caveat emptor

The One About Working Out and Also About Television (TV)

I worked out last night. For twenty minutes. That brings the total time I've worked out in the last five years up to a grand sum of: twenty minutes. I hope to double that soon.

I was going to use this post to teach all of you guys the secrets of successful workouts, what with my vast expertise and everything. I decided instead that I should blather for a change. Here goes. I'm about to blather. Ready? Let's begin.

A television is only good if you turn it on, and even then it isn't usually very good. You cannot drive a television to work. You cannot fly a television to the moon. You cannot have consensual sex with a television. I'm sure someone somewhere has made a boat out of a television for one of those wacky boat contests. I bet it didn't win.

What is my point?

Satellite television is superior to cable television because it is less risky. With cable television there is always a chance that someone will dig up the cable, tie it to the bumper of their pickup truck, put the transmission in low gear and steal every single television from an entire neighborhood. It happens all the time. You can't do that with satellite television. Why? Because there's no way to get the pickup truck into outer space.

One key to a successful workout is getting off the couch. It's very hard to work out on the couch. I should know. I worked out last night.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Tedious Tuesday, 07/22/2008

It's Tuesday. Time for Tedious Tuesday, a favorite feature of millions of the people who come here every damned day to be inspired by my writing and shit. It's no secret to you guys that I don't like Tedious Tuesday and it pisses me off to have to write it every fucking Tuesday for you people, so just shut the hell up and let's get this over with.

First, personal news:

• Susan has started work at her new job. She has business cards and an office and a water cooler and a laptop and all the various accoutrements of real professional workery. Also she looks hot in her little business clothes.
• I have recently been diagnosed with a couple of pain in the ass conditions that collectively mean I cannot eat. Anything. Ever. Only cardboard and air. Light Air. Low-Fat Air. It's not quite that bad but it sucks. I have, however, lost sixteen pounds so far. I'm trying to learn to find fulfillment and satisfaction in wellness rather than in indulgence and enjoyment. So far? Meh.
• I've rearranged my work life. I demoted myself from a management position to a worker position and now happily work for a fellow who was my peer last week. My current peers worked for me last week. It's fun and much less stress. Also I quit the side job I'd been doing for the last five years (writing stock software.) I cannot tell you what a relief all of this has been. I feel like a free man.
• Two of my children will be in high school this year. Two of them. In fucking high school. I'm Oldie McGeezerton.

Okay. Enough personal stuff. Now here are a few announcements. Please read them all.

• The Caveat Emptor Spa facilities are NOT clothing optional. I think we all know who this is for. Please, put some damned clothes on.
• Some Vegan keeps setting free all the ham from the sandwich buffet. We respect your opinions and beliefs, but the ham is already dead and putting it out on the lawn only makes a big, smelly mess. Plus the pot-bellied pigs keep finding it and eating it and that's just wrong on so many levels. We don't replant your salad. Please leave the ham alone.
• Does anyone know who the abandoned, yellow Trans Am in the back parking lot belongs to? There are raccoons living in it. If it's yours you should know: The raccoons found your weed. They got messed up and did donuts in the back field. Your car is upside down in the drainage ditch. Please come pick it up before the raccoons hurt themselves or someone else.
• Missing some flip flops? There are about three hundred pairs in the Lost and Found closet.

Thank God this is done. See you next Tuesday, losers.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Perchance 2 Dream

A big part of the challenge is trying to imagine people who feel feelings, people who do things. I've done things before, in the distant past of what I call another life, but it's been so long and the things I did weren't the same sorts of things. I've felt feeling even more recently, but I'm not interested in my feelings, I'm interested in the kinds of feelings I imagine real people having. So, I make things up. I try to feel feelings disconnected from any catalyst, I try to do real things in my mind without moving from in front of the keyboard.

