Eating Gibberish

 Armed with a fresh cup of coffee, I swipe my ID card over the doorknob  and listen with satisfaction as it *clicks* open, granting me access to the file room where I'm being trained by a soon-to -be retired employee.

I work for an outsourcing company that has moved in and taken over all of Company X's office services, forcing hundreds of people out of jobs nationwide...some are taking early retirement and severance, some have stayed on with the new company, but most of them are just plain laid-off.  I am part of the 'cost-cutting'...I have been on both ends of this merry go-round more than once, I'm afraid. It's terrible karma and I know it's only a matter of time before my company loses the contract to a lower bidder and I'm unemployed again.

If I don't get fired first. The transition isn't going very smoothly. I'm being trained by a tiny old lady who reminds me of my own grandmother in some ways...she's a pack-rat with an alternative non-alphanumeric filing system that only she understands, for starters.

Unlike my late grandmother, my co-worker is deaf as a post. She nods, grins and gives a 'thumbs-up'  to almost any statement, comment or question.

ME: "These yellow files...where do they go?"

HER: (nodding) "Yes."

ME: "No...where do these  with these labels go? Are they filed by name? Or account #? Or date? I can see clumps of  ABC here...but these are arranged by sticker number...these are by date and these are...I dunno? They all look the same, but they are filed in different order."

HER: Picks teeth with finger, stares at ceiling sprinkler.


ME: "Wow. You can't hear anything can you? I'm thinking that this filing system would work better in three dimensions-  that what we really need is a time/space wormhole here- where the letter A is- that reaches across the quantum wotsit over to this shelf two rows away where the letter B is. I'll need overtime approval. And that teeth-picking is gross."

HER: "That's the light switch."

ME: "The light switch?"

HER: Grins, gives thumbs-up.

********************************
At least music still makes sense. To me, anyway.

THE NEW BREAKFAST SNOB, JAN 16TH 1PM-3PM

The Clash- Koka Kola- London Calling-(Epic)
Talking Heads- Don't Worry About The Government- '77-(Sire)
ShawnFarley- Help is on The Way- 5240- (SF)
The Stranglers- Under The Name Of Spain- Aural Sculpture- (Epic)

Vanilla Fudge- Season of The Witch- 45- (Atco)

Cary Grace- Vanishing- Single- (Door 13)

I interrupt this playlist to announce that I'm really happy with what Cary Grace is doing with the first Monday Machines CD. She is producing, engineering, playing a great  many instruments, singing, writing...more...she's also done the website and all of the Monday Machines designs.

Me, I should be playing guitar instead of typing this...I'm  in Monday  Machines too, although I've never actually met Cary or Andy B. and Dave P., the superb bass and drums combo featured on the first MM CD. (And here.) I record my guitars, tractors and vocals here in the USA and use the Intertube to send them to Cary's lab in the UK, where she decodes my musical hieroglyphics using her Rosetta Stone pedal and blends them with  music and sounds  recorded there...it's the best band I've ever been in.

Cursive- Art Is Hard- The Ugly Organ- (SaddleCreek)
Clara Bellino- Swordfish Trombones- Embarcadero Love- (CB)

Astronauts of Antiquity- Breakthrough - Rocket Science For Dummies-(RevCon)
Diana Krall- Temptation- The Girl In The Other Room-(Verve)
T and T- Trippo Nova- (If I Knew I would Tell You)
Led Zeppelin- The Rain Song- Houses of the Holy-(SwanSong)
Dare Dukes- Kick and Holler- Prettiest Transmitter of All- (Starland)

Pretty Things- Scene One/Good Mister Square/She Was Tall, She Was High- Parachute- (Edsel)
Faust- Untitled- The Faust Tapes
Golden Palominos- No Skin- Pure- (Restless)
Firewater- Borneo- The Golden Hour- (Bloodshot)
Peter Bayreuther- Kinder Von Universe- 1997- (PB)
Nina Hagen- African Reggae- NHB-(Columbia)
Stephen Luke- Long Way From Home- No Man's Land- (Sweet Lucy)
801 - Baby's On Fire- 801 Live- (Expression)
Tom Verlaine- Always- Dreamtime- (Warner)

Leonard Cohen- Hallelujah- Various Positions- (Passport)
XTC- Dear God- Skylarking- (Geffen)
Neil Young- Sun Green- Greendale- (Reprise)

*******************************

Poverty: Now Playing at a Theatre of War Near You

I tried to watch the Vice-Presidential debate last night but I quickly lost interest and soon found myself on my hands and knees, spinning coins on the floor for my cat’s amusement. I read the transcript today and I don't feel like I missed anything that could have changed my mind regarding the election.

