Kiss me, I’m 5,000!
This morning I hit 5,000 views. Time for cake and kisses. Thanks folks!
She’s found an interesting website that analyzes your writing. You simply cut and paste text from your, or someone else’s, writing and it will tell you who you, or they, write like.
I pasted the text of my infamous epic tale of sushi betrayal into the text box and…
The expert analytical engine concluded that I am Dan Brown.
I suppose, in a way, that it might have a point. That seared albacore roll truly did engage in a rather complicated conspiracy against my taste buds and blew me away with a complex deception that I never would have foreseen. Who would have thought that a simple sushi roll could have participated in such treachery? Not I…
That entry left the mother of all legacies to fester within these pages. It is responsible for directing well over 700 people to my blog with the search terms “mouth shitting” and “shitting in mouth”. Yep. You heard me right. I want to know who the hell searches using this search string and what the hell they are hoping to find with it. I rather doubt that they are looking for my tale after hearing of it from a friend. Perhaps I should include a link to a German porn site here. Or not.
I will have to dig deeper in the future. As the next Dan Brown, heh heh, I owe conspiracy fans a compelling tale of intrigue and betrayal. I am staying in Portland this weekend, home to many enigmatic epicurean establishments. I shall sally forth in search of a dysphoric dining experience to be spun into a horrendous fable of facial food fornication.
Bunny and I set out for the deep playa on Sunday afternoon. We were heading for the chill platforms, seven raised platforms with futon mattresses and cloth shades with a revolving mirrored heart in the center, to relax and kill some time. Upon arriving we found all were occupied… We rode further out into the playa and happened upon a tall triangular structure. As we rounded the corner to the open side we saw two gentlemen comfortably lying down, one with a megaphone. Just as I thought we were going to get a blast of abuse, the guy opens up with “Hello! We’ve been waiting for you…”. The volume of the megaphone was just barely audible. He said a few more very nice things that I cannot remember. We had a wonderful conversation exchanging light talk and compliments; me with my voice and him with his megaphone. I gave him his new name: The Nice Megaphone Man. I opened my backpack and dug around for something appropriate to give these fine people and came up with a chocolate pie. They accepted it warmly and almost disbelievingly. I dismounted my bicycle and went to sit with them. Sitting only feet away we continued our chat with him still talking barely above a whisper over his gentle megaphone. I couldn’t stop smiling. This encounter was one of the most memorable I’d had so far for its simple kindness and good humor. I sat and drank some water, nibbled on a snacky cake, and enjoyed the shade the structure provided. The nice magaphone man eventually curled up for a nap with his head on his companion’s belly. They looked so tranquil. It was contagious. As Bunny and I rode off, that tranquility stayed with me. We went back to the platforms, found one open, and curled up for our own nap.
I still haven’t figured out how to post links to my favorite blogs on the homepage so I’ll do it here…
I’m Going to Burning Man, whatever shall I wear? A blog by a friend who is a crafting queen, awesome outfitter, and funny girl. Not to mention hot, mreow…
DustyCouture.com By Dusty Bacon, Burning Man’s fashion authority! See my earlier post “Dusty Bacon on Foxfur”. Visit his site if you have no idea what Burning Man is or what outfits one could possibly wear in the middle of the desert.
Redneck Fag An interesting gentleman. His description of himself: “Calling this blog “Redneck Fag” is meant as a joke in reaction to the sanctimonious Leftists. I’m not a real redneck. I’m really just a middle-aged, middle-class, middle-brow, middle-of-the-road, “don’t tread on me”, “don’t fence me in” classical liberal Republican farmer and businessman who just so happens to be a fag.” Recent posts include topics such as astronomy, philosophy, lady pirates (with guns, hot!), and literature.
Big Gay Al’s Big Gay (Gun) