caveat emptor

The Unexplained

I brought enough for everyone if anyone wants some. Anyone? There's plenty. I made it myself. I think it's pretty good. How about you? No? Are you sure? I brought enough for all of us, just in case. No? Okay. Well, that's cool. I'll just hold onto it, then. Let me know if you change your mind. There really is plenty.

Dirty water, is that all we are? The planet is 85% water, or something like that. We're 70% or 90% water too. I forget the actual number. There's water in the dirt and water in the plants and water in the animals. Just dirty water, really. If you evaporated all the impurities out of this world you could drink it. Dirty water, that's all we are.

Sometimes I get tired of these hands full of emptiness, so I put all the emptiness into my pockets. Then I look and there's more in my hands. So I put that into my pockets. And then again. My pockets are so full of emptiness at this point that I fear they may burst, spilling emptiness everywhere. I think I might start canning it and storing it in the cellar. I wonder how long it will keep down there. "That's where I keep my emptiness," I'll tell the curious children. "Would you like some? I've got plenty. Why are you running away?"

Hello, friends. I should probably explain. Yes. I definitely should.

Later. Love.

Cold Notice and Lies About Eyes

I've given up on the ineffable. I cannot effin' figure it out. I've moved on, instead, to smaller mysteries. I wonder, for instance, why my car tells me when it's 37 degree Fahrenheit? My car doesn't tell me if it's 35 degrees, or 12 degrees or even four degrees. My car pops up a little message on the dashboard screen, however, if it's exactly 37 degrees outside. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with this information, so I've started logging it into a little ledger. I record the date, the time, the mileage and the temperature, which is always 37 degrees Fahrenheit. I assume someone is going to ask me at some point, when I go in for service, "How often have you driven this car in 37-degree weather?" What other reason could there be? So, like a good car owner, I log it into the 37-Degree Ledger and keep driving. I may not understand it, but I'm sure it's important. Probably it has something to do with Kevin Bacon. I don't know.

I haven't opened my eyes in almost six months. I've just been staying in the ruts. This is not meant to be understood as a metaphor but a literal fact. Opening your eyes always costs something and I've been a little short lately. I certainly hope I typed this correctly, since my eyes are supposedly closed and all. It's not true, of course. I could see that you didn't fall for it.

The 37-degree notification feature on my car is, I'm convinced, a bad implementation of someone's idea. This cannot be what they intended, whatever the specification said. Read through the specs, engineer. Ask yourself this question, "If I were a normal human being, how would I want this feature to work?"

Hello, friends. Cold?

Later. Love.

Irrational Concerns and Updates

Sometimes I am overcome with irrational fears, like my fear that every animal I cannot see has gone extinct. Today I'm concerned about manatees. Has anyone checked on them lately? Are they still there? Have you seen them with your own eyes? I hope they're okay. I worry so much about them, out in the water like that, all alone, without phones or email addresses. Do they have healthcare coverage? Have they put anything away for retirement? Has anyone checked their teeth lately? Do they brush and floss? How could they? There aren't any drugstores they can access. It's a troubling situation and I'm not sure what we can do about it. If you're near where the manatees live and you have a few minutes, could you check on them for me? I know they're probably fine, but it would be good to know for sure.

Okay. Breathe. Let it go, Scott. There's nothing you can do about it right now. Think about something else. [sigh]

People are constantly asking me, "How is Chuck, your Gnome friend?" or "How is your wife, Susan?" People want to know these things, but I'm usually too distracted by some nonsense to give a proper update about the people in my life. The answer is that Chuck is recovering well, though still struggling to keep food down, and Susan has an ogre friend visiting from somewhere far away and they have been making quite a racket drinking, smoking pipes and laughing loudly at jokes in some language I cannot identify out behind the shed every evening this week. I think that's right. I have troubling keeping the details straight, but I'm mostly sure that that's right.

Seriously, though, have you seen a manatee with your own two eyes recently? I'm really worried.

Hello, friends. I hope you, and the manatees, are well. Here's hoping.

Later. Love.

My Secret Blog and (finally) My Golden Globes Recap.

On my top secret blog for which only a very few elite people have the URL I have just completed a six-week-long series of daily posts in which I have detailed my beliefs, principles, ethics and morals. Everything I think is spelled out there in perfect clarity. I've wanted to sort through these issues and come to a clear understanding of them for some time. For too long my mind has been a jumbled wreck of trivia, song lyrics and punch lines. Now, on my secret blog, I've worked through it all. I'd love to go and read it and become acquainted with myself, but I'm not in the elite group that has the URL. Are you? Do you have connections over there? Could you get me in?