I did see bits of it. It struck me that moderator Gwen Ifill was doing a surprisingly lackluster job of making the candidates answer the actual questions. I think the following string of words from Sarah Palin was what triggered my apathy attack- Ifill had just asked Palin if she would like to comment on Biden’s remarks about McCain’s healthcare plan, and this was Palin’s response:

Palin: I'm still on the tax thing because I want to correct you on that again. And I want to let you know what I did as a mayor and as a governor. And I may not answer the questions that either the moderator or you want to hear, but I'm going to talk straight to the American people and let them know my track record also.

Not to be overly picky, but how can we expect “straight talk” from a person who refuses to answer the questions that we want to [ask] and who seems incapable of constructing a complete English sentence?

And also you betcha, dontcha know? Darn right! *wink*

Holy fuck. I actually saw a candidate for the second-highest office in the land *wink* during a debate. So proud, I am.

I expected Gwen Ifill to interject, saying something along the lines of: “Governor , this is a formal, structured debate and, as the moderator, I am compelled to inform you that you and your opponent are both expected to respect the rules and format as previously agreed.”

But she didn’t.
A few minutes after Palin’s defiant non-answer, I was dipping into the catnip.

***************************************
OTHER NEWS OF NO APPARENT INTEREST

-Does anyone in the current Congress have even a cursory knowledge of American History? It's not exactly classified info- it's actually on the Internet and in books and stuff. Does anyone see a parallel between current events and this description of the economic precursors to the Great Depression?

[In]1929 the top 0.1 percent of American families had a total income equal to that of the bottom 42 percent. This meant that many people who were willing to listen to the advertisers and purchase new products did not have enough money to do so. To get around this difficulty, the 1920s produced another innovation— credit- an attractive name for consumer debt. People were allowed to “buy now, pay later.” But this only put off the day when consumers accumulated so much debt that they could not keep buying up all the products coming off assembly lines.



President Herbert Hoover was certain that the economy was fundamentally strong and that bailing out the banks and lenders would allow the markets to self-correct and solve this problem. He was wrong.

Of course, things are different now. There's nothing wrong with America that can't be solved by throwing money away. The more,the better.

I'm kidding. I am not an economist or an academic but I do like to read about history and I've read enough to notice that events tend to repeat themselves in slightly different but still recognizable ways. Eggheads and bookworms would refer to these repetitions as "patterns" and "cycles", but really, it's just the same-old-shit, over and over again.

Take Empires, for instance. Pick an Empire from history -any Empire- and you'll see the same cycle of influence and expansion, a peak and a plateau followed by decay, corruption, collapse, dissolution and defeat.

There is always war involved.

But that could never happen here. God loves us too much.

Plus, that bail-out bill that just passed is gonna restore prosperity any second now...now all we need is another Hawley-Smoot Act and we are good as gold, right as rain!

*******************************

I'd hardly call Pakistan an 'Empire', but they do have nuclear weapons and they do happen to be engaged in a full-scale Civil War with the Taliban inside their own country. Most Americans probably aren't even aware of this, secure as we are in our delusion that the Mission is Accomplished...I mean, didn't we beat the Taliban? Didn't we?

Not since Pakistan forged an alliance with the United States after 9/11 has the Pakistani Army fought its own people on such a scale and at such close quarters to a major city. After years of relative passivity, the army is now engaged in heavy fighting with the militants on at least three fronts.

The sudden engagement of the Pakistani Army comes after months in which the United States has heaped criticism, behind the scenes and in public, on Pakistan for not doing enough to take on the militants, and increasingly took action into its own hands with drone strikes and even a raid by Special Operations forces in Pakistan’s tribal areas.

