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Preview: The Life and Times of Surly Temple

The Life and Times of Surly Temple

Updated: 2017-09-07T19:01:56.890-06:00




I went to a memorial today.

It was held in a public park, with flowers and a pavilion, butterflies and cold cuts and (somewhat shockingly to my Mormon upbringing) a makeshift bar that was more a station for "OhmygodHOWAREYOUUUUUU?!!!!" than condolences.  Earlier that day I had caused a kerfuffle in the apartment with my husband, upending drawer after drawer trying to find the one pair of decent black nylons I own.  While the friend who had asked me to come had said the dress was "whatever you wear," I was just not willing to let go of 'propriety' and show up sans nylons.  I found the nylons.  I wore the nylons, along with the requisite pearl jewelry, tastefully understated makeup.

As it turns out, I could have shown up wearing a sequined-laden rainbow-colored skirt, topless, with butterflies in my hair and ladybug rainboots while I did barrel rolls, and I would have felt less obvious than in a black-and-white dress, black hose, and a cardi.

The woman who died?  EPIC.

Like, motherfucking EPIC.

She licked eyeballs.  She had a tattoo of a tomato, because she was obsessed with the fruit.  She had a tattoo of a rooster, because she loved to say "Would you like to see my cock?"  She was part of a roller derby team.  She painted a nekkid-lady tie for her brother to wear to the first day of work of his "first official" job.  She was funny, she was fabulous, she was dynamic, she was beyond compare, and a woman who defied all definitions and references.  This is, now, what I know.  I am sure there is more.  And it is AWESOME.

I didn't know her.  Not at all.  I never even made her acquaintance; and believe me, I am the poorer for not having done so.

It makes me wonder; what happened not in, but during, her life?  The speakers and poets today referenced struggles and private ghosts.  My friend, the one who asked me to go with her today, was unaware.  "They kept referencing struggles and dark times," she said, earnestly.  "I never knew.  NEVER.  It just goes to show you."

It does, indeed.

It doesn't require an external force to have those demons creep up on you.  Really, you can have a perfectly normal, perfectly suburban childhood/upbringing/life, and it doesn't always add up.  There is nothing that anyone who is functioning on a normal level can use to define what happens to someone who is not.

So really, I am happy that this friend-of-a-friend managed to live her life the way it should be lived.  I wanted to be so respectful; so wanting to live my life as she did, completely and fully and eyeball-lickingly.

I have a feeling she won't rest in peace.  She doesn't want to.

So YOU GO, Edith Stone-Walsh. 

Trifecta Challenge 74


When the call came for the Exodus, Lucas was not ready.     “That’s fine,” the Council said.  “We needed a Remembrancer to stay behind.  Lock the door behind us when we leave.”     It took the Prognosticator half a bag of burning Clee, three Ecstasies assuring success, and, finally, a really hard shove to get Lucas’ mother onto the ship.  She howled the whole way, beating her fists against the portals and mouthing dire portents as Lucas waved from the launch arena.     Lucas, finally alone in the rows of burgeoning garden plantings, smiled up at the crimson sky and could not remember a thing.     On purpose.[...]

Mawwidge. And wove, two wove, is what bwings us hewe togevvew, today.


And then there were two.
The blog has been woefully neglected.

That will change.

Because let's face it, how can the world NOT want to know about a light-up bouquet, the Imperial March wedding recessional theme, the obscene amounts of food, or the magnificent shtuff that happens as we go forward forging our new and exotic life?

Updates will now be listed on

Smooches of the passionate variety above to anyone who cares.

Oh well.


So The Boy and I are reading Laurie Notaro.

She makes me happy. Not just for her admission of leaving lipstick on teeth during a date, but also because self-deprecating humor is ALWAYS good for me...if I can relate. And she does her very best, which turns into her best at disclosure. I'm pretty sure I could confide in her pubic sideburns, and she would not just accept, but go a step further and admit the things I was in NO WISE going to admit to...except she said it.

And it's true.

She makes the hunt for panties on a bedroom floor at least realistic, if not commonplace, and warns those huns who don't think 1:00 a.m. an acceptable time to, bleary-eyed, toast the chef.

A bleary-eyed chef accolade happened to me less than a week ago.

Eff, yeah.

Doesn't matter what they are preparing and serving; a chef knows what is going on, and where he/she stands in the world. A chef is not afraid of letting someone else make suggestions.