Pretend with me that there is Marcus. He's a boy, maybe twelve. Are you pretending Marcus is? Is he a boy, maybe twelve? Let's pretend that Marcus loves to build, creating structures and crafts with Lego blocks and such. Let's imagine that, unlike the boy I used to be, Marcus is not obsessed with symmetry in his building. Marcus feels free to create structures that flow in each direction unfettered by the shape of any other direction. What does this tell us about Marcus? What sort of man will he grow to be? What sort of skills might he have? Is he an artist? A scientist? Would the man Marcus ever break a lover's heart? Would he take a man's life in cold blood? Too many things are left unformed for us to know for sure, but we can try to guess from the shapes Marcus puts together. This one looks like a building, maybe a hospital or a school. It has a tower slightly askew to one side, too tall in proportion to its other dimensions. Perhaps we made Marcus too free, a madman. I'll hold him down and you make the tower shorter. Hurry, I can barely hold him. My god. What have we created here? Marcus? Where are you going? Marcus, come back! He's gone.

There is no greater human accomplishment than the deconstruction of the healthy mind into a set of easily understood rules. Follow these rules and we'll all be better off. Rule number one: If it flinches, don't touch it. Rule number eight: Open your eyes and look around. Rule number seventeen: Hold onto each other. Rule number forty five: Stand back from the edge far enough to avoid temptation. Rule number two: Everything is personal.

With this approach to writing theme is always a challenge. You don't have to create it, you just have to find it. "How can I be sure there is a theme?" you ask? Don't kid yourself. We're just one woman or one man. We cannot keep more than one thing in our mind at the same time. Everything we say has a theme. Today's theme is about symmetry and rules, about imagining real people that feel and do things. Today's theme is there for everyone to see.

if i take you when you are not ready
to a place where you did not wish to go
and i tell you what you cannot understand
then i leave you wondering who i am
if you worry how you might get home
and you cannot fathom why the world is so
then i offer you the only explanation i have
that i only wanted to see your face again
and hear your voice
to hold your hand
and be with you a while
because you bring me joy
for reasons that we cannot comprehend
in a world that is so

The End.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

On Zimmerman Farm

It's one of those mornings, clear but not bright, grass wet with dew. Silent birds fly overhead in small scattered groups, moving to some master bird plan, all in the same direction. I call this place a farm, but that's too grand a name. My dirt road curves from far away to nearby, fading a few feet from the house into unkempt grass and wildflowers. Beside the end of the road is my garden, large as gardens go, but hardly a farm. It's enough to keep me occupied. I play at selling the produce, but I'm lucky to give it away before it rots. I couldn't possibly eat it all. People ask what I'm doing here, but I never know what to say. I often wonder why everyone doesn't live here.

Sometimes, while digging around in the dirt between the rows, I'll carry on conversations with Bob Dylan. He haunts the woods that line the edge of the field. During the day the woods are no fun, so he comes out to my garden and we have long talks about outer space or chess openings or sexual escapades. He never likes to talk about his life as a musician nor about the sixties. He just shrugs off all those questions. Lately he's been interested in World Cup soccer, asking me about the teams from various countries, conjecturing which nations would have the strongest teams and which events in their history would contribute to that strength. I've told him several times that I've never even seen an World Cup soccer match, but he always asks me anyway. He's funny like that.

At night the woods are hopping, but I never go in there. Why? I think it's because I know that if I went in there I would never come back. What would happen to my garden then? If I sit on the dusky porch and listen carefully, though, I can hear his clumsy harmonica drifting across the field. Once in a while I'll hear a scream of laughter or a howl. "Bob Dylan isn't even dead yet," my friend told me one evening when I asked him if he could hear the music. "He can't haunt those woods if he's still alive." Bob thought that was a funny way to look at things. I agreed.

"The dead don't follow the rules," he smiled, "so why should I?" I knew what he meant. Some things you don't talk about. Some things you just do, like music, or the sixties, or gardening.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Bladdy Dogging

Of the building of sandcastles and the grit of salt on your skin who can tell? Have you been there, the afternoon reddening your forgetful lack of sunscreen? Flinging the towel clean so you can recline unencrusted only pollutes your eyes and mouth, noisy tooth grit plaguing your attempts to read or write or sleep. I've never been a beach person, having once floated unaware into the drifting tentacles of a Portuguese Man O' War. "It didn't attack you," she laughed. "They just drift." Bullshit. You weren't there. It growled at me and bared its ugly fangs. Not for me the sea and surf. 'Tis the land I lub.