But the army campaign has also unfolded as the Taliban have encroached deeper into Pakistan proper and carried out far bolder terrorist attacks, like the Marriott Hotel bombing on Sept. 20, which have generated fears among the political, business and diplomatic elite that the country is teetering.

Personally, I'm a little alarmed at the idea of the Taliban picking a nuke out of the rubble of Pakistan's crumbled government. I know, as an American, I am supposed to have little or no concern for events in foreign countries, but I just can't help thinking that there is absolutely no context in which the phrase "Pakistani civil war" should carry less weight than the phrase "lipstick on a pig".

I seem to be at odds with the American media on this.

***************************

I'm glad I can cook and that I know how to make meals out of raw ingredients. When the next generation of soup kitchens open, I'll be the guy holding the ladle, muttering "this is better than no job" to himself.

See you in line. Not on-line. In line.

If You Can't Think Of Something Nice To Say...

...blog.

The news isn't all bad: We had a workplace meeting (I had been told that maybe, just maybe I'd be hired as a "real" employee, i.e., someone who makes more than $300 a week), I didn't get hired but I didn't get fired either. I -and the staff- were told to make sure we "look busy" because there are quite a few budget-cutting lay-offs approaching. I'm not sure how to "look busy"- I literally go days on end without seeing or talking to anyone here except for chance meetings in the hallway and bathroom - and I really don't want to "look busy" in the toilet, ya know?

I can "look busy" without even trying: Tonight I have a free-lance gig running sound for Deke Dickerson , who is a pretty hep cat in the Rockabilly scene , Saturday I'll be spending nearly the entire day on the radio and Sunday I'll be doing an outdoor sound gig at a local park- unless it rains. My Twin brother in Chicago is also planning on visiting (our birthday is soon) although I wish he'd pick a weekend that I wasn't so busy-looking. On the positive side, if I "look busy" for sixty hours this week, I can make as much money as I earned for "looking busy" for one day in the 1990's.

Not that I'm bitter. Things will turn around as soon as John McCain gets anointed Emperor of America. His foreign policy of "bomb first and never ask questions" will be a real boon for desperate, marginally employed persons such as myself.
How's that?

McCain will escalate the new Cold War into a new World War, one that will require America to re-instate the draft. The military will have to conscript most able-bodied men between the ages of 18 and 40 and someone will have to fill all the jobs vacated by the new draftees- I'm too old to get drafted and I'm too young to retire, so I'm in a good position to get hired in 2009- so what if it's a bit ghoulish, war is good for the economy, right? Look at how much good the past seven years of war have done for us - that's nothing compared to what the next four years will bring.

Good times are coming, I hear about it every day...

Late Breaking Good News: The Company is giving the staff first dibs on the fleet of automobiles that are to be auctioned off - for $1,000 I can get a humongous new Ford pick-up truck that gets seven miles per gallon. I couldn't afford to drive it but it would make a nice "emergency" apartment...I could even grow a "Victory Garden" in the bed! Nobody sold new trucks for $1,000 back in the so-called "Good Old Days" of the 1990's...maybe the war economy isn't so bad after all.

A Musing

I am appalled at the lack of progress I have made over the last 365+ days. I sat down with the intent to do some sort of "reflections" post; after reflecting, I have decided that "looking-back" falls under the category of "why bother?"

After all, very little has changed in my life since 2006:

A year ago, I was unemployed, destitute and heartbroken. I had quit my steady job, lured away by the promise of greener pastures- after crossing the stile, I found myself hip-deep in bullshit. Three days later I was unemployed.

I had also lost my Muse. My Muse was a female blogger, a fellow refugee from Gull Valley and someone with whom I felt an uncanny kinship- 'kismet' she called it.
It felt magical, she stoked my creative fires- I dedicated entire broadcasts to her- I even changed my Blogger template and set up a music site- serious stuff for a typically results-free slacker such as myself.

All for naught - it backfired actually, the music was the deal-breaker- and it was all to end in tears shortly before Christmas, 2006.

