caveat emptor

The Whole World Has __ In It's Hands

I've been getting recorded messages from Jesus. Not THAT Jesus, a different Jesus. THAT Jesus never sends me messages. These messages, the ones from another Jesus, aren't religious. They're just casual and fun.

But, enough about that.

Our big research project begins today. We're doing research on what people have in their hands. We were going to do a random sampling, but we decided yesterday, at the last minute, to do a comprehensive sweep of the entire world. It was Brad's idea, that douchebag. We were going to just go to the mall and survey people in the Food Court. It was going to take ONE afternoon. Now we're doing the WHOLE DAMNED WORLD. Do you have any idea how long that's going to take? It's probably going to take the REST OF OUR LIVES, BRAD, YOU INCREDIBLE FUCKTARD! Thanks a lot.

So, don't be surprised if we show up at your place. I wanted to split up, but Randi insisted that we all stay together. Why? Because she has the hots for Brad. Great. The rest of my life is really going to be annoying now, watching her pine away for an oblivious ASS MONKEY like him.

Anyway, it will just be the three of us. We'll try not to be too intrusive. We just need some basic facts about what's in your hands: size, weight, color, brand. We're also categorizing everything into the following categories:

1. Communications Device
2. Remote Control
3. Weapon
4. Genitals (Own)
5. Genitals (Not Own)
6. Food
7. Tool
8. Toy
9. Cucumber
10. Miscellaneous

I'm not sure why we're breaking out cucumbers into their own category, but I'm sure there's an important scientific reason.

See you soon.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

For the Love of My Blank Text Editor Window

O, blank text editor window

With your cursor so blinky

And your surface so blanky

So full of nothing I've said.

How long have we been meeting like this

Each morning over coffee,

Blank text editor window?

Years. It's been years.

I think I love you,

Blank text editor window.

But every time

I type, "I love you,"

I look

And you've gone away.

You're afraid of commitment

There is no substance to our relationship

We just sit in silence

And, as soon as I think of something to say,

You disappear.

How can we go on like...

Hey! Where did you go?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The One About James Brown

It's hard to imagine having a serious discussion with James Brown, and not only because he's dead. I guess I imagine that he would be really hard to understand and that he would have no patience for talking, preferring instead to dance or sing or have a lot of sex with women. He was an amazing musician, but a good conversationalist? Who knows. Maybe he was very different in person than his stage persona. I don't know. Something tells me he wouldn't be interested in a guy like me. "Would you like to have coffee and just visit for a while, James Brown?" I bet he wouldn't even answer me. He would just furrow his brow in confusion and walk away, wondering what the hell I was thinking. I don't know.

Speaking of bad segues, check out the next paragraph.

I'm in this funk lately. It's not at all like the sort of funk James Brown was usually in. It's much less funky and more sort of dense and foggy. It's not like sadness or even dissatisfaction, it's just like constantly forgetting where I am and why and wondering who I am and why. Do you ever feel that way? I bet James Brown never felt that way. He always felt good. He always felt like being a sex machine. Can you feel it? Can you feel it, people? I can't. Not always. Sometimes, but not always.

Speaking of jokes I've told before, check out this bad segue.

James Brown is in heaven (or possibly Valhalla) (or possibly hell) hanging out with the funkiest people in history. Or maybe he's just gone. How can we possibly know what happened to James Brown? It's one of the mysteries of the universe, one of the many, many mysteries. Probably not the most important mystery, though, unless you're James Brown. And let's be honest: you're not.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

For Lack of Ideas and Too Much Sky

There are low clouds, thin and wispy, moving by very quickly and there are also high clouds, like furrows plowed in crooked fields, sitting perfectly still. It's like there are two skies. It's like someone accidentally put up tomorrow's sky today right on top of today's sky. I cannot help but worry that there will be no sky left for tomorrow, that tomorrow there will be no sky. What will happen, I wonder, to all the people who are supposed to fly on airplanes tomorrow? There will be no sky in which to fly. Their sky is crowding up the air of today with unnecessary complexity.