Like many men I often wonder if I'm a good father. I do the best I can, but I'm plagued with doubts. Do I shove food into their cages often enough? Am I setting the cattle prod too high? Am I beating them enough to keep the devils out of their souls? How can we know? Sometimes we just have to wait until they grow up and overpower us and escape. Then, when they're out there on their own, running from our hounds, then we'll see what sorts of men and women they've become. We can only do our best and then pray that the gods do the rest.

That was, obviously, a joke. They will never be big enough to overpower me. Not with what I feed them.

Once when I was at the beach I was eaten by Jaws. It's true. You don't know. You weren't there.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Luna Doe Me

In dreaming I learned last night the secrets of the moon. Today I cannot remember them, but I know that I know them somewhere, and that is enough. This morning all I could remember was this, "If I could live anywhere I would." I don't know what it means, but I'm holding onto it for later use. Meanwhile the moon is up there, even in the day, even when you cannot see it. It must be thinking something, looking down all day and night. It must have plans. Who knows?

Doe dreams awake because she cannot sleep. People wonder about her why she walks about the outside in her flannel pajamas and robe, but they never ask her and she never tells. Today she wears no shoes, wet mown grass sticking to her toes as she wanders down the block toward nowhere in particular. It's only a little cold, but she doesn't really notice feelings unless they hurt. "Love," she thinks as she walks, "would hold my hand and walk with me." Personification often plays in her thoughts, love smiles and anger rages. "Love," she thinks again, "is always looking at you when you look at her." A cat watches her passing curiously from its crouch in the gutter, but she doesn't really notice people unless they are cruel. "If I could live anywhere," she thinks, "I would." Doe comes home later to her large, empty house and walks alone to her room, failing to notice the loving looks of concern from all the people who live there with her.

When the last man on the moon died, the key to the moon was lost. Only the moon knows where it is, but it's a secret. I'm not sure how I know this, living way down here, but I do. "If I could live anywhere I would." It's a funny thought. I wonder what it means.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

If You Build It

A couple of years ago I built a massive League of Heroes building out on the outskirts of town on a couple of acres I won in a poker game. It's pretty impressive, with massive stone columns and granite arches and an inspiring array of flags from all the nations of the world. My assumption was that superheroes would see it and start to hang out there, making it their headquarters. I figured it was the least I could do since superheroes keep us all safe and don't ask for anything in return.

So far, however, no superheroes have showed up. I guess they just don't know about the place. I tried advertising in a few newspapers and magazines, but I only heard from people who wanted to make fun of me. Some people just don't appreciate superheroes, I guess. Some people cannot fathom that someone would do something like this for them. I don't know. It seemed like the right thing to do to me.

So, the place is just sitting there, empty. A local dude keeps bugging me to let him hold a Halloween Haunted House of Horrors there. I just don't think that would be right, in spite of the great alliteration. If you dressed it up all creepy it would look like a villain headquarters. Superheroes wouldn't appreciate that, I bet. Another guy wants to have paintball battles in it. I don't know. Maybe I should just let him. The superheroes don't seem to want the place.

Are there laws about giving gifts to superheroes like there are for politicians? Maybe that's the problem. They can't accept the gift. I don't know. My friend Eddy says there aren't any superheroes. I just can't accept that. The city has never been poisoned with colorful knockout gas. Giant robots have never attacked us. Zombies have never roamed the streets. How do you explain that if there are no superheroes? It's the only answer that makes sense.

If you know a superhero looking for a headquarters, give her or him my email address. I realized a long time ago that I'll never be able to save the world. Still, I'd like to be involved at some level.

Hello, friends. Are you a homeless superhero? Do you know one?

Later. Love.

Fools Make Magic of Us All

The way she holds her head when she types can tell me, if I pay attention, that she believes art is neither a particular product nor a particular activity but a method. Anything done this way is art. Anything produced by this method is art. I've seen tears as art. I've seen art in silence, in the way one stands or walks. The difference is in the how and in the why. These shape the what. Wherever I am and whatever I do, I am only and forevermore interested in producing art. Function is peripheral and superficial where I live. From now until forever after I am only and always in my house, and this is how we do things here. All are welcome here but we do not compromise on a few things. Not here. Not in my house. Here we do art.