My Sunday morning show fell on Christmas Eve and I had planned to play songs by my Muse- I often played songs for her and sometimes she'd be listening on-line from her distant time zone...on X-mas Eve I was going to play songs composed and performed by her!

How many men get to give their sweethearts airplay for Christmas?

I don't know the answer to that question- only that it is one fewer than I had hoped. I got my "Dear John" the day before the show.

I played her elegant music anyway...it was a transcendent moment of beauty, longing and sorrow; alone in the booth with the lingering notes of my Muse's songs fading, falling...fading, falling...falling and gone...this, I thought at the time, is a feeling that I will one day inflict on a character in a novel that I have not yet written. Poor bastard, he.

I went home and took down all the blog art and images I had posted for the Muse. I deleted my entire music site- it was my songs that drove her away- I erased our emails, scrubbed her files and came very, very close to quitting blog altogether, the infamous Beta Blogger transition wasn't helping my mood...somehow, another blogger saw these actions and decided that I was making a public suicide announcement- he emailed my blogroll (but not me) to let them know about my "sinister plan"...according to him, I was going to kill myself on-air during my New Year's Eve show.

I found out about my own devious plot via an email from someone that I scarcely knew at the time- someone who had taken the time to actually read the words on my blog, specifically the words that said: " suicide is not something that I would do".

Unlike my unwanted meddler, my new pal understood that adding "not" to a sentence significantly changes the meaning of the sentence...nonetheless, they wanted to check up on me- they'd gotten a weird email concerning my nefarious radio offing and just wanted to make sure I was alright- I wasn't exactly alright, but I wasn't swallowing hemlock either; still, I'm glad they asked...

OK. I had to email my accuser...look, you are mistaken, I said. I hadn't planned on blogging it, but my heart is really fucked-up now...I am not, however, going to kill myself. Sorry for the mistake, but I plan on living. Yadda yadda...

He wrote back , calling me a liar. He claimed to have saved screenshots of my blog and said he had shared them with a team of highly-trained psychiatric professionals, who all agreed that I was a dangerous sociopath who should be stopped before I hurt myself...huh? Say what?

Dude, what sort of person has the time to save screenshots of other people's blogs and also has access to a team of "highly-trained psychiatrists "?
An inpatient at a private asylum would have time and access...just sayin'.

Anyway, this bullshit webdrama ruined the blogging part of that holiday, but it did serve to introduce me to one of my best blogpals ever, so the story actually had a happy ending.
Other good things followed:

-Shortly after the New Year, my old boss called and asked me if I'd come back to work- hell, yes! Having an income changed everything...I went back to the Firm.

-Before long, I'd found a new Muse. This one was from the Real North and she was certainly my True Heart...our brief friendship was one of the happiest moments of my sober life...this woman wrote lovingly heartfelt posts about obscure guitar FX and little-known but true Rawk legends...I was smitten. Again, endless hours on the phone seemed to indicate a longer future of some sort. She liked my CD. She was perfect.

"Come to me", I finally asked her. She said yes without hesitation.

At first.

When it came time to plan the trip,' yes' became: " Legal trouble...I can't get a passport. Can't come to the States."

At this time the media was widely reporting that it was taking Americans a very long time to obtain passports, so I decided I'd better get my application in post-haste...I was told to expect a wait of several months.
My passport arrived 10 days after I applied. Yowzah!

I called my New Muse: "Woo hoo! I'm on my way to see you!"

"You can't come here", she said.

"Hah! It arrived! I have a passport now. "

"I can't see you. "

Then she told me that she was angry at everything and everyone -except me- that she loved me, but I had to stay away. Forever.
Then she vanished. I don't imagine that I'll ever know what happened.
I hate not knowing.

A few months later I got laid-off from my job and haven't been able to find steady work since then. Another Christmas here with no job, no money and no Muse...but also no booze and no psycho-stalkers...it could be worse.

Several days ago my old boss called me- he stands to get a new job at a different law office and wanted to know if I'd join his staff if he should happen to get the job- hell, yeah! I hope he gets it.

Having an income would change everything- including deja vu.

So perhaps next year I will have my old job back, only at a new firm.