Meanwhile there is the problem of all these damned writers to deal with. What the hell are we all supposed to write about? There's not enough inspiration to go around. Some of us are really struggling out here and the governments and the gods aren't doing anything at all to help us. WHAT THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO WRITE? A friend of mine got a pretty sweet gig the other day writing the same sentence over and over and over again on a chalk board. Some people have all the luck. Meanwhile here I am, looking up at the damned clouds, worried about tomorrow.

Maybe I'll write about that.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Banana Leaf Posts: Volume 1 (Probably the Last Volume)

I've decided to leave civilization for a while, just until I learn to appreciate it again. As such, I'm no longer blessed with the free time nor the technology to update this blog. All of my time is spent in learning to find food and water and shelter. I'm living just now in a banana tree in the middle of the wild jungles of Antarctica or somewhere like that. It's very hot, so it might not be Antarctica. Maybe Canada or Africa? I've forgotten which direction I went. I think I turned right a couple of times and then left, or something. Nevertheless, I'm somewhere where banana trees grow. I'm writing this post on a banana leaf using another banana leaf as a pen. I'm  using yet another banana leaf as a satellite Internet router to upload this, the first banana leaf. There is a pack of wild animals, possibly lions or cows, gathering around the base of the tree, hoping to eat me I think. They have sharp teeth and some of them have clubs and knives. One of them has a harpoon. This might be my last blog post. Do I regret leaving civilization? Yes. I do. I'm hungry and thirsty and I need to pee but I'm afraid that the wild animals will take my peeing on them personally so I'm just holding it. Why do I do these things to myself? What's wrong with me?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Feeling Googly Again

Today I'm analyzing the search terms that landed people here via Google (90.48%), Yahoo! (4.76%), MSN (2.38%) and Windows Live (2.38%). (Yeah! Google FTW!)

First there are the boring ones:

• aswhite
• aswhite caveat emptor

Then there are the high school and college students working on assignments:

• caveat emptor
• emptor
• how to pronounce caveat emptor
• caveat emptor used in a sentence
• caveat emptor use in a sentence
• caveat emptor in a sentence

Then there's one person who didn't hear correctly:

• definition:creative emptor

Good luck with that one. Now we get to the interesting ones:

• freezing of the sabertooth cat: Something tells me you didn't find what you were looking for here. All of my saber-toothed cat references are stupid. I wonder, are you looking for instructions for how to freeze one? Do you have one? Can I ride it like a pony? I think that would make for really interesting pictures to post at Flickr and Facebook.


• dognose: That's not very nice.


• mountain of immortality: You'll never find it. You'll waste your mortal life trying. Just forget about it and find a great lover and enjoy the little time you have.


• on the middle of my chest: You are probably a pervert. You are, aren't you? You want someone to do something inappropriate, don't you? Ick. Email me. I know some people.


• protagonized: Sorry, I thought of it already. Clever, though. Very clever.


• gnikam: It's "making" backwards. I've already used it.


• my interesting wife: I'm afraid I cannot tell you about your interesting wife. I could tell you about mine, but I don't even know you. You might be that icky "middle of my chest" pervert from above. Go away.


• neverwhere review: I did one long ago. I hope you liked it.


• popular male female diagloues: I'm surprised that search term landed here with the word "popular" in it. Must be a glitch in the Google search algorithm.


• the joke proper: That is so something I would say. "And now we get to the joke proper," I would say as I polished my monocle.


• aphter: Ah yes. That serial-episode story I wrote. I haven't looked at it for some time. The thing that amazes me about it is that I saw it through to the end (such as it was.) Sixty posts. That's amazing for me. I rarely finish things.


• paper on inanimate objects: Be careful. Paper destroys rock. I'm not sure why, but it does. Rock destroys scissors, scissors cut paper, and paper destroys rock somehow.


• you would never suspect: I know. You wouldn't, right? Nevertheless, those are the rules. Paper destroys rock. Go figure.


• inanimate objects are trying to drive humans crazy: Shhhh! The chair is listening. We cannot let them know we know. (Also this: If you really believe this, I'd say they've succeeded.)