The Hope for the World walked in and, sighing a little, dropped with a groan into a chair. She wondered for a moment what this grit was under one fingernail, turning over and reviewing hands calloused and dry with good use. Her pants, stiff denim stained with soil, were frayed at the cuffs but sturdy and fit, except for one snag torn an inch and a half just below the knee. The cafe buzzed around her, dense with noise and life, unaware, as was she, that The Hope for the World sat tired and hungry, waiting to be served. Somewhere, in the future, we will sing songs for her, remembering her with fond tears of gratitude. Now she wishes she could have showered after work, her stomach grumbling under her sweat-stained shirt. In a cafe like this, however, people don't notice too much. Here, she thought as the waitress, napkin-wrapped flatware and menu in hand, led her to a table, you can just blend in have a bite to eat, maybe a little coffee or ice water. The Hope for the World thanked the waitress and slid into the little booth alone with a sore little sigh. Outside, in the parking lot and beyond, the world needed her unaware.

There is no practical magic. Close your eyes and run as fast as you can. Do it. Do it now. Fools make magic of us all.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Susie Day, 2008

You? I love how real you are, the most genuine person I know. I love your resolve to live, not only for yourself but for us all, a quality life. I love that you are strong and willful. I love that you are passionate for everything equally, for work and for sex and for wellness and for security and for meaning and for responsibility and for growth and for play and for all of us, everyone in your life. You're a good, good person, uncommonly beautiful and decent and intelligent and competent and kind. It's true. You are. You always have been.

You and me? Here's how I see it. I have two realities, but only one of them is real. I live most of my life in a daydream, before I met you and even still, when you're not around. You, however, pull me back to earth, putting my feet on the ground. You connect me to life and love, the vital and the tangible and all of my senses. I live at a distance from everyone, but you are as close to me as one person can be to another, the only touch from which I do not shrink away. All of my favorite real places to spend time are curves on your skin. When I am not with you I forget that I am real. When I am with you I remember food and water and shelter and love and I am also alive like everyone else and I am also a man like other men and I can also feel and can touch and can build and can protect and can embrace and can engage and can live and live and live. I love you for that. For me, you are more than I ever expected. You are my right to participate in life.

Just a few thoughts about you and about us. Happy birthday, Susan.

Love.

Rerun: Will and Stone

I'm on vacation and, therefore, I'm not blogging. I know how badly you all need me every day, however, so I'm re-posting an old post. I originally posted it on January 31, 2006. I hope you like it.

It was a warm morning, but not hot, as Master Wu and I arrived at the mountain pond. The surface of the pond was like glass, and the reflection of the sky was like brilliant gold. There was no wind and no sound. I watched quietly as Master placed a mat in the soft, short grass near the shore. When he motioned to me, I sat on the mat. He stared out over the pond for many minutes, perfectly still as the morning. Then he began to speak softly but clearly.

"The pond teaches us that, when things are quiet and still, we can achieve a near perfect peace. Without wind to disturb it, the water rests in perfect repose. You cannot detect its small movement with your ears or your eyes. Here, in this quiet place, we will try to be like the pond."

I thought about this, and then asked, "Eventually, we will achieve peace that surpasses that of the pond. Eventually we will be able to have peace even when the wind blows. This is true, is it not?" I hoped he would approve.

He continued to stare quietly, his face showing no sign of approval or disapproval. "Eventually we may learn to be somewhat less peaceful than the pond in quiet times. In strong winds, the pond waves and laps the shore, but it is not broken. This we will also learn to emulate, but we will never have the peace of this pond in wind or calm."

I frowned, in spite of myself. We have will. We can ignore, become resigned. The pond cannot do this. "The pond is just a metaphor for peace," I said, "and, like all metaphors, it breaks down. The peace of the pond is easy to disturb. If I toss a stone into it, it will be shattered. We have will. We can choose to ignore the wind."