The Boy and I are reading 'The Soul of a Chef." I confess. All I am focusing on is the ways in which I can let him down; despite a tremendously auspicious beginning, I can't do it.

I really can't.

Nope. Not kidding.

I mean it really, seriously, means I can't do it.


Reasons That, Well, Make Me Cackle.


I'm still not sure what it was.

"There's soup?" K. asked, incredulous. "He never told ME."

Three people peered into the murky depths of the warmer.

"What IS it?" I finally asked, again.

Nobody knew.

It takes a special kind of culinary gift to create a dish devoid of any defining characteristics. It had several kinds of, well, I am going to say macaroni rather than pasta. There were red flecks. They were not red pepper flakes, they were not tomatoes. Were they pimento? Were imagination was woefully inadequate to the task.

The loser of 'One, two, three, NOT IT!" sampled the witches brew (also, he was not there for the inaugural peek; that may have contributed to his willingness to submit to ptomaine treachery).

He still couldn't say what it was.

"What's your soup of the day?"

"I'm not sure. Kitchen Sink Stew, possibly; I just know I can't recommend what I haven't tried."

"I'm feeling brave. I'll try it."

The Majesty's Taster was procured a small sample and spoon. Later, I casually drifted back and posed the real query:

"And how was it?"


"And...WHAT was it?"

"If it had hamburger, I would say it was gazpacho."

I had to hear it again, sure I had misheard or misinterpreted.

"I'm sorry, it was like what?"


"" I said, sure that maybe if I said the word the woman with whom I was speaking would realize she was saying the wrong thing, kind of like when my mother talked for a good ten minutes with a college professor on how someone was attending a scientific suppository (instead of symposium).

"Yes," she said.

I left her to her side salad.

I freely admit I am a Food Snob. It requires capitals solely because Food Snobs insist upon it.

And yet, I get nowhere near the glamour of that title.

When called upon, I will eat absolutely nothing at any place The Boy reveres; even if the dish seems safe enough, they add some level of yuck (to me and my pedestrian tastes). A basic search will turn up the fact that, owing to my pickiness about eating seafood (if it came from the water, I'm not interested) very few appetizers remain. Even entrees result in a dish including your basic corn-fed cow turning into "I'm not eating beef cheeks. The word 'cheeks' is disgusting. Your industry should find a better way to market to hick consumers like myself."

I kinda suck when it comes to refined palates and, well, anything he's really exceptional at.

Not just kinda.

I wish I liked more things. Believe me, in a world that I fully believe is designed fully for visceral experiences, and a world that contains white and black, I guess I'm not fully prepared for either.

All I can say is, The a force to be reckoned with.

Life, and Why It's Weird.


Frankly, that's a use of hubris. I have NO idea why life is as weird as it is. If I knew, would I have even gotten into the career track? Because really, Yeats' poem The Isle of Innisfree speaks to me on every level. Do I want a career? I mean, a career like the Real World dictates, a Career?

Not so much.

There are very few authors who can boast that they make a living doing so. John Grisham is one. Stephen King is another (an how awesome are we that we are a ph, rather than a v?). Robin McKinley is far and away one of my favorites.

And she is a loon.

Complete, total, utter, loon.

I'm pretty sure she's living the life I would if I could be her. Her blog most recently discusses bats. Knitting. Bell-ringing. Roses. Her husband (also a major and fantastic author in his own right). She puts up with silly crushes from fans. She wears Converse (sparkly, no less). She has no qualms about being August Majesty to Chaos and Darkness, also in some worlds known as gorgeous, beautiful, perfect doggies.

I'm probably, based on the royalty checks thus far, never gonna make it as a writer.

Just so you know, it took me 32 years to say that.

Only because I couldn't write cursive until first grade...

But I'm not going to stop. I love the world. I love the written word. I love the way the world looks when created by someone who actually loves language. I spent my entire life enthralled by the world as it OUGHT to be, based on descriptions, instead of the way it was. The mundane, prosaic, prozac world can be enough for some.

It's not for me.

Ah, I Understand.


It's not the first time.

No, I've actually spent my whole life doing everything I could to undermine the whole V-day thing.

It isn't just V-Day, you know.

Parts of the world, at one point upon a time, spent their time flogging nubile maidens prior to their subsequent entertainments.

It was de rigeur, in the day.

Me, not so much.

