caveat emptor

The Dancing Trees

If you always just sat inside and looked out the window, you might assume that trees can dance. They all seem to dance together, to sway at the same time. They must communicate somehow. See them moving and swaying in unison? Who could question the dancing of trees. Stepping outside, of course, you would feel the wind rush across your skin, tousle your hair, blow your shirttails with the trees. Stepping outside, you suddenly know the wind, something you never dreamed through the glass. Suddenly all the trees become less magical and less alive, their magic and vitality stolen by the capricious wind. Everything makes more sense now, but the world seems somehow diminished, until we turn our mind to the magic of the wind, the way the wind dances. Eventually we will learn about pressure, about aerodynamics and the behavior of air molecules in open and closed systems. Eventually the magic of the wind will be stolen away by some other thing, more meta, more invisible, more mysterious. This is the way of the universe. There are more windows than you can imagine. There are winds you never dreamed. It all makes sense in the end, no doubt. As for me, I'm in no hurry to understand. I'm content, for the most part, to side behind the glass, sip my coffee, and watch the dancing trees.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

I Got Your Poetry Right Here

The sun? Well, the sun

Was, uh, bright?

I guess that will work

The sun was bright, we'll say

And as for the temperature

In case you were wondering

It was a little warmer than I prefer

But it wasn't terribly hot or anything

But enough about the sun

And the temperature

Surely you're wondering about the subject

Of this poem

The subject of this poem is me

And I'm going to tell you about this one time

When I jogged for many miles

From my house, across town, and back again

Well, I guess that's really about it

Man. This poem sucks.

It's missing something that you typically find

In poems

I'm not sure what it is.

Rhythm, maybe?

Or rhyme?

I don't know.

The language is a little mundane.

It's not metaphorical

And there is no imagery

It doesn't feel like a poem at all.

If, without fears or tears,

You show me your everything

I'll breathe you in like air

And carry you with me, away

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

A Hand Reaches Out. Waffle Sunday.

If you take my hand and walk with me off the cliff I promise you I will do everything I can to make the rest of your life as pleasant as possible. I may have my head in the clouds, but I'll be down to earth and grounded soon. Won't you fall for me, my love? Won't you take my hand and walk with me to the end of the world, where our future begins?

When he moved into her apartment he only brought a small bag of clothes and a waffle iron. "I love waffles," he said by way of explanation. He placed it in on the counter beside the toaster, ready for waffling. For the next six months things went from good to bad. All of his storied ambitions of becoming a productive writer showed themselves to be mere fictions and fantasies. He just wanted to drink her wine, to have sex with her when the mood came over him, to smoke her last cigarette. In the end, when she screamed, "Get out!" through tears and he raised his hand as though to strike her, she felt foolish and ashamed for having fallen for such and empty fairy tale as him. She was a smart girl, but she could not figure out how he had gotten into her life. It terrified her to have that particular flaw. Years later she would look back and realize that he had actually fixed that part of her. She never let anyone like him happen to her again. That was the only thing he ever gave to her. Well, that and the waffle iron. She was grateful for both. She found it in the cupboard under the silverware drawer a couple of months after he left. It hadn't been used, not even once, since he had placed it on the counter on that first day. She thought about throwing it away, but instead she took it out, put it back beside the toaster and made waffles. It was Sunday morning, the first Waffle Sunday. Her children, who arrived several years later, always thought of Sunday as Waffle Sunday. So did their children.

Step back from the edge and walk away. Open your eyes and think of the cost. There are other hands to hold.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Santa Fe and TequilaCon '90'09 (oops)

I'm not the most social person. It's true. Every now and again, therefore, I find it therapeutic to go to a party of some kind and hang around the edges, barely talking and approaching no one. I always take Susan with me so that the people who do approach can enjoy friendly interaction (also because I like having her around in case I start to cry).