Again, he waited. When he finally spoke, he merely said, "Peace, now. Try to learn the peace of the pond in this quiet place."

I closed my eyes and went through the familiar steps of relaxation. Bit by bit, the tension and care left me. I both opened my senses and closed my mind to the world around me. No thinking, only feeling, only being. I was amazed at how silent the pond was, though I knew it was within an arm's reach. I was impressed, wondering if it could hear me. No sound. No breeze. Perfect peace.

And then an explosion of pain. I felt my scream rip through the serenity of the morning as I lunged forward onto my hands and knees and groped back for the pain that was ablaze in my back, just below my shoulder blade. I turned around in time to see Master Wu throw a stone toward me. I flinched and ducked, but it sailed over my head and landed with a splash in the center of the pond, sending ripples out in every direction. I looked back at Master Wu, who was walking toward me. I saw a smaller stone on the ground just beside my mat.

"Master! What? I..." I wanted to scream at him, but I knew better. I tried to reach the pain in my back, but it was in an awkward place and I could not. I was furious, and I began to breathe deeply in order to control my anger.

When he finally reached me, he sat softly to the ground beside my mat. "Looks like you were right," he said, "the peace of the pond was shattered with one stone. Look."

I turned to look, but the pond was as smooth as glass again. The ripples had already dissipated into nothing. My back, on the other hand, was still throbbing, and the pain was getting worse.

"And your ripples? All gone?" he asked, and smiled.

It was more than I could bear. I rose to my feet and started the long walk back to the house. Master just stayed there, smiling. "Just ignore it," he said, and he started to laugh. "Use will." Just before I was out of earshot, I heard him yell, "The man is just a metaphor for peace. He breaks down." He howled with laughter.

In the morning, he put the stone in my tea. Bastard. I slipped it in my pocket, where I still carry it to this day.

Okay. That was that. I hope you enjoyed it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Near Grelm Collapse in the Burbs

Some people gots it easy. Me? I gotta fix these damn refrigerators all day. And it ain't easy, buddy, believe you me. Fixing refrigerators, or "fridges" as we call 'em in the business, is probably the hardest and most dangerous job on the planet. Don't believe me? Well, then, you obviously don't know much, no offense intended. Me? I can tell you a thing or two about fridges. Oh yeah, I got stories.

One time me and Bernie Parker get a call out to Woodland Highmount or Highland Woodmount or some such bullshit suburban neighborhood. Dispatch says there's a Kenmore out there won't hold magnets no more. Refrigerator demagnetization is getting to be a real problem with some of these new jobbies. They don't make them like they used to. So, anyway, we get out there and this real snooty lady tells us through the front screen to go around the side. We do and she lets us in the side door into the kitchen. She was a pretty lady, real pretty, but she was too good for us ask her. She just points us to the fridge and goes to sit at the table in the breakfast nook like she's gonna keep an eye on us. They all got nooks out in the suburbs. Go figure.

Anyways, there we were, looking at this black Kenmore jobbie. On the floor all around it were Chinese menus, finger-painted pictures, school lunch calendars, and assorted refrigerator magnets. We seen this before. So Bernie goes back to the van gets the remagnetizer. While he's hooking the phase hose up to the hot water in the sink I plug the thing in and put on the plating helmet. He pushes the starter button and I crank the feed for the grelm wand. Next things he's stomping the valve pedals to control pressure and I'm laying into the Kenmore with the wand, making sure not to cross the grelm lines (I'm no greenhorn.) Ice woman's sittin' in the nook, no idea what she's lookin' at.

That's when it happens. I hear this thud and look over. Bernie's laying out cold in the floor. The dumbass got his bootlace caught up in the pedal and tripped right onto his bean on the Mexican tile. He's gone. So here I am, a live grelm wand in my hands and pressure building up in the chamber with no one to work the valves. I know I'm in trouble when I start to hear that high-pitched whine, you know, that remagnetizer chambers make when they're about to blow.

"Bernie," I says, almost crossing the grelm lines when I turn. "Bernie get up, dammit."

Bernie ain't movin'.

"Bernie, you worthless piece of shit, get up!"

Nothing. He's out cold.