While I don't subscribe to anything legitimate to the Pink Holiday (as it was known to the more Delicately Ascribed members of my coterie), I have a few things to say about its moments that make the rest of us look like dilholes (accuracy left to what you SHOULD have said):

"You are the Best! Thing! Ever!"

"Holy &^%*! Oh please, please, let me *%^&*(!!!!!!"

"Oh, hey, mind if I spend the whole rest of my life doing everything I possibly can to make you realize how wonderful you are, how desireable you are, and how much I wish I could spend every second with you?"

The Light of Elendiel Ain't Gonna Save Us Now, Precious



"Yikes! Did you destroy it?"

"It is currently trapped under a bowl and a puddle of Raid," I informed The Boy shortly thereafter via Skype.

"I am sorry. I wish I were there. I would kill it for you." He proffered.

Look, I know.

I know in this day and age I am supposed to pick up a copy of Euell Gibbson's Stalking The Wild Asparagus and squash the fellow with little more than a sniff and flexed bicep; or that I should broil him in a sumptuous array of port wine, strawberries, and cucumber. Or array myself in appropriate hunting attire and refuse to let the little rapscallions get the better of me. Stiff upper lip, being British, and all.

Then I remember that I am NOT British and there is not a single reason petitioning to which I should be. Which is as British as you can get for saying I AM AN EFFING AMERICAN MUTT, EIGHTCRAWLERS, AND I AM TERRIFIED OF YOU.

The true American response would be to find several compulsively-loaded guns, wait around corners, and go out blazing only to inexplicably win through because Truth, Justice, and the American Way always prevail. Barring that, I could fall in a hail of ineffable justice-free wrong-person-running-the-show-and-that'll-show-them hail. Since really it's me versus Shelob in there, I have come to realize that I am a crappy American and a worse Bearer of the Ring. Either of those require sense of self, a willingness to persevere. Me? I may have given myself some sort of heavy poisoning from leaving that eight legged predator in half an inch of poison.

I want to have the stiff upper British lip. Believe me. You sound so much more erudite quoting Chaucer in Middle English with a Modern British accent. Frankly, you sound more erudite yelling at the milkman about his current delivery in a British accent than you do American; it moves from vulgar to sublime.

But I have yet to meet an arachnid of Charlotte's composition, who no doubt would have embraced the bicoastal thrills of international interaction, but probably also would not have died by drowning in half an inch of Raid.

Either way, I am so not taking to my bed tonight. You win, arachnid. The field is yours.

A Heist For Help


Christmas was...well, the Best! Christmas! Ever!

I had to first reassure my dad that the Best Christmas Ever was now officially different than the one his kids reference, sadly the one where he was too sick to emerge from the bedroom. No. Really. Best! Christmas! Ever!

I guess I had never got to share a Christmas officially with the Boy I Love, so naturally we were as disgusting as expected. We were, apparently, not as disgusting as my mother wished, since she expressed a thwarted desire to shoot us with the kitchen hose while shrieking "PDA! PDA" (which rumor has it she does at high school lunches, rumor being truth held from her mouth).

The Boy I Love has officially announced his intentions toward me, which despite common belief do not include him strangling me and trying to hide the body, so all is well.

I decided not to send pictures until my sister, who does AMAZING photography, sent us photos of us. We took them, but I may have behaved badly. Oh. There is a shock.

Speaking of The Sister, her current pet project, Project Elevate, is looking for sponsors or fundraising ideas. If anybody has any great ideas or sugnificent dying relatives or anything, wouldja letme know? This is an incredible resource. Please visit their website for additional thoughts.

Random Gifts of Joy


Out of nowhere I got a package. The return address is listed as O. M. Banta in San he had been playing the game of him knowing something that I did not (my critics would argue that is probably true of most people). But inside...oh, the magic! The wonder of it all!

1. A tea towel that says "Caffeine is not a drug. It's a vitamin."

2. Pens with vile slogans like "Verdant Fields Nudist Camp...get in touch with your OUTER self! Enjoy ping pong, volleyball, and our famous bottomless buffet!"

3. A card in-joke that made me laugh.

4. Douchebag Citations. Oh, they are breaktaking! There are probably fifty choices for your citation; everything from Crunchy douchebag to Smug douchebag to International douchebag. You can check off as many of them as you like, and then it ends with "But you're [ ] my [ ] somebody's douchebag. Unfortunately we have already discussed that we both know at some point he will get one.