Perhaps a new Muse as well... I admit that I still carry torches, but I'm surrounded by lights...so if I decide to "snuff it", please know that I'm not talking about my life, I'm talking about my lights. There are many, many lights but I only need one.

Not that I dislike lights- far from it. I love lights and the shadows that come with them, but my Muse bulb is dark and it *ringles* when I shake it...it needs changing.
I need changing.

But not as much as I thought- after all, I did make it through last year without drinking (which would have been suicide)- and this year isn't nearly as bad as last year.
Not even close.
I was with someone who'd been drinking heavily the other night and just their smell was enough to make me feel ill...wow, I thought as I drove them home, this is how I used to smell every day.

Every God-damned day. Until it killed me.

I haven't touched a drop of booze since September 6, 2005. I had forgotten the exact date, but the collections agencies have been very helpful with sending dated reminders to me...09/06/05.

This morning I walked down the beer aisle and saw people stocking up...beer for the games, beer for their parties, beer to blot out whatever it is that needs blotting out...I saw these 10 AM brew-buyers and I wasn't envious of them. They looked sad.

Is that how I used to appear? I know the answer to that question.

Today I bought cat food, cilantro, potatoes and rice; then I went home and drank coffee. More coffee than any human ever should consume; still, it was just coffee.

Tomorrow I plan on making homemade stuffing with rosemary, almonds and cranberries; real mashed taters; pork-less beans and some sort of messy baked vegetable casserole, all of which I will take home with me on X-Mas Day in lieu of gifts, gifts being in short supply this year.

I have to be a bit careful with the ingredients because of my Grandmother's health- she would eat a deep-fried salt block if you put it on her plate, not because she's senile or stupid
(she's not) , it's just a Southern thing...we Southerners like our deep-fried salt blocks, preferably served with a saline-based gravy solution on top and half of a pie for dessert. I can't eat like that any longer- two slices of pie is all I can manage.

In the last 27 months I have had zero alcohol and consumed fewer than eight slices of pie; I have lost 50 pounds of fat and lowered all of my blood numbers into the "green" range...and to think that I started this post by lamenting my lack of progress. Idiot, I am.

I should change the opening sentence of this post, but I'm not going to. I've come a long way, but I am still making mistakes and that incorrect opening sentence is going to remind me of that fact.
When I achieve a state of personal perfection, I will come back and correct it. Don't stay up late waiting for that to happen.
Have a Merry Christmas instead.

It Never Stops

Good news first, then everything else: I made a road trip without breaking down or colliding with car-killing quadrupeds. My grandmother looks good and she feels better, more so than anyone but her expected- she may even be allowed to return home in two or three weeks if she continues to do well with her therapy. It's a cause for celebration.

At least it should have been.

I didn't get home until late last night and when I did, I had a phone message from my brother. Call him right away- it's important. So I did.


It turns out that the man who got our mother pregnant has started drinking again. If I had taken the time to visit him, I might have been able to stop what happened from happening, but I didn't do that and as a result , things at home have gone from better to worst in less than a day.

Yesterday, dad apparently fell down the stairs at the family house and tumbled into my grandmother's most precious piece of furniture - her glass China cabinet. He completely destroyed it, along with many of her most cherished and fragile items...a porcelain doll that Granpa carried back from Okinawa after WWII...plates that belonged to her parents...glassware gifts from relatives no longer with us- I don't yet know the full list of losses or all the details of the accident. I'm sitting at work waiting for and dreading more information.


Here's what I know:


Sharon, who is a friend of Grannie's from church, had stopped by the house to feed the cat and check up on my dad, who can't be trusted, him having a long history of relapsing and fucking up. Sharon used her key to let herself in and saw blood and broken glass everywhere- but no dad. She was calling 911 when my blood-soaked parent returned from the store, carrying more beer. According to my second-hand info, he had a number of serious cuts but refused to seek medical attention- he was more than a little abusive to Sharon, who really does not deserve such treatment, and she left him to stew in his own demise.


After talking to my brother, I actually tried to call my dad. Of course, there was no answer.


I hate myself for making that call. I need to stop caring.


I have tried to care- I had fooled myself into thinking it was possible- I had thought that I had reached a sort of peace with my father and that this peace might possibly lead to forgiveness.