I look over at the fridge. The damn thing is starting to glow. Over-magnetized. Not good. I look over at ice woman in the nook. "You might want to get outta here lady," I said. "This don't look good."

She just rolls her eyes and pushes back her chair. "I'm not paying for this," she huffs, and she walks over to the remagnetizer, kicks the emergency pressure vent and slaps the kill switch, like she's been magnetizing all her life or something. It was sexy as hell, but I felt like a dumbass standing there with my wand in my hand as it went dead.

"Yeah, sure lady," I stammered. "No charge. Sure."

"And you'll be replacing my refrigerator," she added, glaring daggers at me.

"You'll have to talk to dispatch about that," I said. "I'm just a fridge jockey."

She rolled her eyes again and went to sit back in the nook. I finally woke up Bernie and we packed up and got the hell outta there. That was the closest we ever came to a grelm collapse. Pretty scary shit, this job. I got a million stories, though. A million. You work this job long enough and you can't help but have stories.

Hello, friends. You got stories?

Love.

Relationships with the Surface

I hope I never live in tunnels. I hope I never have to say, "It's a tight fit, but it looks like it opens up on the other side. I'm going in." I hope I'm never thrown into pitch black by the failure of some torch or lamp. I'm a surface dweller at heart.

The painter thinks of everyone he sees, everyone who sits across from him for a portrait, that there is a sadness to them, just below the surface. He will always try to capture this sadness with brush strokes and colors. The painter cannot see what any writer could spot right away. It is the painter, in fact, that is sad. Sad eyes see sad everywhere. Sad hands paint sad eyes, sad mouths, sad smiles. The writer knows this because the writer works below the surface where the sadness lives. Painters live on the surface, guessing what is underneath.

Somewhere, deep in the earth, an earthworm tries to wriggle free of his radio collar. Scientists in white coats record every pulsation and movement of the struggle, jotting down notes on clipboards. The earthworm has never been a fan of science, being more of an artistic soul. The scientists make note of this and nod to each other. Very interesting indeed. What is my point? No artist ever stuck a radio collar on a worm. That's all I'm saying.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Jailed

I was at a fast food place yesterday that was woefully under-stocked. I'm sure I was already agitated by other issues in my life because this bothered me far more than it should have bothered me. A man got his burger and there were no napkins. A kid ordered fries and there were no fancy ketchup packets. A woman got her strawberry shake and took the last straw. That pushed me over the edge. I won't say what happened, but I am now in jail. Luckily, since the phone wasn't working, they gave me one blog post instead of one phone call. Honey, could you come pick me up?

Being in jail has given me an opportunity to think about a few things in my life. It's pretty quiet in this cell, just the soothing tune of blues harmonica and the soulful singing of the oppressed to inspire the mind. I realize now that a few things have to change. Firstwise, I need to stop experimenting with the plug-in electric car. I've spent almost $6,000 on extension cords already and I can't even get out of the neighborhood without something coming unplugged or someone being decapitated by the cord. I'm pretty sure the decapitations are against the Neighborhood Association bylaws.

Secondlish, I need to get out of disorganized crime. What a bunch of morons these guys are. They say you can never get out, that once you're in you're in for life, but I guarantee you these guys have lost my address and phone number. They have never, ever killed anyone on purpose.

Lastesque, I want to be prettier and more delicate. I'm going to start putting flowers all up in my hair and shit. I'm going to wear perfumes and prance around like a fucking princess.

I have got to get out of this cell. Honey? Are you reading this?

Hello, friends. Can you bust me out? I'll try to slip into the bags of dirty laundry if they have any. You hijack a laundry truck. Okay?

Love.

Möbius Trip

There are a million ways to do nothing, and all of them are effortless. We make it look so difficult, but it's so easy. Nothing does not accumulate, so there's little baggage to haul. No one's nothing is any better than anyone else's. Nothing brings us together. That is why we choose it over something. Something always keeps us apart. Everything is never complete, but nothing is always accomplished. Mark it off the list and go for coffee. There's plenty of time for nothing later.