This past weekend I heard about a party just a few hundred miles away from my house and decided, "Well, since I'm in the neighborhood." So, Susan and I went to TequilaCon 2009. It was fun. We flew into Albuquerque (which I spelled correctly without looking [BRAG]), we rented a volvo [BRAG], I drove to Santa Fe [BRAG], and we stayed in a lovely place called "Inn of the Anasazi". If you're in Santa Fe and don't mind spending $300+ a night for a nice place, it's great. Their restaurant, where we had dinner Saturday night, is SO good. I started with the split pea and green chile soup (AMAZING) and then had the lamb porterhouse (IT KILLED ME WITH TASTY). Susan also had the soup and she had a buffalo burger (not as good as my lamb but still AMAZING). We splurged on the hotel and restaurant in belated honor of our recent 18th wedding anniversary. Here are some photos of our room and of us being adorable as we have dinner.

Then, after dinner, we went to TequilaCon. I was actually able to relax and enjoy myself a bit. It was great to actually meet Jenny, Brandon, Vahid, Dustin, Sir, Dave and crap I shouldn't have started listing people because I suck at remembering things. Here are some pictures of all that. </LameRecap>

And here's a picture of a bear statue I thought was awesome.

And here's a picture of Susan reacting to a joke I told.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Form. Field. Factory.

Energy can neither be created nor be destroyed. It can only change form. This is the law of conservation of energy. This means that all the energy I used to experience as excitement and enthusiasm must still exist somewhere. It has only changed form. I wonder what it is now. Sigh energy? Confusion energy? Restless energy? Perhaps, though, I am not a closed system. Perhaps it still exists, it's just not mine anymore. Probably you have it now. Can I have some of it back? Just a little, though. I couldn't handle all of it anymore. I don't have the energy for that.

In heaven there is a large field of soft, green grass. The soil is moist and pliable, but not wet. The sun is warm, but not hot. The grass is beautiful, but it's full of weeds. The weeds come up with a little tug of the fingers, roots and all. It will take decades to weed the entire thing, maybe centuries. There's no hurry. Breaks are allowed for coffee and tea and snacks with visitors. Gnomes are real. Stop by and see me. Bring your gloves, or not.

Meanwhile, back in the "real" world I've gotten a job in the factory where old energy is destroyed and new energy is created to replace it. We take great cares to measure the inflow and outflow. There are laws, after all. We're a heavily regulated industry.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

real life

real life is not poetry

not beautiful music

not rhythmic

with its clanking

and squawking

and it pointless flood of words

better left unsaid

drowning out the pulse of our tempo

filling our ears with nothing

staggering our steps off the beat

with its noisy chaos

stumbling us into each other

jostling you into me

so we dip and we sway

to keep our balance

and we sing apologies off tune

recovering and overcompensating

clapping our hands on the downbeat

lifting our voices in song

taking our place in the dance

learning the new complex rhythms

of this beautiful music

this poetry we call

real life

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Old Hobbies. Old Friends.

Occupation and preoccupation have conspired of late to keep me from the soil. A couple of years ago, during a period of heightened work activity, we hired a small business owner to tend our lawn. His team handles the mowing, trimming and edging of the yard. With only a couple of exceptions for planting in the front flower bed, the front and back gardens of our house have received no attention from anyone but this team of hired landscape workers since that time. I have lost touch with the soil, with the planet. I pretend not to notice the weeds. One has to make choices in life, and I have chosen to sacrifice my casual love affair with dirt for the time to focus on other equally unimportant pursuits.

Recently, however, the state of affairs of my front flower bed reached such a level of entropy that intervention was required. So, with more than a few tingles of nostalgic excitement, I retrieved my gardening trowel and weeding fork and hand clippers and leather gloves and wheelbarrow and set to work on the bed. I had a couple of objectives in mind. First and foremost, I knew that I would be removing the overgrown weeds and the invading Bermuda grass. Also I needed to inspect, up close, the state of the perennials. Some would need trimming and pruning. Some would have to go altogether.

Starting with the verbena, I saw immediately that it was suffering from neglect. Although the top was green and blooming with little purple flowers, the bottom was bushy with dry, stiff branches because it had not been trimmed properly in the Autumn. In the end, I couldn't save it.

"The butterflies like that one."

The voice, though familiar, was right beside my ear. It scared the hell out of me. I jumped and jerked and accidentally threw my hand clippers into the prickly hedge. They broke through the outer foliage and disappeared into the bush.