Meanwhile, back on the farm...

I suppose I should do a Recap of the Golden Globes. I've been procrastinating, but I'm tired of all the anxious and irritated emails begging for my opinions of the winners and losers and, of course, the fashion. So, without further ado, here's my recap: I didn't watch the Golden Globes, but I heard some of the dresses were very nice. You heard it here last. You're welcome.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Aren't you?

Later. Love.

Twick or Tweets (Get It?)

Today I'm posting a bunch of Tweets I've posted on Twitter. That sucks, I know. Some of them are pretty good though. What? They are. Some of them. Just read them. (Or don't.)

• It's true: I lack depth. I'm missing a few dimensions. I'm a tracing along familiar lines, the same old jokes all the time. A shtick figure.


• I find it offensive when I glance over at a woman and her boobs are staring at my eyes.


• dear people who decided things should be this way: i respectfully disagree.


• Our universe doesn't have to be probable because it's already here. Only things that don't exist yet care about probability. What is is.


• Let's write a song. I'll write the chorus, you write the verses and the bridge. Ready? Chorus: Singing, "Oh yeah. Oh yeah, baby. Baby yeah."


• "We're all outsiders, Ponyboy. You, me, Martin Sheen's kid, Squeaks, Matt Dillon, Fonzie, the Karate Kid, Cherry Coke, Tom Cruise, Cracker Jack and Rob Lowe. We're all outsiders and that's all we're ever going to be. Outsiders." (From "The Outsiders")


• Have you noticed that there are fewer imaginary animals flying around these days? I hope someone will lobby for their protection.


• I hope all your nightmares come false.


• Like a lot of you, I haven't really fleshed out the details of my Middle East policy. I should really do that before it's too late.


• I've always thought the attacks should have been on 7-11. It's funnier that way. (Still too soon?)


• Do you think the Beatles love us? It's hard to tell. Sometimes I think they're just pretending to like us so we'll buy their music.


• What's your favorite post-Beatles song? Most people like Lennon and McCartney, but I love "Moustache Fandango" by Ringo Starr and the Noses.


• Do remember where you're going to be when Paul McCartney dies (again)?


• I think Paul and Ringo should produce an album of the worst Beatles songs ever. "Greatest Misses".


• My new song is about a magic puffin named Drag.


• I've decided how I want my story to end. I wish I were writing it.


• I am wearing a jacket, an honest-to-goodness jacket. And I'm wearing a dishonest-to-goodness hat. And an honest-to-badness fake moustache.


• I am the Fake McCoy, the original, genuine, real Fake McCoy.


• I'm trying to get my imaginary friend to keep it real.


• I told him I felt fortunate to have avoided meeting him for so many years. I told him I'll always look back fondly on not having known him.


• Before there were mugs we all carried around handfuls of hot coffee. It was awful. Then we evolved mugs. Now we can type and drink coffee.


• I haven't tweeted in a while, so I'm completely full of shit. I hope you enjoy it.


• I want a bumper sticker that says "Guess What?"


• I want a bumper sticker that says "I'm Also Behind You".


• I want a bumper sticker that says "My Harpoon Gun Has 2 Car-Lengths of Rope".


• In truth, I don't have any stickers on my car. I would never put a sticker on my car. I don't like them.


• Also this: I don't wear slogan T-shirts. (I want a shirt that says that.)


• I consider the continuation of overcast heavens a kind of agnostic grace. The skies are full of doubt. Wherever you look, it's a grey area.


• He told me that great minds rarely agree. I agreed.


• Is the top of the morning at the beginning, the end, or in the middle? How is the morning shaped? I can't tell from here and now.


• There's a grackle walking around outside the window. I wonder if he's looking for me. Maybe Dumbledore sent him.


• You're always free to choose, but you have to choose. You have no choice. Freedom is mandatory, I'm afraid


• He told her that giving a man an erection is not really an accomplishment. "It puts you right up there with yawning," he said.


• People who become disciples of a leader have already missed the mark, I think. The leader would never have done that.


• You can never get behind yourself, nor in front of yourself. You can be figuratively beside yourself, but you may as well get over yourself.


• My high school French teacher just came into the coffee shop. She's the one who taught me how to say, "Je ne parle pas Francais."