5. And then...a book. It's out of print now and I couldn't find my copy of it. So he found it for me. And wrote a perfect inscription in the front.

Oh yeah. Totally made my day. He kinda makes a good week and a good life.

And I am totally going up to Coffee Garden to use my new pens and my new pad of citations. I may not be able to control myself.

I Can Not Kill All Of You.


Once again realizing my frailties in my inability to not kill the world. All the world. All of them. Every last effing one of them.

But hey. I have plans for Thanksgiving, and not just minor ones. One of my oldest and dearest friends have reappeared, not to call her old in the slightest.

Got that goin' for me.

At Least I'm Not An Angle This Time.


Yeah...this would be a paean to the Boy.

You have been warned.

So yesterday I was yanking mail out of the mailbox and recognized both handwriting and then address of a Certain Boy of Whom I Am Extremely Fond.

It is, sans doubt, the sweetest and most beautiful thing I have ever gotten from a boy. This includes my boyfriend from when we were 16 who said "Can I show you something?" and ignoring my response of "Have I already seen one?" raised his sleeve to show my initials inked onto his arm.

In retrospect my reaction was probably not called for or well thought out; but shrieking "You DUMBASS!!!!! Are you KIDDING me? We aren't going to be together past high school, what were you THINKING?!" In no way, shape, or form actually excuses me.

Yes. I was that rotten of a person.

So I really, really don't deserve the incredibly sweet and heartfelt sentiments that were expressed to me. But I do appreciate them and may in fact have to carry said card with me for future reference, any time I need a smile.

Oh. The card on the front reads "I'd better get a library card. Because I'm checking you out."

I promise what was written inside was much, much sweeter. But no less any part of The Boy, whose head cock, evil point, and smarmy delivery is rife every time I look at the front of that card.

Yep. Love him.

I left my heart (and my toiletries) in San Francisco


Best way to travel: People with whom you have common interests.Which is pretty much why we ate our way from one end of the city to the other and back again.I still remember when things were up in the air with The Boy and I was discussing them with a friend..."He's a chef," this friend said. "Nobody talks about food more than you do. The only person in doubt about this working out is you."Fine. I am a shallow human being, and I love to eat. And yes, I am in love. That being said, I offer the following travelogue.We got in Friday night. I had threatened Ricky on at least four separate occasions that if he checked a bag I would actually skewer him; we were trying to make The Boy's restaurant before close so we could all adjourn from the same place with A Plan In Place. That being said, immediately upon setting foot in the airplane I was informed that they had run out of overhead space, and I would have to check my carryon bag. Kill me now.I am not sure what Delta's thought pattern is, but for future reference, if ever they tell you to check a bag which by rights you had packed as a carryon, MAKE SURE YOU GET THE NUMBER FOR THE BAGGAGE CLAIM. When I disembarked I looked at my ticket and discovered that they had listed my flight number. Nice. I knew what flight I was on, what I needed to know is which luggage claim was the one where I could retrieve my carry-on-now-checked luggage. You will be pleased to know that it was eventually located on an unlit, unmoving, and unmarked baggage thingie. Which only took me 45 minutes and a stream of epithets normally used by Sigourney Weaver in Aliens 3 to locate. During the interim of which Ricky's plane landed and we started the Marco-Polo game of trying to find each other in the San Francisco International Airport.By 10:00 p.m. we had found each other and a taxi, although it had become close and at one point Ricky had already observed that this airport had become our Waterloo.Made it to the restaurant, made it to the B&B, made it home to fall into a deep and abiding coma.Saturday.We had brunch at a place called Stackers. I went for the bacon waffles, which were *exceptional*. They were crispy all the way through, with a delicious helping of bacon in each savory bite. Then we went to the Farmer's Market, where we ate our way through...twice. Of particular note was the prosciutto and cheese sandwich with dijon mustard, and the apricot conserves (which Ricky promptly bought and we later figured out would have to be shipped to him owing to the magic of 9/11 airport security. More on this later.), and the cheeses. Apparently the salmon candy was lovely as well, but I was having no part of that.We then moved on to Union Square and got to play dress up with The Boy, which was fun. Ricky needed to do a little shopping, and at one point in Ben Sherman while slumped on the dressing room waiting chair we suddenly heard a lot of yelling going on in the dressing room. "What did he say?" I asked."Something about Chinese finger traps," Jed responded."No he didn't."When Ricky finally emerged, he had a tale of woe; apparently the shirt he had tried on had sleeves too small for his biceps, and in trying to remove it he had become trapped with his arms behind his back. And was, apparently, yelling about Chinese torture traps.I hate losing.Then on to Jed's restaurant. We had reservations and because we were In The Know with a Very Important Sous Chef got the coveted #32 table...apparently this is coveted because it has a window and you can look out and comment on all the jackasses walking past. Which, naturally, appealed to us. So, on to dinner...what can I say, except this was exactly the moment where I left my heart and replaced it with ten pounds of extra fat? And that it was [...]