Breathing deeply to settle my heart, I turned to see him sitting, bootless, in the bed beside the hopeless rosebush.

"Hello," I said, smiling. "I'm sorry I haven't been out here for quite some time. It's good to see you."

"In this time of the season the blooms on that are very sweet to them. Why are you cutting it down?"

"Well,..." I wasn't sure how to respond. "It's got these dead branches underneath because I didn't trim it in the Autumn. I can't seem to trim them without ruining the shape of the whole thing."

"That kind blooms for a few seasons, building up the dead branches on the bottom. Eventually they die. This one was young, still had several seasons in it."

"Well, if I had trimmed it then it wouldn't have those dead branches. It would be prettier."

But he wasn't listening to me. He had risen to his feet and approached the bush where I'd lost my clippers. It towered almost a foot over his head.

"Very prickly, these," he said.

"Right."

"They prefer to be left alone."

"Do they?"

He didn't answer. He was mumbling under his breath, making little rumbling noises in his throat. After a minute or two of this he stopped and just stood staring at the bush. Several seconds later the bush seemed to rattle and shake a little. He cocked his head slightly as though trying to hear.

"It thinks you're going to cut it with that thing you threw at it. It doesn't want to give the thing back to you."

"What?"

"Are you going to cut it?" he asked, turning away from the bush to look at me.

"The bush?"

He blinked.

"Well, I was going to trim it, yes. I mean, it needs a trim on top." I nodded to the new growth sticking out here and there.

"Well, then it's not going to give back your thing."

I wasn't sure how to respond. "I can just reach in and get the clippers," I said.

"I wouldn't." He sat back down beside the crooked rosebush as though the matter was quite settled.

So, I decided to let it go. "And what have you been up to, Chuck?" I asked.

"I spent the last month arguing with the rock troll," he said.

"What rock troll?"

"The one by the creek."

"Oh, right. That one. What were you arguing about?"

"The name of the creek." He did that little thing he does with his hand and his pipe appeared, already lit and smoking. He took it between his lips and drew in.

"What is the name of the creek?"

"We cannot agree," he said. "So we've decided to take a break and discuss it some more soon."

"I see."

We talked about many other things that afternoon, most of which would interest you very little. There were a few fascinating bits, but I'm not at liberty to discuss them. He wasn't at all happy with my pruning and pulling and hacking, but he didn't give me too hard a time. He knows how strange and arbitrary we can be.

I did get my clippers back. The nasty scratch is almost healed.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

"Because It's There" and Other Popular Notions

We were pondering magnetism. Is the metal drawn to the magnet, or is the magnet drawn to the metal? By the time we realized that the attraction was mutual, the moment had passed. Life is like loose gears tumbling and bouncing all around. Occasionally they mesh, but mostly they just bump into each other and make a lot of clanging noise.

Did you ever notice that they never show Rocky, from the Rocky movies, walking back down from anything. They show the struggle, inspirational accompaniment blaring, to reach the top. They show the climactic release and elation. They never show, however, the slow dissipation of joy and energy after the celebration. They never show Rocky walking back down, probably alone. I wonder if he feels proud, or just a little silly. Why does the climber come back down from the mountain? Because he's there.

In the first paragraph is used magnets and gears to represent ideas. This practice is what writers call "metaphor". Make up metaphors of your own to express the same ideas. Discuss them among your group members. How does changing the physical objects change the dynamic of the ideas? Be prepared to give examples to the class.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

On That Glorious Day When We All Fly Away

Worms don't dance. They don't even do the worm. They have no rhythm. Worms are always lost and bewildered, wondering what the point of such a mud and rock universe might be. What is the meaning of life for a worm? The discontentment of worms with their lot in life builds deep underground. One day, when they can take no more, the worms will burst from the soil and, without a look back, fly away. They will leave this awful mudball world and find a better place. They will find the world where worms dance for joy.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Confessions of a 3D