• Movies that garner great praise but then turn out to be stupid are overrated.


• If I could share two truths with you I would only share one of them and I would keep the other one. It would be a big secret.


• I wear white, crew-neck, T-shirt undershirts. That's just who I am. Deal with it. I never wear wife-beaters, not even when I beat my wife. Also I don't beat my wife, except when we play trivial pursuit. I just get so angry when we play that game.


• The cop was chasing my car for a completely petty offense. It was a trivial pursuit.


• I now refer to the back of a right shoulder as "The North Face". I'm so open to suggestion.


• Google Wave scares me. I'm not going to be young enough to do it right. I can tell already.


• Sometimes my sense of humor cracks itself up. Sometimes it's not all it's cracked up to be.


• A lot of people don't realize that Eddie Murphy played every character in Beverly Hills Cop.


• I never meant to make you cry. I hope you will forgive me. Mostly, though, I hope that you will stop.


• Someone said, "There's something funny about a lot of sad things." I agree.


• I do try not to laugh loudly at funerals, or cry loudly at comedy clubs. I don't want to distract the mourners/victims.


• My mother raised me to be older than I was. I'm still working on that.


• She was arguing that L. Ron Hubbard invented histrionics. We were trying to explain the mistake to her, but she was throwing a fit about it.


• The difference between Dianetics & Diabetics is not subtle, though the words are very similar. This is why I never trust words to be clear.


• She said, "It doesn't matter how you smell." "Stinky people are unpleasant," I replied. "What? Oh, I meant 'spell'," she said.


• She threatened to throw a tiny statue of Moloch at me. I told her I don't respond well to idol threats.


• I recently decided my dreams weren't the right ones. I've picked new dreams. They're simpler, more attainable. They're more real, less ideal


• Is Kevin Bacon Jewish?


• Did you know Kevin Bacon's middle name is Crispy? It's true.


• Jack Black was in the movie Tenacious D with Meat Loaf who was in a sandwich with Kevin Bacon.


• I've never seen Squid Bob Sponge Pants but I've heard a lot about him from the young people. He sounds pretty cool and fresh and rad.


• "You could give minorities the right to vote, but what good would it do? Minorities never win votes." That almost makes sense, except not.


• Children are so adorable. I wish they would all leave this coffee shop and go have wonderful lives. Or just shut the hell up.


• How can you tell if a ventriloquist lawyer is lying?


• Disney has licensed the rights to the Balloon Boy story. They're going to call it "Up II: No Good".


• I still insist that people named Nicholas have the best nickname.


• I'm trying not to give foothold to evil in my life, but I can feel wickedness welling up like fire in my gut. Someone should stop me.


• You cannot count to infinity. There simply isn't time. Even if you go by tens it will still take forever. That's how infinity rolls.


• If they're going to press charges against the Balloon Boy family, they should list our dumb culture as an accomplice.


• My doomsday device isn't working. I cannot get the lights to flash. I haven't tried pushing the Doom button, but I bet it wouldn't work.


• It's so hard to believe that we're all the same species. Such variation. She looks more like a gazelle and I'm more a rhino.


• The technical term for liposuction is "hippoplasty". A lot of people don't know that.


• TV watchers seem to assume that you're judging them when you say you don't watch television. They do this because TV has made them shallow.


• A lot of Germans read my blog. I'm not sure what that says about me. Something guttural, I bet.


• I should learn to like the things normal people like. I wish it wasn't all so awful. That would make it easier. What's wrong with everyone?


• Does all this extra weight make me look fat?


• When I die, I want my last words to end with an ellipsis. People can debate the meaning of my aposiopesis for years to come.


• There is only one absolute, and this is it.


• He said, "Legalize same sex marriage? We've been having the same sex in our marriage for decades. I say OUTLAW IT!"


• I immediately regret this tweet. It's too honest, too raw. I'm foolish to be so vulnerable.


• I'm yawning. Yawns are contagious. Now you will yawn.


• Being a goy from TX, I'm no expert, but popular culture has left me with the impression that Yiddish is a language made up mostly of insults


• Druids dance and spin around the conifers, casting their swirls before pine.


• It's cold in this coffee shop. I wonder if they'll let me swim in the coffee.


• She asked me if I knew of a dating service that catered to older people. "Well,..." I replied, "...there's carbon dating."


• Whenever you play them on the jukebox you want your nickel back. That's how they got their name.