• poem sunny winter day: I don't think I've ever written one. I did have a post recently, but it wasn't a poem. Also it was weird.


• dialogue male female: I have several of these. Enjoy.


• male female acting dialogues: I guess you could use them for that.


• hollow point bullets: You are obviously an angry, frustrated KKK member. I sent your info to the Obama people. They're probably pulling up outside of your trailer right now. And your gun is in the pickup. What are you going to do?


• study madness before going mad: It makes more sense if you wait and study it later.


• caveat: ask for help before frustration sets in…: You're talking to the KKK guy, aren't you. That's the thing with macho, redneck men. They never ask for help until it's too late. They're afraid to show their real feelings. They don't hug enough.


• beck thetan: It's true. He's a Scientologist. Isn't that depressing? I think so.


• hello sweaty how are you today?: Do you mean "sweety"? If so, you're misspelling it and you should probably fix that. If, however, you really are asking a person named "Sweaty" how he/she is doing, then the answer is obvious: They're hot. Hot and sweaty.


• i'm gonna live forever. i'm gonna learn how to fly fame: Go for it! I believe in you, anonymous stranger!


• obla dee obla da: Life goes on. Bra.


• knuj modnar: It's "Random Junk" backwards and I used it already. Sorry.


• some lines of beautiful thoughts: Aw, shucks. Thanks, Google.


• devil talking to me: You shouldn't assume that everyone is about you. Maybe the devil is talking to someone else. Has she called you by name? What is she saying to you? Wait, you're not that KKK dude from above, are you? Seriously, dude, lay off the meth and join a support group.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

What It Is To Be Human

It's Time For You To Know My True Identity

It's me. That's my Staff of Hitting People I Don't Like in my hand.

I got the idea from Vahid.

You can make your own here. Leave me a comment if you with a link to yours.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thoughts After All

Do you ever wonder if the end of the world has already happened? Maybe this is what comes after the world. Have you seen the world lately? I haven't. I think the world may have ended a long time ago, like back when we were in seventh grade. How would we have noticed? We were so distracted back in those days. We were all caught up in things that seemed so important at the time. Remember? It's easy to see from here that they were just silly, childish things. Things always looks smaller from far away, after all. Meanwhile, the world was ending. The grownups didn't tell us because they didn't think we needed to know. Then it slipped their minds. And now here we are, grownups ourselves. We have inherited this ended world and we're supposed to just keep going, raising new seventh graders, sparing them the details. It's almost more than I can stand.

Remember the world when she is gone, my friend. Remember the way the birds used to sit atop things. Sometimes cats crouched under cars or perched on bookshelves. Sometimes dogs flattened their stomachs against the cool tile floor. Sometimes elephants snuggled our toes at night from where they slept at the foot of the bed. Remember how rivers used to stop flowing on Sunday? Waterfalls just ceased their thunderous plummeting in midair and silence faded in. It was so quiet on Sundays that you could hear the fish walking along the bottoms of the lakes. Remember that? The world? Sometimes clouds would come down out of the sky through your chimney and join you for dinner. They were good conversationalists, and had liberal political positions for the most part, but everything in the house was soaked with condensation when they left. Remember? The world is a magical place. We'll miss her when he's gone.

Call me an optimist, but I believe we might be able to kick start this ended world in which we live. If we can get it rolling down a hill or something we can pop the clutch and get her going again. I bet there's still a little gas in the tank. What say? What do we have to lose? I'll work the pedals and you guys push. Who's in?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Misunderstanding

"He was driving on the wrong side of the road," she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Really? How the hell did he get down there?" He furrowed his brow confusedly.

"Down there? What?"

"Oh, wait. Never mind. You meant... got it."

"What are you talking about?" She frowned at him.

"For a second I thought you meant... Well, never mind, really. It was stupid." He waved his hand to dismiss the thought.

"Oh, you thought...?"

"Right."

"Upside down?"

"Well, I wasn't sure. Just forget about it."