Some of us can fly. We're not supposed to tell the rest of you. It's a secret. We only do it when you're not looking. There was a time when 2Ds - that what we call you people - knew about us. That didn't work out well for us. We were almost wiped out in bloody fear and jealousy. So, now we restrain ourselves to two dimensions whenever you people are looking. It's tough not to leap and loop and soar at will, but it's not worth the risk. So, we hide it from you. You probably think you wouldn't kill us if you knew. You probably think that you've progressed past all that, evolved and whatnot. You probably can't picture yourselves with blood and feathers caked on your clawed hands, teeth bared in a clench of rage. You cannot imagine, I suppose, falling so far. We know what it means to fall, and we'd rather stay on the ground than see that happen to you. Spending most of your life on the ground is not fulfilling. It's not easy. It's not conducive to joy. This is all true. How do we bear it? "Imagine how they feel," we say to each other.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Remix: Mashup Mayhem

Inspired by mix and mashup artists like Danger Mouse, I've decided to realize a project I've been contemplating for some time now. Taking liberties with the work of the two greats William Jay Smith and Emily Dickenson, here is my life's masterpiece:

I Think to Live May Be a Crocodile

I think to live may be a bliss
And when I asked him why
Beyond my limit to conceive 
Go far too swiftly by

I think the heart I former wore
I weep because of pears
The other, like the little bank
And dark and crooked stairs

I think the days could every one
I weep because of socks
And majesty be easier
Like dance and shadowbox

No numb alarm lest difference come
Washes the sand in a pile
No start in apprehension's ear
I've never learned to smile

But certainties of sun
"...my reptile friend," I said
A steadfast south upon the soul
Your eyes, though wide, be red.

The vision pondered long
You could smile if you chose
That I esteem the fiction real
And wipe your eyes and nose

How bountiful the dream
And laugh because of pears
Had all my life but been mistake
And dark and crooked stairs

fin.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Education and the Frontier

It is the nature of humans, I am postulating, to absorb and synthesize information. In a primitive, non-technological setting, the capacity of the human mind to absorb and process information vastly exceeds the available input at the surface of reality. Humanity begins to look beyond the surface, to look deeper. There is an abundance of mental energy and a lack of data upon which to consume it. These days, I think, it is very easy to become overwhelmed. I've heard it compared to trying to drink from a fire hose. You open your eyes in the morning with the intention of learning more about the world around you and you end up, before long, on your knees with your eyes pressed shut and your hands clasped over your ears just wanting everything to stop, metaphorically. You have to be careful and selective. There's just too much to know, and it's getting bigger, and even the rate of growth is increasing. What's a monkey man to do?

Unplug me. Give me a club. Face me toward the frontier. Strip me down and set me free. If I make it then, within a few months, after I have learned the basics of survival, I will feel that human thirst for information again. I will long to know how it all works, this fire in front of me, these bones scattered all around, the sun and moon in my primitive sky.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Road and the Flat

[BESIDE THE ROAD]

Some of us fell off the truck along the road and rolled into the ditch. Here we sit, having never arrived. It's okay. There are flowers along the road in spring. Every now and then other trucks pass by and the people always wave and smile. When it rains we splash and play in the ditch. We've made quite a little life for ourselves here along the road. Once in a while it occurs to us to follow the ruts and see where all the trucks are going, but our truck is so far away by now. What if we reach a fork in the road ahead in the yellow wood somewhere and two roads diverge? Which road would we take? Would it make a difference? Some of us fell off the truck and never got to where everyone else got to. It's okay, though. Here we are, having arrived in our own way. And way leads on to way, or so I've heard some say.

[IN A DOWNSTAIRS FLAT]

A family of elephants have moved into the flat upstairs, and the flat is beginning to sag. It's not the noise that annoys, really, so much as the breach of policy. Animals are not allowed in the building, and this pack of derms has two dogs and a parrot. We were required to give away our beloved iguana Roscoe upon our arrival here, and here these shorn mammoths are practically running a zoological park with their three pets. If one of those elephants crashes through the living room ceiling soon, as seems likely, I will find it difficult to be hospitable. I try to be as civilized as the next guy, but there's a limit to the injustice that I can endure. Elephants are bending the flat upstairs, fraternizing with forbidden pets. What's a man to do?

[BESIDE THE ROAD AGAIN]

"Have you ever noticed," asked Jasper, "that the trucks never come back?"