• He picked up 2 coins from her change and placed them between his lips absentmindedly. "You shouldn't lip her nickels at the table," I joked.


• The tiny clairvoyant lady from the movie Poltergeist has gone missing. That means there's a small medium at large.


• The new message on Flickr captions is funny: "This photo has people in it. Move your mouse over the photo to see them." I see them already. I'm a human, Flickr. Unlike you, I can recognize people in pictures.


• It seems to me that most people just aren't smart enough to understand the value of elitism.


• According to Gaiman it's an old saying. Have you heard it? "Every hour wounds. The last one kills." Not cheery, but I like it.


• In my next story there will be a man named Les Moore. Some people will call him Les, some Moore. He doesn't have a preference, Moore or Les.


• It makes no difference. Les is Moore.


• I always fly off the handle when people call me reactionary.


• Everyone is a different person every day. This belief has the dualistic advantage/disadvantage of preventing both resentment and intimacy.


• Why do people get so upset when you tell them their kids are ugly? It's not like you said they're ugly. (Even though they are.)


• I knew some guys in the 80s who got into Top Gun. Not the school, the movie. They REALLY got into it. Called each other IceMan and Goose.


• After hours of not talking on the fishing boat she said, "You take me for granted." Truth is, I take her for ballast.


• I finally perfected my new invention: The Skeleton Lock. You can open it with any key. I'm taking orders. How many can I put you down for?


• It's not really texting while driving that's dangerous, it's driving while texting.


• Jay Leno was all like, "Sometimes I feel like I'm being watched," and I was all like, "That's just your imagination."


• Once I had this dream that this monster was chasing me but then the monster woke up so the dream was over. I didn't know it worked that way.

Okay, so that was a crappy copout of a post. Sorry.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

The Set of All Things Belonging to The Set

My head is so full of undifferentiated thoughts that it might as well be empty. Nothing to say, but I cannot say nothing, so it's list day. I guess I should have a theme. Hmmm... a theme. Hmmm... what should the theme be? Hmmm...

The Set of All Things Belonging to The Set

• I've never seen a John Wayne movie and I never expect to. Not a fan of westerns or war movies. Not really a big action movie watcher. I think it's because I was raised by hippies. Peace.
• When the aliens come to take over the planet and use all the resources to power their space ships and harvest all the humans to serve as Hors d'œuvre for the big "Planet Takeover" party, I hope it's on a Monday and not on the weekend. That way we can all get out of school and work. Because of the alien invasion and all.
• I've never been a cannibal, but I do have a list of which people I'd eat if I were a cannibal. Is that weird? Does it make you wonder if you're on the list? Do you know if you'd go better with a red or a white wine?
• Cloudy days are the days when the gods can't stand to look at us any more. They come around eventually, but it takes a few days sometimes. They hate Seattle. Probably they're just jealous.
• Soccer, or football, was invented by the English. They wanted a game they could play without hands so they wouldn't have to put down their cutlery.
• In handball, is there a penalty called "Feet"?
• I've created my own language, but I cannot get anyone to speak it correctly. One small Asian country has adopted it as an official language, but they butcher it. They pronounce it correctly, but they totally screw up the choreography.

Such as it is, there it is. Indeed.

Hello, friends. I hope the day finds you well, and that you find the day satisfactory. How are you?

Later. Love.

On Fish With a Rhyming Aside About Where/How Things Live

A fish is not a pet, it's a decoration, a piece of furniture. Having a fish tank in your house is like having a curio cabinet or a china hutch or a shelf of shot glasses from various gift shops around the world. A fish never sleeps with you, snuggled up at your feet or in the crook of your side. Sleeping with the fish is, in fact, a euphemism for death. No one needs a fish, man. Not even a woman on a bicycle. I don't know.

Feet live in shoes. Words live in ears. Hands live in pockets. Pressure lives in peers. Stars live in heaven. Shadows live in light. Trees live in dirt. Colors live in sight. Kisses live in mouths. Waves live in seas. Dust lives in sunbeams. Squirrels live in trees. None live forever. Let's live today. We'll live completely, while live we may.