She looked at him with concern. "I don't understand how anyone could even make that mistake."

"I said forget about it."

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! JEALOUS MUCH?

About My Wife

Upon being asked by That Girl what first did it for me where my wife was concerned, I wrote the following. She included it in her Valentine's Day post. The post contains several great stories submitted by various people. You should read it.

Being a simple sort of man, my desires and tastes trace along the lines of familiar patterns. It might not surprise one to discover, therefore, that my desire for the woman who has now been my wife for eighteen years was first stoked by common things. She was a girl, a young woman. She was nearby, within arm's reach. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair, elfin eyes, fair skin and a body that made me want to... well, it was very nice.

Of course, she was also quite intelligent. I've never been able to connect well with people who aren't smart. She had a quick wit and a thoughtful personality. These are just prerequisites, however. They set the stage. My good friend Carl has a quick wit and a thoughtful personality, but I've never been attracted to him. With Susan, therefore, her mind just greased the wheels for my intellect to consent to allow my body enter into a long relationship with hers.

Being a woman, in one sense, is a very objective and scientific thing. Who cares, really, about that technicality? In a more interesting sense, being a woman is a very subjective thing. For me, my wife has always been an archetype of what I consider feminine, of my idea of the beauty of women. She can, when her mind wanders into carnal notions, take on a curve that boils my blood. It's a sort of sweeping in of the small of the back, a turning up of the bottom, a raising of the chest, a slight shift of balance to one side. You would know it, I'm sure, if you saw it. When she does this I forget whatever I was thinking. My priorities realign. My voice falls quiet. My breath quickens. My eyelids slide down to half mast. Usually the closest thing I can manage to verbal communication is a low growl. The time for talking, after all, has passed.

Many things have changed in the eighteen years of our marriage, but this curve and its effect on me has not changed at all.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Question

When I confronted him about it he furrowed his brow at me angrily and tried to back away and retreat, so I grabbed his arm firmly at the bicep. Like most homeless men I've know, he was haggard and dirty, smelling strongly of dirt and beer and sweat. He glared at me as though furious, but I could see through his snarl that he was, in fact, terrified, assuming that I was a dangerous man because was so big, or possibly just because I was so audacious. Who, without danger to back it up, would have the audacity to grab another grown man by the arm and restrain him? Then he did something sad, he gave up. Like so many homeless men whose lives are slideshows of fear, moving silently from one frame to another, freezing in each scene, he just abandoned himself to my stronger will. His arm went limp, his snarl faded and his eyes fell to my chest.

"What did you say to me? Just now?" I asked, stooping my head a little in the hopes of engaging his eyes.

He looked up for an instant, but then cowed and dropped his eyes to the ground. "I didn't say anything," he mumbled.

"Just now? As I walked by? Why did you ask me that?"

At that he looked up with some conviction and hope. "Ask you what?"

"You tell me."

"I didn't ask you nothing," he said. "It was someone else."

"There was no one else. It was just you and me and you said it very clearly."

"I told you I didn't ask you shit," he snapped, and he tried to pull his arm away. "You must be hearing things."

"'How do we love the world?' That's what you said. I heard you. Why did you ask me that?" Saying the words sent chills racing up and down my spine. How many times had I heard the question? In how many places? In how many voices? My heart was pounding through my chest and I could feel the beat of it in my throat and head. I began to gasp for breath, anxiety welling up to overwhelm me.

"You're nuts," he said, pulling easily away from my failing grasp and hurrying away.

Hello, friends. How do we love the world?

Later. Love.

P.S. - Sasquatch or a rabbit? You decide.

In Loving Memory of Frank Furter

I just found out a dude in my high school graduating class had a sex change operation. Me? I say more power to her. If he wasn't happy and she is, then the world is a better place. I never really knew him, but I'm toying with the idea of going to my 20th reunion, so maybe I'll meet her. After all, it's all over in the end, people, and it might be later than you think. If you want to cut off your wiener, I say, "Go for it!" There is, after all, no shortage of  wieners in the world.