Mama T Can Kick Your Heinie


So there I was. Alone. Bereft. Single without purpose, if you will...and then I saw

A lot of money.

So when I talked to Mama T I pointed out that, in fact, she had left lots of money.

"No, I didn't." she said sweetly. "I left the seed money for the Jed And Delanie Perpetual Travel Fund."

My mother? Best! Mother! Ever! I dare you to deny it.

They Make Me Tired.


I didn't used to be tired. The vim and vigor of hating an entirely new species or subcategory of species always seemed to rejuvenate me.

But the hipsters.

Oh, the hipsters.

How tired they make me.

It doesn't help that I live in an area which is overrun by the vermin; nor yet does it help me that I can't ignore them when they are shrieking into their mobile phones to their friends about how they have a great life, they spend $X on $X and if *they* (whomever the hell they are) are planning to go to Provo to X, *they* had better plan on a million zombie people already being there.

I am getting old, people. Boundless rage takes more effort than it did. After hearing the above-referenced coversation I had to go home and almost take a nap.

So for future reference, my dear loathed subspecies of human, please try to do it when it is not later than 10:30 at night, because I will then be forced to walk hom listening to you behind me, also walking, and realizing that even if I killed you there are far too few places to hide the body.

Sometimes, I miss the days when I only knew about Rocky Horror and Sundance.

Creeping in our petty prints from day to day...


Wheresoever they burn books, they shall also, in the end, burn human beings. --Heinrich HeineWhat if they don't necessarily BURN the books, but they, in perhaps a "fit of pique" (euphemism for Complete And Total Temper Tantrum of the First Order) they, say, are looking for a particular book on bookshelves that are crammed this way and that, doublestacked, loaded to the ceiling, and generally in disarray, and can't find said book?And what if they, at that particular moment, leap to the next step of logic which works only in their own particular psyche--not that they should enlist someone else to help them, or perhaps engage in a catalogue of book locations--but rip every goddam book from the shelves and decide to start over, screaming like Rodan the whole time?Three weeks later, the piles have been...lessened.In yet another "fit of pique" (euphemism for Another Full Tilt Temper Tantrum, Wild Hair and Screeching Included), I (oh, fine, forget they, we all know it's me) pulled out a card table and started hauling books out. The sign for the card table read "Free Books. Seriously. Take One. Take Ten. Take Them All. I don't care. Just cart them away and feel good about the fact that you are helping me to not die under the rubble of 15,000 paperbacks."At the end of the day, there were nine books left on the table.I love this neighborhood.We will not discuss how many books remain on the floor to be disposed...or shelved...but hey. I got rid of at least 100 of them! J. said that it had nothing to do with the kind of books or the genre, but the beating of the heart that is quickened by the word "FREE." Anyone can tell J. from me that just because I am the literary equivalent of an intellectual savant doesn't mean that people just picked things up because they were labeled free. I saw them out there. They perused. They looked. They selected things that might be interesting, or at least look like something they might want to give to someone as a Christmas present.You see, you can always tell the books I have either (a) loaned out, or (b) bought used. If it is a book I bought new and read, it looks exactly like new. I owe this talent to my mother's original bookstore owner employer, Marie. She owned Bittercreek Books in Vernal, Utah. Very early on (fifth grade or so) she noticed that I was a voracious reader, and that there was no way my parents could keep up with my junkie-level reading habit. I had already devoured everything in the grade school library and the public library as well; so she decided to help out. She taught me how to read a book so that it remained looking like new. Don't open the book too wide (it breaks the spine), don't rumple pages, don't besmudge the cover. Once those basic rules had been established and vetted, her entire bookstore was my jungle gym...and I have been unable to ever break the habits in which she trained me.Basically, it means that if I talk about a book with someone and promise them I will loan it to them, I will bring it to them and they will say "This looks new! I can't read this!" And I will reassure them it'll be okay, and that yes, I really have already read this specific copy of the book before. They will then suffer massive guilt over violating said pristine-looking book, even if it has been read three or four times by yours truly, and I will feel guilty for them feeling guilty when said book comes back with cover whacked, spine suffering scoliosis of bibliography, and general wear and tear.I never know what people do with books that trashes them; the only real incidents I've had have involved me reading in the bathtub, and even then I usually already have a duplicate of said book in [...]