It's not that I don't like fish, mind you. I'm not anti-fish. I'm just pointing out the shortcomings of fish as companions. You'll never teach a fish to play basketball or volleyball, for example. They're too afraid of nets.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

The Man of Fall and Gary the Groundhog

Autumn is upon us. The nights are getting longer. It's like summertime for vampires. This is the time of year when the leaves fall and they don't come back until the fall leaves. It's jacket weather, casual people bundling up in flannel and fleece and sweaters and hoodies. I'm not sure what the dressy people wear. I bet it's expensive and uncomfortable. Suckers. My love for this time of year is much storied, though only on this blog. Last time I checked there was still no Wikipedia page about me.

Today I want to tell you the story of Gary the Groundhog and his struggle to get high-speed Internet access for his colony. Gary was a great hero among whistle-pigs, one of the great marmots of our time. He didn't ultimately succeed in getting the Internet access, but just filing the paperwork is pretty remarkable for a lowly woodchuck, if you think about it. But don't think about it. Surely you have better things about which to think.

I really have nothing to say this fine autumn day. The trees are getting bare, the bears are getting sleepy, the nights are getting long, the willows getting weepy. The skies are getting grey, the evenings getting colder, the birds are getting out of town, the kids are getting older. This time of year makes me thing of endings and beginnings, of growing up and growing old and growing closer and growing roots and growing restless and growing corn. Not sure what corn has to do with anything.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

Forces of Evil in a Bozo Nightmare

Whenever the lords of the underworld and all the arcane spirits of the forest come together in his palace of stone to ask David Bowie what he would have them do each day, all the world cringes and we pray silently that he will not unleash his terrible minions against us. David Bowie is subject to mystical whims and passions and there is always the danger that we will anger his eccentric sensibilities and pay the ultimate price. An old gypsy told me once that a poster of Elvis Costello on the back of your bedroom door will ward off David Bowie and his capricious servants. I don't know if it's true, but I keep it there just in case. One does what one can to protect his home from evil, after all. May David Bowie never come for you, friends. Amen.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

On Intramission

My new play is set during intermission at a play. The acting happens out in the foyer, with the audience milling around, playing the audience while also being the audience. After Act One we all go into the theatre for fifteen minutes and watch a local troupe perform a scene from Othello. Then it's back out into the foyer for Act Two. It's a concept play. We hope everyone gets it. It's called "Intramission".

I don't actually write plays. I write software, computer programs and such. A computer program is like a play in that it is written in a script and usually no one likes it except the person who wrote it. I don't actually write programs much these days. I mostly just sit around and tell other people what I think about the programs they write. I give unwelcome suggestions and criticisms. I roll my eyes and sigh and pound my fists and, every once in a while, raise my eyebrows in admiration of something clever, something I wouldn't have thought of myself. This is what I do. It's a lot like writing plays. There's drama and comedy. We have directors. We have critics. People throw flowers onto our stage. Pretty similar, I guess. Except for the makeup.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Friday List: ATILATIDINCO(E,OC,FTAA)

It's Friday. On Friday we make lists. Lists are easy. People like lists. Take my bosses, for example: My bosses would always rather read a bulleted list than long paragraphs of narrative text, however eloquent or well-crafted. Lists give you time to breathe. Lists have empty spaces between the words where your eyes can rest while you remember what it was like when you were little and everything was peaceful and easy and no one sent you lists to read.

A list should have a theme. Today's list has the following theme: "Alternating Things I Like and Things I Dislike In No Certain Order (Except, of Course, for the Aforementioned Alternation)". Enjoy.

• LIKE: Sometimes, when you have a harpoon stuck all the way through your shoulder, you find this certain position in which, for a few seconds, the agonizing pain goes away and you feel, temporarily, like you might survive this horrible accident and like surviving would be better than not surviving. I like that.

• DISLIKE: Getting a harpoon stuck all the way through your shoulder.

• LIKE: When your muscles hurt from sobbing and your eyes have run dry and you just cannot muster the energy or moisture to shed another tear and you collapse, defeated, into the couch, your body releases chemicals that make you feel peaceful in spite of nightmarish sorrow. I like that.

• DISLIKE: Nightmarish sorrow.

• LIKE: Post-emesis endorphins.

• DISLIKE: Pre-emesis retching.

• LIKE: The peace that comes with resignation to mortality.

• DISLIKE: Mortality.

• LIKE: The fleeting, stolen moments of passion human lovers share fiercely and urgently while hiding among the crumbling ruins of society's last few moments.

• DISLIKE: Coitus interruptus.

• LIKE: Flashes of magic in the monotonous doldrums of restless routine.

• DISLIKE: The monotonous doldrums of restless routine.

How about you?