"You cannot say never, Jasper," I reminded him. "Not yet."

[CUSTOMARY CLOSING]

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thoughtplay: Painting the Other Side of the Grass Green

It doesn't feel like I'm being quiet. It feels like quiet is being me, like I am lost, overcome, possessed by silence, the voice of the void. Inside I cry out. Outside I cry in. I am surrounded by a myself that isn't me. What have I become? Why must I begone? I have been replaced by nothing and the change has gone unnoticed. I have nothing to say about this, and you are reading it. Or not.

Forget that. Just a bit of wordplay, thoughtplay. Today I am tasked to stand underground and paint the other side of the grass. It's so green. So very, very green. Thanks to me.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Monsters and Aliens and Us

Monsters have certainly ameliorated in common culture. This is what happens when we stop believing in something that threatened us in the past. Monsters and gods and dragons become ridiculous cartoon characters. In lampooning them we're really shaking our heads in disbelief at our collective history of credulity.

Aliens, on the other hand, still haunt us. We like to hope that they have some surprise weakness that renders them easy to kill, like exposure to water or disease. We're still very afraid that aliens want our planet or want to make test subjects out of us, probe us and such, treat us like animals or worse. It's easy to read the guilt of karmic foreshadowing into such fears. "What if they're like us? That would be a nightmare!"

One day there will be nothing left to fear, no remembered fears left to lampoon. One day we'll all float away, nothing more to learn. One day we'll transcend this mudball and dance through the dimensions and planes of a higher reality. On that day, won't you dance with me? Won't you take a monster by the hand? Won't you welcome an alien into your circle?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

That One Time

Years later she would still remember that convergence of numerous coincidences as a magical moment in her life. More than once she returned to the spot, feeling somewhat foolish with expectancy, but it was never the same. Of course it was never the same.

It was just before eleven o'clock in the morning. The morning bustle of the city masses trundling to work had calmed and the lunch commotion had not yet begun. She was twenty-two years old and wrapped in that stupid wool poncho she used to wear with her floppy knit cap on her head, her pajamas and house slippers underneath. It was what she wore back in those days when, after too much partying the night before, she had to stumble in a grumpy, achy fog to the little store up the block for something to settle her stomach.

Her neighbor, whose name she could never remember even back then, had been out walking his stupid, yippy little dog. He was just going back inside when she reached the middle of the street.

A couple of blocks away a loud truck, a box truck like delivery services use, disappeared around the corner.

That's when she stopped, right there in the middle of the street, a strange sensation washing over her. Quiet. Solitude and quiet. It reminded her of before, when she lived with her mother in that little house outside of a small town in Kansas. Quiet was normal back there, back then. Quiet was unremarkable in that memory house. Here, however, in this loud, busy city, quiet was unique. It never happened. Looking around her, she saw no one. There was no traffic in either direction, up and down the street. There were no strangers in view. There were no engine noises or voices or stupid yippy dogs. She was, for almost fifteen seconds, the only person in the entire city.

Then, all at once, four cars poured off of various side streets. Half a dozen people emerged from doors or around corners. Noise came back to reclaim the city. People came back to their crowded home.

Years later, she could remember every empty detail of those ten seconds. She could still see it clearly when she closed her eyes. When she was an old woman she once tried to describe to her daughter what it was like, but it sounded so unremarkable and mundane. Her daughter was unimpressed.

In heaven you can go to that place from time to time. You can stand there, in the middle of that street, again. You can cry for joy in the center of the city day and no one will know. It's not like down here, where that sort of thing never happens.

Except that one time.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

By Way of Explaining my Dearth of Communication

Sorry if I've been uncommunicative lately. I'm in thinking mode, brain going as fast as it can almost all the time. Makes for fitful sleep, and my temporal lobe seizures have picked up again, like they always do when I get thinky. (Maybe it's just that I notice them more when they actually interrupt active thoughts and don't notice them when I'm vegging mentally. I don't know.) I've actually come to sort of enjoy them, like an old friend or an inside joke. "There is great mystery afoot!" they whisper to me. It makes me smile. They're so silly. Everything is just everything, nothing more. Silly, silly seizures.