Meanwhile, on the floor of the Senate, people are having congress.

Did you ever wonder what the name of this song is, the one with the mellow finger dance on the guitar strings and the sultry alto singer practically moaning through the lyrics? I wonder about it right now. Were I to give this song a name, I'd call it "An Invitation to Congress, But Not a Sincere One." That's a long name, I know.

Meanwhile, on the floor of the Senate, ducks look back fondly on the low pressure of their lame days when people weren't constantly pointing out the unsightly pork stuck in their bills. [That sentence was so ridiculous. It cracks me up. So, so, so ridiculous.]

I'll be keeping my wiener. I'm not keeping it because you think I should, though. I'm keeping it for congress.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Messengers and Inanimate Objects

We were all, as drivers do on the Interstate, zooming by the man at seventy miles per hour. The violent wind of passing cars and trucks was throwing around his hair and blowing his light jacket up around his shoulders. He was standing on the shoulder of the median strip holding a small piece of paper up over his head with both hands. If it had anything written on it, it was too small to see from such a distance and at such a speed. He didn't move at all, seemingly oblivious to the murderous proximity of so much speeding traffic. It was a good location for advertising or mass communication, what with all the drivers passing by, but the chosen medium was woefully inadequate. He was failing to communicate with all of us, unless he was meant to be an object lesson of some sort. It seems a sad vocation, chosen to be an object lesson in the middle of the Interstate. Was anything written on the paper? I wonder what it said. It's easy to imagine that he was god in disguise and that the answer we're all looking for was scribbled on that piece of paper. It's exactly the sort of thing god would do, I think. She's like that.

Meanwhile, in the sewing box sitting in the dark, dusty corner of the closet nothing much has changed. No one ever sews these days. The box just sits there, year after year, full of the potential to sew. Life inside the box is easy and slow. There is plenty of time to think. It's very quiet these days. No one threads the needles as they peer forever into the dark with empty eyes. No one needles the pin cushion. The spools are not so tightly wound as they were in their youth. It may sound sad to you, all of them trapped there in that quiet, dark, musty box. That's because you're human. You're rife with animation and can hardly imagine the inanimate life as anything but grim torture and frustration. A pincushion, however, has no desire to drive seventy miles per hour down the Interstate. A spool of thread would rather stay put. If you tip the spool over, its roundness will follow gravity down to a place where some obstacle causes it to come to rest. It will then, if left to itself, stay there forever. It's not a wrong approach to life, it's just a different approach, like all the other approaches are different. It's the way inanimate objects roll.

A paper blows away in the wind, released by a crazy man in the middle of the freeway. No one knows where he is now. The paper, if you can find it, might say something you need to know.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thoughts Out Of Line

Although he was certain that technologies existed to make it unnecessary, Will always stood in line at the bank to deposit the various checks that came to him or to withdraw money from his accounts. He did this because he enjoyed the press of humanity, the electric urgency of impatience in the air, the slow, shuffling dearth of speech. "If you could harness the bristling, restrained energy of the bank teller's line," he thought, "you could power the future."

Occasionally some loquacious or ebullient soul would break the spell of the line, drawing all of the energy into himself or herself, joking with everyone, asking people where they had been, where they were going. Will could never imagine being so open a receptacle for the energy of others. When imagined saying anything, he imagined whispering to the woman in front of him, "you're so beautiful" or "I think I might love you." He imagined this sometimes even about men, turning to some handsome young guy and saying, "My god you're beautiful" and maybe reaching for his hand. These thoughts, the horror of them, made his fingers twitch. He would feel the awful compulsion rising from his gut, up his throat, into his mouth, and pressing for release against the clench of his teeth.

Today the woman two people ahead of Will in line was stunning. Just stunning. "Maybe we could just be friends," he thought of saying to her. "We could sit at cafes and talk and laugh and share and you would think I am a great, trusted friend and I would watch your lips move and cast sneaking glimpses at your breasts and smolder for you forever in secret while you love other men." He could smell a sweet, spicy perfume in the air that he hoped was hers, but there was no telling from this distance. He could find out, if he really wanted to. He could leave his place in line, walk up to her, lean in close to the base of her neck, where it curved into her shoulder, and breathe deeply, her hair falling against his cheek. Then he would know for sure. He did not do this, however. He stared instead at his shoes while his fingers twitched a little.