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

The Physicist and the Turtle

In my nightmares Stephen Hawking is chasing me down a dim, endless hallway lit periodically by florescent light fixtures that flicker and buzz, the pitch rising and falling with Doppler as I race below, sweating and panting.  The walls are infinite chalkboards covered with arcane scribblings of advanced math. I'm running as fast as I can, but his wheelchair, which must have been souped-up for performance, is gaining on me. "Wait, Scott," he's calling out in his dispassionate robot voice. "I want to show you something. It all makes sense now."

I've been feeling a little crazy lately, what with the nightmares, so I decided to start seeing getting psychotherapy. I couldn't afford a professional psychotherapist, so I've been seeing the wooden turtle that lives on my windowsill at work. This is one of the advantages of being crazy, all of the additional opportunities not available to sane people.

"We wooden turtles have a saying," she said to me. "'Survival of the fittest never changes, but approaches to fitness are constantly created and destroyed.'"

Staring blankly out the window I started to reply, "It's not a very catchy say..."

"No, but I think it's apt," she interrupted, annoyed. "I think you are offended by what you perceive to be a violation of natural selection."

"It's not even pithy," I said. "I don't even think I'd call it a 'saying' per se."

In my nightmares there is a small wooden turtle riding on Dr. Hawking's knee. "I'll show you pithy!" she screams.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Randomnia Insanitized

The voices in my head argue with the voices in my glove box as I drive to work each day. It started a few months ago and it's getting worse. I'm beginning to worry that it might be developing into an unhealthy thing. Generally the voices in my head are more radical and angry than the voices in my glove box, which are typically reasoned and calm, though obstinate. They argue about politics and science and religion and music. They never agree about anything. Too many voices in the car. I can barely hear the MP3 player.

Insanity isn't all it's cracked up to be. You'd have to be crazy to live your life insane these days, what with all the easily available medications and firearms. Who has time for prescriptions when waiting patients wait patiently in roomy waiting rooms while doctors try patience and patients try doctors, taking a second to get a second opinion? I don't know, though. Good old-fashioned crazy just feels more organic and honest to me. I don't like to feel medicated and I hate that muffled sound the voices make when I drug myself, like someone stuffed a sock in their mouth. I'm a believer in the first amendment, in the end. Let all the voices be heard.

The truth is I cannot stand to sleep all night and I cannot lie awake all night so I write myself notes on the back of my eyelids, checking every few seconds to see if I've replied. Blink.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

Octopus Invasion

The octopus doesn't belong here. You know it and it bothers you, but you aren't sure what to do about it. Octopuses (octopi? octopodes?) are dangerous. You're pretty sure you once saw a documentary in which the dangers of octopus proximity were heralded. So, you sit uncomfortable and agitated over this ectopic cephalopod.

Meanwhile the octopus sits in your regular spot at the coffee shop with the newspaper in two tentacles drinking six cups of coffle. That seems a little much, doesn't it? Six? Just because you have that many tentacles doesn't mean you have to use all of them, right?

"It smells a little fishy in here," you say, flushing in embarrassment at your inability to be more patient. "I think I'll go blog at the bottom of the ocean." If the octopus hears you it betrays nothing. You sit there and stew but you don't really leave because there's no wireless at the bottom of the ocean and you have to breathe oxygen anyway. You were bluffing.

There's an octopus sitting in your spot and it bothers you more than it should. Maybe you should see a shrink. There are probably underlying issues.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

In a Hurry. Doggy in the Window.

Not much time this morning for thinking or writing. I overslept, or underawoke, or something. Barely time for oatmeal and coffee and a quick hello to the world. Barely time to hear Louis Armstrong sing All of Me. Whenever I hear Louis Armstrong scat sing it reminds me of my notion that it would be difficult for Germans to do so. Scat singing doesn't go well with hard constant sounds. Anyway, no time for such notions this morning. I'm running late, just like that white rabbit in that story.

You know, it's very hard to work with this outside the window.

Distractingly cute. She's, like, three feet away from me. I could reach out and pet her, if I broke the window.

Also, that's my Prius. She's cute too, in her own way.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Thoughts Culminating in Underwear

It's a new day, people. You've never breathed this air before, never stepped into this river. No more of the old stuff now, new day people. Throw away all the clothes you wore yesterday. Toss out your appointment book and your address book. Cancel all your old accounts. Change your name. Today is too new to rattle around in those old bones. Walk away from your shed skin and become the you you are today, shiny and new, open to everything that never was before. Nothing that happened before matters anymore.