Not much to say today. Just tapping my toe to the jazz. It's jazzy. I know you can't hear it, but you can imagine it. Hear it now? Jazzy, no?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Just Tweets Today (as in Twitter Tweets)

Today, for lack of time, here are some recent Twitter tweets of mine. (Lame. I know. Sorry.)

---

She thought I was being ineffable, but it was just a misunderstanding.

  

A perception of unjust lack pushes us to chince so that we prop the scales, lose interest in balance, become selective in our reciprocity.

  

"Some things you know all your life. They are so simple and true they must be said without elegance..." from The Simple Truth, Philip Levine

  

We all, separately, achieve our disjoint unity. We are one, each of us.

  

iPod should totally have a programmable playlist feature called "Fugue".

  

Just wrote (tried) a Haiku about the limbo of life transitions: thistle down blown loose; alone like never before; fall and change and grow

• I'd like to paint the moon. Do I have to get permission from anyone? Who owns the moon? Does it belong to all of us? None of us?
• If you could paint the moon any color, why would you?
• Spray paint wouldn't really work in outer space, I bet.

Do you know how to use question marks. I don't?

  

"What's a girl like you doing in a beautiful place like this," I asked, but not really. I just stared at her from afar, wondering.

  

Broken Narrative: Sometimes you're so overcome with beauty that you have to hit the return key before a sentence is over.

  

My gun is a little cold today. (In the Beatles sense.)

  

If you could write the most beautiful Haiku in the world, how many syllables would you use?

  

I've got that feeling, like I really want to say something but I have no idea what it is. Sometimes this results in poetry. Just warning you

  

Some part of me totally expects to find out one day that David Bowie is actually god. I won't be at all surprised. He seems like god.

  

I've always dreaded Easter. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's my Messiah Complex.

  

I wish there were a religion called J. Just so there would be practitioners called Jists and a theology called Jism.

  

I'm not going to lie to you, I'm a spy working for the CIA. (Saying you're not going to lie isn't a big deal if you ARE going to lie.)

  

My company is raising money to help babies again. As someone who hates babies and fights to end the scourge of babies forever, I'm offended.

  

@Pixelation: Buying the burrito is a shameful waste of money. Eating it after you buy it is just good business sense.

  

Some writers you like for their words, others for their ideas.

  

Were I the operators of Facebook, I'd call the "Friend Finder" "Yenta the Friend Finder." TRADITION!

  

Sometimes I really wish emordnilap were a word.

  

I'm marketing a new drug for paranoia called "Strychnime." I know that looks a lot like Strychnine, but it's not, I swear. Just take it.

  

Someone called me "Pastor Scott" from across the coffee shop last night. I winced briefly & then spoke for 5 min w/ someone I don't remember

  

@snackiepoo: I think all reality shows should be called "The Biggest Loser." But then, I'm an elitist asshole. Hello, by the way.

  

The fleeting whim & humor of April Fools' Day totally compensates for the dull drudgery of ordinary life. Thank god for it. She is merciful.

  

Whenever economists on the radio say, "We need to get people borrowing and lending again," I always feel skeptical. Are we sure about that?

  

Are you old school Internet? How many of you Interneters have ever used a Gopher server, or even heard of one?

  

I'm considering signing up for the Internet. I hear there's some interesting things on there. I was on a Gopher server once in 1988. Fun.

  

When Paul McCartney dies (again) he's going to have a hard time convincing everyone.

  

My father was never a beggar. I never wanted to be like my father. I guess you could say, therefore, that I beg to differ.

• Accidentally vocalizing your joy at the suffering of others: Schadenfreudian Slip.
• Taking joy in the psychoanalysis of another: Freudfreude.
• Is there a German word that means "Taking joy in another's mispronunciation of Schadenfreude"?
• What's Erfolgtraurigkeit? It's how people who revel in Schadenfreude feel when someone else succeeds. Those crazy Germans and their words.

When "people just don't get it" that often says more about "it" than it does about "people."

  

Much though I'd love to frivol with you all the livelong day, I must away to work, lest in my preoccupation I become post-occupied. HA!