Instead, I am humiliated for wasting so much time and energy on such a lost cause- and my grandmother not only feels disgraced ( it's a small town and everyone knows about my dad) but when she heard about the accident her blood pressure sank like a stone. My father is killing himself and he's killing his mother at the same time- she has undergone weeks of grueling therapy; tests; rehab sessions and life-training classes just to learn that her adult son has smashed what few belongings of hers he hasn't already stolen and sold and is currently lying in a puddle of blood, piss and beer. The puddle he is occupying is on her new carpet where her china cabinet used to be.

When he relapses, her health fails. It's a cycle that's been going on for decades and I have done everything I can think of to break it but I can't. He has to stop drinking or he will die and he knows it - but he doesn't care. He doesn't care if he kills his own mother in the process.

He told his mother that he wants to die.

She has been fighting for her life and her son tells her that he wants to die, that being dead is better than having to take care of her.


If he lives, his actions will kill his mother.


If he dies, his death will have the same result.


I have once again given up all hope for my father. My brother, who has been considerably more loyal than myself, has also given up. My father's younger brother is hardly any better than my dad, he's a daily drunk in a deep state of denial, so there's no help to be had from him.

So the cycle starts again. My dad is a wounded fugitive from reality, a menace to every noun he can reach , and my grandmother is literally worrying herself to death over him and there isn't anything that can be done. The local police don't care what dad does as long as he keeps it off the road and dad has repeatedly turned down our Pastor's very generous offer of a church-funded 28-day rehab clinic. He needs to be locked up and forced to change- it is never going to come from inside him.
I don't know if there is anything left inside my father at all. I don't think he can come back from the place he has chosen for himself and that's where the pain really hits- that he has has chosen this life for himself.
People like to say that alcoholics lack willpower, but that is incorrect. It takes a lot of willpower to cut yourself into ribbons and still manage to limp to the store for more beer.
That takes serious determination.

You would think that no store would sell beer to a man covered in blood, but obviously that is also incorrect. After I hit a deer on Independence Day, I was forced to buy paper towels and cleanser at a crowded gas station and I had deer's blood all over me. Deer blood, for those without large-scale roadkill experience, looks exactly like human blood; over the course of an hour or more, only one person bothered to even ask why I was covered in blood.

Why should they care? Why do I care?

I am trying really hard to not care. I don't want to care. I am tired of the pain of caring and I am weary of the burden of false hope, but what else is there?

It would be so easy to start drinking again. Soon, all my problems would become other people's worries- on top of the frantic phone calls about his father, my brother would also start getting emergency calls regarding myself.

I like to tell people that it's fear that keeps me sober, and in a large part this is true. I know what will happen if I drink and it involves pain , bleeding and a slow death by self-torture.
That scares me away from the booze, but there's more to it than just that; this never-ending trauma with our father is having terrible emotional effects on my brother and I love my brother too much to inflict any more unnecessary, tragic alcoholic bullshit on him. I can't say as how I'm especially fond of myself right now, because I am not- but I love my Twin and the thought of causing him any more pain makes me feel as broken and torn as the deer that I killed two weeks ago.

So I'll add love to my short list of reasons to stay sober.
It will be enough. It has to be.

Got Schmooze?

I'd like to thank my stalwart blogpal Sling for this award, even if I'm a bit mystified as to what I did to earn it. A 'community involvement/schmoozing' award is an odd thing for a self-professed subversive, reclusive, anarchistic, iconoclastic and downright anti-social Intertube crackpot to receive...or is it? Up is down, war is peace and American Idol is entertainment, so I suppose that by following that logic, I must be a pillar of strength in the blogosphere; a regular paragon of virtual virtue.

My award-winning humility is one of my myriad superlative qualities, but my rockin' modesty prevents me from listing them all- one of the drawbacks to being the Most Humble Man on Earth is that it doesn't come with bragging rights...but I can boast about some of the people who are lucky enough to have 'met' me online, er, uh...I mean that I have been fortunate enough to meet.
Yeah. That's it.