Turn and Face the Strange Changes


Today is my last day of indolence, as tomorrow begins a new and hopefully long term job. It's been a while, so when I got word I immediately texted everyone I knew with the good news--my personal favorite response was from N., who texted back "Congratulations. Sorry you are being forced out of retirement."Which made me laugh. In honor of his commiserations (though I am extremely glad to find work, trust me) I offer the following things I will miss about being forced out of retirement:1. Comfy clothes. There is something tremendously satisfying in getting up each day and wearing exactly what you feel like wearing. I have not missed the waist-strangling swampass of panty hose, I can tell you, nor yet the moments where you think you are having a hot flash and perhaps The Change of Life has come upon you, only to remember you are wearing a wool suit and the HVAC has crapped out. Converse sneakers v. hammer-toe-inducing high heels and/or having to find socks that match your outfit? I can't even find socks that match each OTHER half the time. No contest.2. Self indulgent reading. I suppose, were I a true retiree, I should have spent my time napping on the sofa with an afghan (also one of N.'s longstanding pursuits). But I am a lousy napper, unless I am in the presence of Rachel Who Rolls (because if she doesn't get put down for at least one nap a day she gets cranky. You can tell if she's had a nap because there is less slapping and pinching than otherwise. Notice that I said less, not the complete absence thereof.) So instead I have had the luxury of perusing my overburdened and drastically overstuffed bookshelves. This, of course, led to a particularly fine temper tantrum when I was looking for One Specific Book, couldn't find it, and started pulling everything off the shelves in order to properly organize them into sections. For future reference, this is a very, very bad idea. Thigh-deep piles of books through your bedroom, the "library," down the hall, and into the kitchen can only result in stubbed toes, knocking things over, and a level of cursing previously undreamt of in your Horatio-like philosophy when you can't figure out which section a particular book falls under. I was also going to do my traditional and limited to books and CDs anal retentive sorting (genre, then alphabetically by author/artist and then chronologically within the artist) but at this point I still haven't finished and have taken to shoving stuff back on the shelves. How lovely to end up where I started, except for all the calories I burned with my white hot rage.3. Standing at the living room window judging passersby. This has long been one of my all-time favorite activities. It used to just be limited to Halloween (Rocky Horror attendees traipsing by) and during Sundance (fashionistas trudging by in their designer clothes and Ugg boots), but having been home during the day I now see how much I have been missing as far as people whom I can judge harshly and find wanting. The dogwalkers without baggies for their sordid animal leavings...the girls in their shorts so short that even the old Nair commercials would rethink the choice (really, ladies, if your shorts are miniscule enough to be showing your chicken salad to the world it becomes a question of hygiene and where have you been sitting so I can know not to sit there without bringing a towel)...the hippies with their hempen glamour...and the hipsters. Oh, you effing hipsters. There is a special place in hell for you and since I am probably going to be in hell anyway and my version of hell would be being anywhere with you, I plan to spend my time there making you un[...]

I Cave If I Must, But This Was Not! The! Plan!


So rethinking the three-to-five year plan. Considerably. Originally three to five years being here before fleeing to more temperate climes seemed reasonable...but, um, no. Not gonna happen. So making a new game plan. That's what I love about life; as the video I posted dictates, in five years' time who KNOWS where any of us will be or what we are doing? In a way I really kind of love that, the whole expanding feeling that anything in the universe could be possible. John Lennon said, "Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans." So make those other plans, and then let the chips fall where they may.

It's not entirely a bad place to be, finding hope in a future enrobed in a mystery enwrapped in an enigma, as they say :)

And yeah. Still going to make it to Comicon one of these years, dammit.

Noah and the Whale - 5 Years Time - Official


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The Hell.


Just when you figure out life everything changes. Unlike the bears from whom we refuse to acknowledge the little orange sticker.