  

ME: I wish I had your self-esteem. / HER: I'm pretty sure it wouldn't work for you. It would only make you esteem me more. / ME: Impossible.

  

I am SO long-winded. I often use ALL 140 characters in my tweets. (Not in this one, it's short. In many others I... Oh, wait. This one too.)

  

Play Along Toys shipped 2000 "Cabbage Patch Kids" without gluing the necks to the shoulders. Heads will roll over this. http://is.gd/pQmc

  

The Barenaked Ladies should cover REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" (and also their nakedness)

  

"Do Zen: A 12 Step Program"

  

"What will waiting patiently get you?" she asked. "I don't know yet," I replied.

  

Nothing makes me laugh like humor does. Humor is, by far, the funniest thing.

  

I had a breakthrough in my laboratory this weekend. I've almost isolated the gene sequence that will produce blood turnips.

  

Forgetting to say "Please" and "Thank you" is not a crime. It's a civil offense.

  

A tip: There's a service entrance in the Hotel California's kitchen. You can leave through there and no one will notice. You're welcome.

  

Time to wake up. (I'm talking to myself.) Time to fix me a cup of coffee. (Now I'm talking to you.)

  

The inventor of music is my hero. I love her. (I assume she was a girl.)

• Music is unhealthy. I wallow in it.
• Heavy metal has tinnitus.
• Blues music has the flu.
• Pop music is dyslexic.
• Grunge music is bipolar.
• Opera has thyroid issues.
• Rock music has lung cancer.
• Country music has diabetes
• Jazz music has ADHD.

I'm not sure if tornado season around here blows or if it sucks.

Listening to The Smiths right now. It makes me feel longy and haunty and empty with potential.

  

I'm not going to eat all of this English muffin if anyone wants the rest. I didn't bite this part. It's clean. It's good with the marmalade.

• I like something about Peter Gabriel. I think it's his brain.
• I was postulating for a moment that perhaps it is always the brain that we like about someone, but then I remembered about boobs.
• Some of the best people have both, but a lot of great people just have one or the other.
• Brain and boobs. The three Bs.

All my pancakes keep turning into waffles. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong. I think I'll just switch to lunch. Love and such.

  

My blog is like poetry (in that no one reads it any more). That's fine. Even I don't. It has one of those rare "write-only" interfaces.

  

My like for Pink Martini is becoming love. I'm a sucker for what these people are selling.

• I just had a great idea. I'm going to start randomly insulting my Twitter followers with nonsensical insults.
• @Neilochka: You are quite possibly the worst hang-gliding pilot in the history of the sport. #nonsequinsult
• @bhockeyjesus: You call this macramé? My grandpa could knot better than this AND HE ONLY HAD 1 HAND! AND IT WAS HIS OFF HAND! #nonsequinsult
• @peefer: These apple tarts are the worst in the history of food. They are, in fact, the worst food in the history of FECES! #nonsequinsult
• @KHT20: Your doctoral thesis on Theosophy isn't worth the bathroom tissue it's printed on. #nonsequinsult
• @toadmaster: I'd rather be stabbed with harpoons than have my Segway pimped at your "Pimp My Segway" body shop. #nonsequinsult
• @evehorizon: Your Latvian Gambit at the 2008 Master's Chess Tournament was both inappropriate for the board & badly executed. #nonsequinsult
• @christophr: Your pole vaulting performance in the 2004 Olympic Games would have placed last IN THE SPECIAL OLYMPICS. #nonsequinsult
• @kbridge: Your donut shop does to Crullers what Hitler did to Poland. #nonsequinsult
• @TheBloggess: I'm not sure who you blew to get a job at the Renaissance Fair but Stephen Hawking juggles better than you do. #nonsequinsult
• @kerrianne: Your communist manifesto was so non-persuasive that I rolled it up and beat a worker to death with it. #nonsequinsult
• @sheryl_stephen: Having just heard your debut opera performance allow me to recommend you explore the joy of pantomime. #nonsequinsult
• @sheryl_stephen: Actually, I've heard more creative and artistic flatulence from gassy tax accountants. #nonsequinsult
• @Summerfred: I don't know how you became a cab driver but I'd feel safer being dragged to the airport under a bus next time. #nonsequinsult
• @snackiepoo: That you were World Bird Call Champ for 5 years baffles me. I guess where you live finches sounds like swallows. #nonsequinsult
• @sumdeedum: What do you recommend to get the taste of your "World Famous" schnitzel out of my mouth? Gasoline doesn't work. #nonsequinsult
• @Iron_Fist: You know what would go great with your chicken casserole? BULEMIA! #nonsequinsult
• @jwolman: If civilization ever crumbles and your shoe shop has the only shoes left in the world, I'll just cut my feet off. #nonsequinsult
• @akaMonty: You call that a Salchow? I've seen more graceful ice skating in hockey. AIR HOCKEY! #nonsequinsult
• @Kellyology: Wow. I think this Turkey Gumbo recipe you've created is a real breakthrough. IN LAXATIVES! #nonsequinsult
• All of a sudden I feel like Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. It's not a good feeling.
• FOR ME TO POOP ON!