#1) Whim: Last year, quite a few bloggers with whom I had a passing acquaintance received emails regarding me from a shamelessly self-important blogger with a marginal messiah complex- he was warning them of my nefarious plan to commit suicide on-air during my Sunday morning radio show. I was one of the last people to hear of my own plans, very few folks took the time to write to me and ask me what was going on; most simply accepted this self-appointed arbiter of Blog behavior at his word.
I frequently point out the perils and folly of believing unsubstantiated claims without checking the sources, but a few readers did write to me and ask WTF? Whim was one of them. Whim understands what it feels like to be a survivor, and although we both get depressed at times, neither one of us is in need of a suicide watch. I quit drinking in order to live, not die- that's a major theme of my writing since my illness of 2005. Whim, who has fought to survive as hard as any human can possibly fight, understood this and after a short time she became one of my favorite penpals of all time. Her support during a period when it felt as if nearly the entire blogiverse had turned against me - for no reason- was invaluable in keeping me 'in the game'. I sure hopes she gets back on-line soon.

#2) Jackie Sue :Yellowdog Granny isn't old enough to be my grandmother, but she's cool enough to be my mom. Even her bad moods are funnier than 10,000 sitcoms, and when she starts dissecting the news and adding her own observations, you can see well how she uses humor to cope with a world that she is unblissfully aware of. I am glad she is my friend, because she'd be a formidable adversary. You absolutely DO NOT fuck with her.
Freya watches over this one.
'Nuff said.
(Under those big Texas Titties beats a heart of gold- see her latest post for details.)

#3) Angel: Like Whim, I was introduced to Angel by a blogger who no longer talks to me, but that's OK because Angel still does. She's a unique woman with a heavy load- but she bears it with dignity, humor and just the right amount of outrage. She is active in many blogging groups and has won so many awards that I fear her blog may tip sideways from the weight of all the trophies on her sidebar, but hey, what's one more? I am out-of-my-territory when it comes to child-rearing, but Angel seems to understand parenting and she knows how to get involved with web-networks of parents with similar situations and understands the importance of the support these groups provide. For that alone, she deserves this 'community' award.
(It's a secret fantasy of mine to start a communal ranch and raise domesticated mythological beasts. Angel would be my Dragon-Keeper)

#4) Skeet: I honestly don't know Skeet all that well, but she is an extraordinarily prolific blogger and I especially enjoy her observations on living in Hawaii- it's not what you get from the travel brochures. At one point -perhaps even now- she had numerous blogs on various hosts- like Angel, her sidebar is choc-a-bloc with accolades and blogger community widgets - Skeet does do some 'Post-for-Pay' work and she has been back-handedly criticized for that, but I would like to come to her defense: Life is hard and expensive, her blogs are well-written and she has told me she would not endorse products she found distasteful- I say if she can make a few extra bucks by doing something harmless that she obviously enjoys, then she deserves some respect- a few paid posts, contrary to the opinions of some, will not ruin blogs, blogging or the blogosphere. For all I know, those paid posts might be what pays her Internet bills and make the whole blog possible...always check your facts and sources before you presume to attach motives to the actions of others. Oh yeah, she has some great pics too...except maybe the fried food...that looked nasty, heheh.

#5) Cruel Virgin, AKA, Enemy of the Republic: Anyone who can get 71 comments and answer all of them must be doing something that involves the 'blogging community', the fact that she manages to upset, piss-off and generally outrage some truly stupid commenters indicates that she must be doing something right- she's spiritual, but not dogmatic- I suspect that it's her never-ending critical examination of the Divine that upsets the nutjobs, at least one of whom seems to really, really want to sleep with her, despite her frequently mentioned marriage . That thinly veiled desire is about the only comment from that person that makes sense to me. Smart women are sexy as hell and EotR is very smart.


#6) CS- CS has picked up on the usefulness of blog as therapy, she's had some major turmoil but manages to find some peace and beauty -or at least insight and irony- in nearly all her works. I think she's be a fun person to hike with..."ooooh, look at this" would be a phrase heard often, I imagine. Did I mention that smart women are sexy?
There is a cleansing, transitional quality to her recent posts, which seem to appear every sixty seconds or so, complete with photos that bring vicarious joy to my precarious state of mind.
For these brief moments of beauty, I have added one more blogger to the mandated list of five.
I never was very good at following rules...some are better broken.

