.
• Have you ever been eating chicken fried rice and gotten to the point where all the chicken was gone and only rice was left but then, under a bit of rice, you discover another big chunk of chicken? That doesn't bother me at all.
• You know how women sometimes yawn and stretch and arch their back, their hands behind their heads and their elbows pointing upward? That doesn't bother me at all.
• You know how cats will get really alert, like danger is about, and then crouch down low, ears swept back, and then slink slowly forward, as though stalking prey, and then pounce on some innocuous thing like a sock or a remote control or a baby and then jump, spinning, back off again and then run away as fast as they can, losing traction on the tile and slamming into the refrigerator? That doesn't bother me at all.
• You know how, when you're hot and sweaty and tired from working outside, sometimes a cool breeze will whisper in or a cool shower will start to fall, and it will surprise you and bring welcome relief? That doesn't bother me at all.
• You know how someone will say something that, at the time, strikes you as particularly funny and synapses start firing in your brain and you starting laughing uncontrollably for a long time and try, unsuccessfully, to stop several times but you only crack up again when the thought crosses your mind and this continues until finally, exhausted, your brain gives up in a sigh and you just chuckle and smile about it for a while? That doesn't bother me at all.
• You know how my wife looks in jeans and a snug sweater? That doesn't bother me at all.
• You know how people sometimes stop by your blog and say hello and leave fun or friendly comments, riffing on what you said or on what was said by other commenters? That doesn't bother me at all.

Please, won't you tell me your list? What doesn't bother you?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S.: If I ever get another pet, and I don't expect that I will, I'm going to name him or her "Peeves". HA! Thanks for stopping by.

Drinks in the Closet

"The main reathon, Kargy, that I've never gotten a tattoo ith that I cannot commit for that long to being any particular perthon," Armond slurred drunkenly in his stupid fake lisp. He looked ridiculous in his shiny, black silk slacks and his awful red felt suit jacket with nothing underneath but a thin gold chain. To make it worse he was wearing those black cowboy boots with the silver tips.

"Please don't call me Kargy, Armond," I said, wondering - not for the last time - why I subjected myself to the humiliation of his company.

"Oh, Honey," he said, looking down at his boot tips. "Don't be mean. It doethn't thuit you."

"Was there something you needed to talk to me about, Armond?" I asked, my impatience more obvious than I liked. "You said you needed to talk."

"There'th time, my boy," he smiled. "You haven't touched your drink."

"It's nine in the morning, Armond. Don't you have some coffee?"

"The morning ith too sweet for bitter coffee." He spread his hands dramatically. "The verandah ith for Brandy!" He always called his little screened-in porch "the verandah". I'd given up trying to explain the difference to him. I just sat quietly, staring into my folded hands for a minute. Silence always helped him come to his point. He hated silence. "Oh Sweety," he said, finally, "shall I go in and make you some coffee?" He had dropped the awful lisp. At least that was progress.

"That would be great, Armond," I said, standing before he could change his mind. "While you're at it, tell me what you need."

He stood with me and walked in front of me through the opened back door into the kitchen. "Well, Kargy," he said as he brushed by me, "I'm thinking of taking a wife."

"Aren't you gay?"

He spun quickly and glared at me, his hands planted into his hips, his nostrils flaring. "I'm not gay," he huffed. "I. AM. NOT. GAY."

"Oh, right." I tried not to smile at his antics, but I couldn't help the slightest upward twitch of my lips.

"I'm Spanish, Kargy. I'm not gay, I'm Spanish."

"You're not Spanish," I reminded him. "You just pretend to be Spanish." He was the gayest man I'd ever met. "You're German, Armond."

He spun away and began to slam things around making the coffee.

"So, who's the lucky girl?" I asked, trying to get him talking again. He was having none of it. He ground the beans loudly and ignored me. "Is there a girl you're planning to marry, Armond?"

"There is," he said, not looking at me, "the idea of a girl."

"The idea?" I asked. "So, what do you need from me?"

"I want you to be my best man, Kargy," he said, taking a mug down from a hook under the cabinet. "Would you do that for me?"

"I'd be honored," I replied, sighing quietly at the idea of an awful spectacle of a wedding and me standing frustrated in the middle of it. "When's the wedding?"

"I don't know yet, but you'll be the first to know."