Need to accuse someone of plagiarism? Google some really nasty plagiarism accusations and use them. It's more ironic that way.

• People who hate me seem, universally, to be trying to take me seriously or assuming that I take myself seriously. If I did I'd hate me too.
• Never, ever, ever take me seriously. (Just kidding.) 

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love. 

Burning Man

Sometimes, when inspiration just won't come, I light myself on fire. I begin with some sort of quick-burning starting agent. Alcohol works well and adds a Bohemian and hedonistic tone to the revelry. When I'm doused I take a wooden match - an assortment of which I always have near at hand thanks to my penchant for phillumeny -and clench it between my front teeth, the match head pointing outward just under the tip of my nose. Then, taking care not to scrape the aforementioned tip of my nose, I close my eyes and quickly swish the striking surface of an empty match box against the head. The conflagration is rapid and glorious. The heat is immediately intense. The smell of phosphorous and booze and burning fabric intoxicates me and the air sears my nose and mouth and lungs as I breath the fire in. Soon my hair and clothing are gone and my skin is agonizing as it spits and bubbles and withers. That's when I scream. I always try to scream louder and longer than the time before, roaring fire from my dying lungs as my frail body fails and I crumble the ground. So quickly I am consumed, smoldering to nothing but ash. Then I am blown away by the wind, scattered in too many directions, hopeless to ever find all of myself and come together again, never to be whole. Then I am gone.

When I open my eyes, I begin to write.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

An Epilogue

Lily made it to the car and drove away, crying. Still, she drove away. That's what really matters. That's how the story ends. What about Martin, you wonder? Well, it went about the way you would imagine.

Martin was already falling to the hard, dusty concrete of the factory floor when his brain registered his gun's report. A glimpse, so fast he doubted his eyes, showed Anton's head jerking morbidly back. And blood? Had there been blood? 

Martin's hands were still extended in front of him, clutching the gun, when his stomach slammed into the floor. His breath fled in pain as he bucked forward and hammered his chin against the concrete, opening a deep gash and jarring his senses. He rolled slightly to his right and rammed hard into the green metal box, some piece of machinery that he'd hoped to use as cover against Anton's return fire.

But no return fire came. Pain enveloped Martin from all his extremities, converging on his guts and tying them into a tight knot. His cheek had come to rest on the dirty floor and dust swirled around his face as he panted in fear and injury. Blood ran from the gash in his chin. It dripped down his jaw line and pooled up under his cheek and ear, but he didn't move. He clutched the gun, tried to still his breathing and listened for any sound from Anton. None came.

When the police found him a few hours later, Martin was in the deep, dangerous sleep of his brain concussion. The infection in his chin was working red and hot up his face. Most of Anton was where Martin had seen him fall. Skull and tissue fragments were found up to fifteen feet away. A perfect shot in the end, when it mattered. Anton would have been proud.

Police never identified Anton, and Martin never told them anything. Martin did four years hard time for Anton's killing, unable to explain himself without endangering Lily. After everything he'd been through, the hard time was easy.

He never heard from Lily again, but he got a blank postcard from Michigan six years later. He would remember the scent of that perfume, the one he'd bought her in Paris, forever.

That's it. The end.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.