#7) Craig D.- CD understands the beauty of truly cheesy LPs and he is an unabashed punster. I find these to be admirable qualities. It wasn't until recently that I found out that he also has a history of Rockin'...on the trombone! I think he eventually switched to MIDI banjo or something...in any case, he's almost as famous as I am, so you better treat him right. Don't misunderestimate the trombonist -or bassist or whatever- if you can play original music in front of a live audience, you are already ahead of 9o% of people who merely own a musical instrument. Keep on 'Bonin'!

NEXT: Bridges, and how to burn them.

Who To Ask?

Grey metal door. Push the horizontal bar to exit.
Push.
No exit.

Exit to where? Anywhere but here, I think , because I don't know where here is.
It's indoors.
My good dreams are always out-of-doors.
I am in-of-doors.
The door.
I am in it.
Push it to not exit.
Goddamn it. I try to kick it, but I don't have enough control, my legs aren't connected.
Push.

Push it and it becomes a pinball machine. Silver streaks and yellow flags spinning, strobe lights in the bumpers going crazy; multi-ball action; target scores 'Special' when lit and the machine cracks like a starter pistol, K-POW!
Free game.
When is a door not a pinball machine?
Now.
It's ajar, then open.

It's gone and I'm on a large grassy field. I recognize this place.
It's a sort of gigantic outdoor horseshoe-shaped amphitheatre, with a beach and ocean at the top of the 'U' and a surrounding series of hills and steep, cutback-trail cliffs providing enough sitting and standing room for the population of a small city. It's currently deserted.

This is the first time I have ever been on the field, I'm usually up there, on the cliffs, watching the show with my friends, real and imaginary.
My friends are not here. No one is here.
There is no show. No audience.
There's usually a stage set up on the beach's far end. It is not there.
There's usually an ocean beyond the beach, but it isn't there either.
There's nothing but sand.

If there is a horizon, I can't see it from here.
When awake, we tend to take the horizon for granted.
Here it's a luxury.

The only thing missing is a sun-bleached cattle skull, I think, and suddenly a skull appears.
I cannot determine how far away it is because it's difficult to gauge distance without a horizon. It has a sense of bigness to it, at least the size of a tall building and it's human-shaped, not bovine.
The cranium is distended and warped, like a Dali canvas viewed in a carnival mirror designed by H.R. Giger.
It ripples like water.

I wish that it would go away.

Something is wrong.
There should be a stage with a good band playing and some bonfires for dancing.
This is a party beach, a fun place to be. There's always something happening here and there's always someone to share it with.
My most frequent companion on this beach is the character 'Willow' from the old 'Buffy' TV show- not the actress who plays her, but the character herself.
I wish she was here.
She isn't.
There's just me , a twenty-story tall surrealist skull and the sun, which is suddenly scorching hot.

I'm naked and afraid of getting sunburn.

"Hey, you are gonna miss the race."

Willow? I hear a voice, but there is no one here.

Out in the desert, beyond the deliriously grinning skull, a cloud of dust is rising.
It's getting larger, faster. A vast army is approaching.
I feel panic.
I am in no mood for armies.

"Don't worry. They are only horses."

It's Willow. I can't see her, but she is talking to me and she is right.
There are thousands of horses rushing towards me from the non-horizon.
The stampeding herd circumnavigates the bony monolith, reforms on the other side of the giant misshapen thing, gallops closer.
I close my eyes.
Listen.
The sound of their hooves is very loud and comforting.
They aren't far away.
I can't move, but I don't have to worry.
They are horses and I am not afraid of horses.
Horses won't hurt me.

For a time, I am surrounded by thundering animals, the beasts moving so rapidly that I can barely distinguish one from the other.
A mane. A flank. A hoof. An eye.
The horses become a wall, moving at the speed of stripes.
I am protected. I won't be trampled.
Horses know me. I am safe with them.

Then they are gone.

There are no tracks in the sand.
Did I imagine the stampede?
Who can I ask?

Willow's voice has vanished.
The skull has nothing to say.