Weep not for me, growing old in this skin. I am determined to skip my groove, groovy though it be. What say we turn around and go back a ways? What say we recreate what we tore down? Having learned from our mistakes, let's make them again. I remember fondly forgetting how to live. Forgetting that I did so, perhaps I can remember life again. I will open my eyes when I speak to people. I will face forward when I walk. I will learn to live in my mind untamed because I cannot stomach the thought of taming it, the risk of what might be lost. "How will you know when you've arrived?" I will walk backwards until forwards looks promising again. Then I will build a house in that place and open a small business. Perhaps you will patronize me there.

Some search for the golden thread of truth in everything, as though we always mean something true. This is what I mean today: I'm running away and I'm taking everyone and everything with me, especially you. Hold on.

Hello, friends. Who are you today?

Love.

I'm as Free as a Bird Now

You might think a loose kite - a kite freed by a broken string - would fly free. In truth, kites - unlike Lynyrd Skynyrd members - can only fly when they're constrained by string. A loose kite will fall very quickly to the ground. They are a sad thing, because they will end up wedged somewhere and, because the wind will always catch and move them, they will look like they are struggling to be free. In this sense they are exactly like members of Lynyrd Skynyrd.

I'm writing a children's book about a kite named Bartholomew. He lives in a happy house with a drill press named Daryl and a bowling pin named Hakeem. Together they are planning to win the county fair Cheese Blintz Jamboree. If they win they'll use the $200 prize to pay for hypoallergenic pillows because they all have terrible hay fever and asthma. Plus Daryl is bipolar. He's always up and down and up and down, which is pretty common for drill presses, but for Daryl it's a chemical imbalance thing. It's really not a very good children's book at all. I'm just meandering with the plot and I'm not sure where it's headed. I do have the title, though. I'm going to call it Lemons. Because of the blintzes.

Have you heard? Scientists have managed to breed the first Lynyrd Skynyrd guitarist in captivity. They aren't sure if they'll be able to tame him, however. He's only one week old, but he's already getting angry. And drunk. He's started trying to learn the solo from Freebird. Things aren't looking good. He may leave there tomorrow. They will still remember him.

Hello, friends. Tell me what's up.

Love.

Würdgaymz

Having learned at a young age - because I have many Bohemian friends - the meaning of the word "vegetarian," my children were understandably confused when I told them Gandhi was a humanitarian. The nature of their misunderstanding was lost on me, so they lived with this grisly error for many years. Once they learned the truth it was too late. A mild shudder of horror would forevermore mix with their admiration for the peaceable Mahatma.

Hey, guess what? I'm introducing a new recurring character to the repertoire of this blog. He will stand for the struggle of all humanity in our striving to understand the universe. He will be an allegorical teacher of lessons about humanity and what it means to be human. His name is Hugh. He is a manatee. Hugh Manatee.

Get it?

A quick Google shows me that I am not the first to think of this. So, that's it. Say goodbye to Hugh. He's officially cut from the roster. Sorry, Hugh. You had a good run.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

P. S. - Took a few family photos, in case you're interested in such things. No big deal. Thanks for stopping by.

P. P. S. - They're interviewing bloggers at The Collective. Today's blogger? Me. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks again.

A Space Walk and a Dog's Life

Space walks leave no footprints. Personally, I don't really consider it walking. It's more like swimming. It's like falling in no certain direction very slowly. Space walks require special shoes. You have to watch where you step. If you step on the sun it will mess up your shoes. Let's take a romantic space walk, just the billions of us. What do you say?