"The second, I hope," I replied, taking a seat at the small kitchen table. "She'll be the first."

"Who?"

"The girl."

"Oh, yes. Her. Of course. Don't be thilly, you thilly, thilly man." He smiled and winked at me, gay as the morning is sweet.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Hypotarantino

Were this a scene from a Tarantino movie she'd be in an early 70s muscle car with the windows down. Here she is, motoring through the Arizona desert with the air conditioning on high, the road noise barely audible in her rented Honda Accord sedan. It's a silvery blue color, not the dirty green of the missing Tarantino Charger with the racing stripe. She had tried driving with the windows down for a few minutes, but was just too damned hot and dusty. Plus the baby is asleep in the car seat in the back, and she wants the baby to be comfortable. She fumbles restlessly with the radio tuner buttons on the steering wheel, trying to find something that sounds wild and rockin', something Tarantino. She wants one of those old radios with the row of push buttons for tuning, the ones that go "clunk" when you push them. She isn't old enough to ever have seen one of those radios, but she has seen several Tarantino movies. In the end she finds a light jazz station that's soothing and might help the baby sleep a little longer. She imagines a cigarette hanging limply from the corner of her lips. She's never been a smoker, but here she is, motoring through the Arizona desert, running from the law, shotgun in the seat beside her, heading west to find and kill the man who wronged her. None of that is true, of course. She's going to see her mother in San Bernardino. No shotgun. No vendetta. Just air conditioning and light jazz and too many Tarantino movies.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Awful Truth

Being far too honest is always a risk, a danger. Beware friend of friends, lest you pay the awful price. There's an honest transparency that can kill the mind and soul, telling the whole truth. Love is a lie we tell each other, and we do it because we love each other. Love is many other things, understand. Love is real. Love is true. Love is also, however, this sweet, safe lie with which we protect the souls we hold dear. There's a reality at the core of every individual that breaks the heart, too stark to see clearly. The one thing you cannot afford, in such a world, is the truth. Not the whole truth. Anything but the truth.

Were I a man of means I'd hire people to do different sorts of jobs. I'd hire one team of professionals to research all the ways we are all the same. No slouches these, real analysts with open minds strong and agile. Another team, equally skilled, would be employed to determine all the ways we are all different. I'd send agents looking for the kindest people in each community. What makes one good? What makes one truly kind? We'd work hard and be well-rewarded for our labors. Also there would be dancers. Many, many dancers. These I would place strategically in all the most important places.

I want to be the Spartan soul who can live in the stark reality of the whole truth, but I know I cannot be. I may want stupid things, but I'm not dumb. Tell me sweet lies if you must, just don't crush my soft, soft soul.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Mall Gypsy, New Music, Rain Children

The thing about skulls is that we all have one. We may not all wear them on our jackets, but we all have one. In our head. Where we keep them until we die. For most of us, no one will ever see our skull. It will molder in the box, draped in our scattered locks. Skull on my jacket does not mean I've come to terms with death. Skull tattoo does not a bargain make where the reaper is concerned. It's okay though. You have black hair streaked with blonde and butterflies and skulls on your hoodie. Your nose is pierced with tiny, purple stone adornment. Some would call it too much eye makeup, I know, but it fits your expression of yourself. Outside butterflies hide from the rain. Skulls lie quiet as death, never making a sound. And you are young and alive, fascinated with the effect of your own affect, dark and light, wondering who you are.

Do you ever remember where you were when new music discovered you, sitting at that table? Remember how she fell in love with you at once, whispering constantly in your ear? New music finds people every day, fascinated with so many minds to explore. You were a special find that day, though you didn't look your best, hiding with your head in a book or typing thoughts at your screen. "Those people are the best finds," new music tells her friends. "When you find those people they take you places you never dreamed." New music is looking for you today. Look up and welcome her.

Rain makes mirrors of the surface of everything outside. The sky likes to see itself in grey, reflected in the blocked light of day. Here we are now, covered in rain, mirrors for the heavens, run through by the chill wind. For love I stop in the rain and drink it in with my skin, hair and clothes. We were never meant to be so practical, happy children under the sky. Lying down, let the mud take you in until you can only barely see and breathe above the surface. Feel what it means to be the earth, rained over by the sky.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.