When he finally reached the teller she was a small, plump, olive-skinned woman with hair black like midnight, a soft, clear face and eager eyes. She must have been generous of spirit to maintain such a friendly smile in the face of such a frustrated press of human occupation and preoccupation. His imagination leapt away from him just as he was about to speak and he had a quick vision of kissing her deeply, lying naked in twisted blankets and sheets, the generosity of her soul and flesh all intent passionately upon him. His heart pounded a strong thud, his mouth dried out, his voice caught in his throat and his fingers twitched. His cheeks blushed red. "What can I do for you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

A Taste of My Daily Reality

What I've been working on is really boring. Don't believe me? Look: The software on which I'm working needs to have a robust data-model. The data-model needs to be flexible and track all changes to data and also to schema. We need to be able to modify the data-model easily. So, I've been working on a system to allow defining the data-model. This tool will allow me to describe the data-model according to its facets and the relationships among them. The definition of these things will be contained in a database. This is where things get a little complex. I've been working for a while on the exact database structure to use for storing the definition of the data-model. This means, yes, I'm working on a data-model to store the data-model. This is what we in software engineering call a meta-data-model, or just a meta-model.

Here's the thing. I'm finding that, as I delve deeper into the requirements of the system, not only does the definition of the data-model keep changing, but the set of facets I need to be able to define for the data-model keeps changing. This means, if you're still following me, that I'm finding the need to have a flexible definition for, not just my data-model, but also for my meta-model. The meta-model controls, after all, what you can define about the data-model. If the meta-model is inflexible, that is reflected in an inability to richly change the definition of the data-model.

So, I'm going off the deep end. I'm working on... are you ready for this?... a meta-model for my meta-model. A meta-meta-model. If I change the meta-meta-model I can regenerate the meta-model, giving me a greater ability to define the data-model.

See? I told you. Boring. Maybe this will help you understand why I am the way I am. I would change my facets and become something different if I could, but I'm not sure I have a flexible meta-model, and I'm quite certain my meta-meta-model is set in stone.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

A Poem for W

A poem for George Bush:

O, W

O, George

George W Bush

I do not hate you

Even though you are exactly the kind of dumb

that makes me want to jam steak knives into my ears

I know that you did the best you could

And now you're coming back home

Where the buffalo roam

And the deer and the antelope

run for their lives

so as not to be barbecued

I wonder, George

What do you think about?

when you're alone in your overstuffed leather recliner

and the Texas A&M/University of Texas football game

is in that boring part of the middle of the third quarter

and there's no one else in the house

except the hounds

and your pet turtle

whom you named Tony Blair

Do you ever wonder if there is a God?

Do you ever ponder the limitlessness of space

or the unfathomable endlessness of eternity?

Do you ever wonder if space aliens

are approaching the planet

while the ESPN announcer blathers about BCS standings

and whether the aliens will be friendly

or whether they will liberate us?

If I could give you one gift, George W Bush

I would send you on a magical quest

accompanied by three elves

and a gay gnome

and you would have to cross the Valley of Shadows

and slay the dragon Molgorthrunderbern

and find your way through the caverns of Krom

and find the Amulet of Zarthor

and put it on

and gain the power

to pronounce difficult words

and also to understand the suffering of commoners

even if they speak other languages

and worship other gods

and wear funny clothes

and have sex with people of the same sex

and don't eat barbecue.

O, George

Enjoy the football game

George

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

A Traditional Form of Joke

Life has a funny way of teaching us lessons. Have you noticed this? The other day, for example, life dressed up like a clown and taught me the value of friendship. Funny, right? Life is a little creepy. Have you noticed this?

Now, the joke proper:

A priest and rabbi walk into a bar. Sitting at the bar, drinking a beer in moderation, the priest asks, "Friend, is it true that you can't eat pork?"