Yeah. I am that much of a geek.

Boys who say things like "when we go to comicon..." oh hell. Right there. If they are pale and tragic there is no hope whatsoever. Damn those comicon geeks.

What is a friend? A single soul which dwells in two bodies. (Or maybe more than two. I don't know.)


The best quote of the evening:
R is on the phone with R Who Rolls (hereinafter RWR). I cannot hear what RWR is saying...I just know that R says "You canNOT call an infant of under one an ahole!"

Friends matter. Some friends drift away, some excuse themselves from this mortal coil, and some decide to set fire to bridges and quit the play, because by gar that will show everyone. But by and large, the true friends in life are the ones with whom time doesn't matter. I have very few friends to start with, but my most cherished are the ones with whom I can pick up the telephone after three years and start a conversation and have it be as though we had talked to one another yesterday. It really does happen that way. And I love it.

So yes. I have spent the past few days absolutely reveling in the magic of friendship. Viva la shut-in detectives and those who will tolerate learning the Sparky Polastry dance from start to finish!

The Who Never Had to Deal with The What.


As I sit here, watching the youngun play Xbox and particularly The Who, I so question everything that life has offered thus far. He makes me happy, and that's all that matters. Right? Right? I mean, he takes life seriously. One shouldn't ever take life seriously past the age of 25. So he makes me doubly happy by asserting his will on the world. I buy stuff based on what he will like. Hopefully this will make the grade.

Bruises Are The New Rehab.


So there I was...carrying an armload of laundry and heading down what are admittedly some fairly steep, fairly dark stairs. There is a lightbulb for the stairs area, except that it has burned out and I am too short to reach it. Nevertheless, I persevere. Go me. Except for the part where I think I have reached the bottom of the stairs and haven't, so that the next step sends you flinging into space until you reach the bottom...which is full of things like milk cartons, wire baskets, a stage spotlight, an old telephone, etc. Yeah. Which means that right now it looks like I have been beaten with a tire iron. I would publish said bruises, but many of them are not for public consumption. My mother has taken to calling me her "Little Munchausen Kid." She finds it funny.

Wait until she has to look at all of the bruises in person. ALLLLLLLL of them.

The Shut-In Detectives...Part Deux...


"What Happened?" demanded Detective #1.
"NOTHING happened!" opined Detective #2.
"When you say nothing, are you questioning my abilities?"
"Absolutely not. Would you like to tell me where these bruises came from?"
"Not sure."
"Not sure? You have no idea, do you?"
"Nope. Do you?"
"Frankly, no. This doesn't end well, does it?"
"Would it help if I called you Sheisskopfh?"
"Since you can't spell it, no."

Time Wounds All Heels


I've been watching Jeopardy. I'm NEVER a good person at Jeopardy; I tend to adopt my parents' friend's strategy and yell out "Frank Sinatra!" or "San Francisco!" whenever I don't know the answer...which is frequently.

But tonight I am finding myself questioning the validity of being the Powerhouse of Pointless Knowledge (my previous most-secretly-coveted title). Today I spent the afternoon reviewing a letter written by a person whom I list among my most-admired; a letter which addressed the recent Olympics and its extravagence with a view toward the humanitarian. Her points not only hit home, they created within me the voluble need to DO something. The general summation of her letter was simply that, as a whole, spending millions of dollars on a torch for the Olympics is simply a vanity when one compares the number of destitute, homeless, and/or underpriveleged to the cost of creating a symbol that the world would remember for...what, three weeks? Four?

(I'm not entirely sure. As a non-sports person, I don't tend to pay attention to these things.)

So really, I find myself as an arist voicing the query: When does art supercede the needs of humanity as a whole?

Oh, wait, it shouldn't.

Art is created when a civilization has enough of the Basic Human Needs that it can relax a bit; when gathering pinenuts no longer supercedes the need to draw antelope on a clay pot. The only civilizations which have the time to create "art" are the ones for whom survival are not in question. As a child of the West, I frequently looked at the areas through which we were settlng (read settlng without validation) and wondered how I would feel were that the only future I had to offer the world, that of one defined by the current definitions of femininity. I would look at the sagebrush, the pinenut trees, the harshness of the land and wonder how anyone could have found any joy whatsoever in an existence that appeared to be based entirely on survival.

So is "The Beloved Ostrich" really the way to go?