I've believe in time yesterday, but today I do not. Today I see no difference between now and then. I guess I've changed. I don't expect to believe in time tomorrow, but how can I know? It's so far away and there's nothing I can do about it now. Time still believes in all of us, but it's not always on our side. If you feel the need of an ally on whom you can depend then you must be beside yourself. This treachery always betrays itself in the end, when all the true colors become clear and we see through all disguises. Make sure your underwear is clean, therefore, and that it matches.

I came into this post with nothing to say and I can't seem to accomplish even that.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Broken. Living on the Horizon.

Long ago he came to the mistaken conclusion that expectations in life were dangerous, to be avoided.

Staring down the road in front of him as the mostly empty highway passed by faster than the speed limit allowed, he drowned out his thoughts with loud radio music and rapid eye darting. If some notion started to whisper in his ear he would blink and glance hard to the right or to the left, out at the distant horizon and beyond. Sometimes he would shake his head abruptly, trying to clear some picture from his Etch A Sketch mind.

When he pulled into the driveway of the farmhouse, the only structure for miles in the flat wheat landscape, he clunked the old car into park and killed the motor. Two children, his, were tumbling enthusiastically down the porch steps toward him. Unfolding his tall, thin frame from the car and closing the door with a creak, he blinked at their approach, squinting at the sun far away behind them. His son, the four-year-old, crashed into his long legs and threw his little arms around them. He reached down and rested his hand on his son's shoulder, smiling absently at his daughter, six, waiting her turn. No words were exchanged. He hadn't prepared for the moment, hadn't given any thought to what he might tell them about where he had been, how long he might stay, why he would leave.

There is a kind of broken that makes every thought, every active engagement with life, more than one can bear. Every plan for the day feels like a setup. Every dream for tomorrow feels like a trap. Every conversation is an accusation. Every touch is a blow. You cannot listen and you cannot talk. You have to let the sights and sounds wash over you, wash through, keep going without you or carry you along.

He lives on the horizon now, too far away to see clearly, too far to hear you even if you scream. He is always on the journey and never arriving. He lives, broken, on the horizon. You cannot save him. You cannot even reach him. You should not even try. Bring your children back into your house and talk to them, laugh with them. Make your plans for today, dream your dreams for tomorrow, without him. Soon, within a couple of days, his car will be gone and you won't have to listen to his silence or watch his blinking stare ever again. He will take his bleak sadness, his brokenness, with him when he goes, and his story will not be yours. The best you can do for him is let him go. It's the only thing he wants anymore.

Long ago he came to the mistaken conclusion that expectations in life were dangerous, to be avoided.

Hello, friends. Bleak, I know. It's just what came out today. Whimsy will return, I'm sure.

Later. Love.

Nihilism Cannot Deny Itself

you cannot run away from everything

where would you go?

you must approach something

you might as well take it in your arms

and hold on tightly

right?

is that right?

you have to be somewhere

why not here?

you have to be someone

why not you?

you have to hold on to something

why not me?

the center of infinity

is everywhere and nowhere

forget nowhere

forget nothing

forget no one

forget no

give every a chance

at least give some a chance

at least give us a chance

this isn't what i wanted to say

but i don't know how to spell silence

in any language you can read

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Regarding Bill Hitler (no relation)

My imaginary friend, Bill Hitler (no relation), always told me, "If you can't think of anything to say, make something up." I cannot help but feel that, being imaginary, he was only trying to bolster his own position. One could argue that he had a conflict of interest. One would be wrong, however, since there is no Bill Hitler (no relation). I made him up. Why? Because I had nothing to say, that's why. When I can't think of anything to say I make something up. Why? I already told you why.

That first paragraph has many logical and existential issues. Rather than address them, let's just move on.

This paragraph is a poem. Not a haiku, since I lost count long ago. It's what one might call a "free-form" poem or a "prose" poem or a "bad" poem. It doesn't rhyme, not intentionally anyway. Sometimes, when you aren't sure how to say what's on your mind, you should write a poem. Just start typing and see what comes out. Don't worry about capitalization or punctuation. Just flow. Let it go. Don't worry about truth or structure or reason. Just, you know, talk. Please use strict iambic pentameter or dactylic hexameter or atmospheric barometer, though. Don't be a cretin.

I'm going to stop now.

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.