"Yes," the rabbi responds, sipping his own beer. "It's true."

"Wow," responds the priest. "That's too bad. Pork's pretty good, you know. Have you ever tasted it?"

"To be perfectly honest, my friend, I've tasted it a couple of times. It's pretty good."

"It sure is," the priest says.

"And let me ask you, since we're asking questions," the rabbi says, "you're supposed to be celibate, no?"

"I am supposed to be and I am."

"And I wonder, have you ever tried...?" The rabbi raises his eyebrows knowingly to the priest and winks.

"Well..." the priest smiles and looks down into his beer, "...to be honest, I have... in the past you know... a couple of times."

The rabbi nods and takes a sip of his beer. "It's better than pork."

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - I decided to delete this last line because it makes it less of a joke and more of a story. As a joke, it should end with the punch line.

Scene From a Doctor's Office

We are waiting in line at the checkout desk at the Orthopedist's office, waiting to handle paperwork and payment and such. By we, I should clarify, I mean me and my 15-year-old daughter, Robyn. It is a Pediatric Orthopedist, which always feels funny to me because my kids are older. There are all these little babies and toddlers and grade-school children running around. Meanwhile I'm there getting Robyn's cast removed from her broken pinky, the one she broke playing basketball about a month ago. She's almost six feet tall and... well, that just looks a little funny at the Pediatric Orthopedist is all I'm saying. I can tell she feels a bit awkward about the contrast, so, as a good father, I decide to needle her about it.

In front of us at the desk is a mother with a tiny two-year-old girl. The clerk says, "Would you like a sticker?" The girl would indeed like one, apparently, so she picks out a panda sticker.

When it's our turn, I ask Robyn, "Would you like a sticker, Robyn?"

"No," she says, smiling in that embarrassed way. She starts fiddling with the stickers, rearranging them and straightening them in their little rack.

"Are you sure you don't want the turtle one?" I ask her. "It's cute."

She picks it up and looks at it. "Oh," she says, "it is a turtle. I thought it was something else."

"It's very definitely a turtle," I respond, furrowing my brow and wondering how should could think otherwise.

"You're very definitely a turtle," she quips.

She has a point.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - On the way back to the car she remembers that Jason Mraz looked like a turtle on Saturday Night Live last Saturday. He sang from the side of his mouth and craned his neck crookedly, tilting his head as he crooned into the microphone. Just like a turtle does. She has a point. Thanks for stopping by.

Super Bowl Recap Extravaganza with Orthogonal Asides

I used to have this process where I would think of something to say and then I would say it. I called it my process. Lately it doesn't seem to be working for me. Lately I'm trying to get by with this alternate process where I don't think of anything to say and then I say it. Sometimes I do this thing where I think of something to say and then I fail to say it, saying something else entirely. I think I preferred my former process, but I cannot seem to get back into the groove. Take this post, for instance. This post is supposed to be a love poem.

Most of you have heard at this point that the Pittsville Stealers defeated the Arizona Bishops in the football match last evening. I watched the match and was completely riveted by the final period in which the Red Birds looked as though they might out-point the Stellars, but Pittston hurled a mighty score throw with mere seconds left in the competition and Arisita was unable to advance to the scoring region far across the grassy field before the final inning expired. Hail to the Steelites! They are the lords of their sport for now, having won the World Cup of American Football, the Super Cup!

Have you ever noticed how numbery football is? There are numbers everywhere. John Madden is probably a math prodigy, like Ben Affleck's former lover in that movie they wrote together where Jason Bourne hugs bearded Mork. "It's 3rd and 2 in the 4th and the ball is on the 24 with 11:17 left to play. It's an 8 point game so they'll have to go for 2. Warner is 65 of 80 this season, number 5 in the league. The Steelers have 4 out left, but the Cardinals are bringing 5." At the end of the game, if I figured everything correctly, the answer was 17. Is that what everyone else got? 17? I might have added wrong in the 3rd quarter. I don't know.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.