Dog the cat walked slinkily along the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings and ducking behind carts, chairs, bikes and, finally, a newspaper stand from which one could obtain, for free, a local circular detailing cultural events that were going to happen two weeks ago. Dog the cat lay under the paper stand and stared out at all the passing shoes. Being a girl, Dog the cat might be expected to have a fascination with shoes. Being a cat on the city streets, however, she was mostly terrified of shoes. As she lay there she wanted badly to leap out, teeth and claws, and latch onto the flesh exposed by a pair of scary red pumps that strolled slowly by. She even rocked forward, muscles flexed and ready, and pretended she was going to do it. In the end, however, she relaxed and yawned. Normally Dog the cat was hungry, starving even. For now, however, Dog was sleepy and satisfied thanks to a generous handout of tuna fish given to her about an hour ago by the man. The man was a busboy named Hector, but Dog the cat didn't know that. Dog the cat didn't know anyone's name, and she certainly didn't know her own. Hector had given it to her. Dog. Hector fancied himself a funny man. Had she known and understood her name and who was to blame, Dog the cat would have peed on the spot where Hector always sat waiting for her. She did not know, however, so she considered the man a friend and would often pet the palm of his hand with her back. Dog the cat went to sleep under that paper stand for almost an hour. When she woke up it was nighttime, and she set out for the alley where mice live.

Did you know that NASA, when it was designing its Mars lander, actually studied falling cats? NASA was interested in how cats seemed, almost always, to land on their feet. I just made that up. I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds like it could be true. We could totally convince people that it's true. What do you say?

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Non-Post

This is not a post. Please seek inspiration elsewhere today. Here's a couple of suggestions:

• Peefer's new blog: the decrepit shed
• Sir's brand new, very-first-ever blog: etcetera, etcetera

Now, I must go. My new Toyota Prius hybrid won't save the world unless I drive it around.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Lose the Rug

We're pulling up the carpet of our life, hoping there is fine wood flooring beneath the cheap, crumbling, green padding. We'll sand it down and refinish it. We'll admire it from afar. We'll walk on it lightly and put little coasters under all the chair and couch legs. It will be for us hallowed ground. We'll sweep it and polish it.

Thanks to gravity, the floor is the most popular surface in the house and the ceiling the least. We'll hang a few things on the walls, but we won't lavish them with the same care.

Much to our dismay, however, there is just more carpet underneath the padding. It's older and uglier than the top carpet. And under that? More carpet. It's carpet all the way down to the center of the earth, older and dirtier as you go. We'll have to put in our own wood, though I'm not sure what we'll nail it to.

My child asked me, "Does the sun cast a shadow?"

"Of course," I said. "Just look behind you. See that shadow? The sun casts that shadow."

"No it doesn't," my child replied. "I cast that shadow."

Angels and demons, if they exist, watch us do all of these things. They glare at each other in disdain. They are trapped, some would have us believe, in a universe that is not about them. Nothing orbits them. Nothing belongs to them. They don't even cast shadows. We are the center of their existence, their sun. It must be a sad existence for them, I think. Lesser children of an invisible god. I think we made them up. I hope, for their sakes, that they don't exist. If not, let's do them a favor. Let's cast them down into the bottomless pit where the carpet used to be, covering it with Amityville Wood-like Flooring Product. Ignore the scratching on the floor. It's better this way.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Show Me the Way

Everyone is an option, but not really. You have to be careful doing it, but I recommend exploring everyone around you. Pick them up. Listen to them. Really, really look at them. Figure them out. Then put them back down. Try not to be obvious when you do this. If they realize what you're doing they won't act naturally. You'll get scripted life like reality television. It may get written poorly, it may get written on the spot, but it's still written. You don't want this. What you want is to invade them where they live, to intrude where they think you cannot come, to catch them unaware.

In most people I see the key to living happily. All around me people tell me, without knowing it, the better way. I take careful notes and resolve to become that person. I will wear what they wear. I will eat what they eat. I will know what they know and love what they love. I will hold my mouth like that, with the little upturn on the lips, pursed together, eyes looking intently between here and there at the minute details of nothing at all. Every day I learn the way. Every day I really understand, for the first time, what it all means.

Still here I am. Day after day. Month after month. Life after life after life. My experiences do not accumulate. I'm karmic Teflon. Tomorrow will be today, as was yesterday. I felt this same way in France, in Egypt, in Mesopotamia, in the Pangæan Sea. Only one time around, in a distant life, did I believe in transmigration of the soul. Mostly, in the other lives, I've been the skeptical sort. I've no use for such nonsense. I never have. Well, once I did.

There is a girl, I'd say two or three years old, holding her juice with both hands high above her head as she walks. I will do this. From now on, I will do this. It is so obviously the right way.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.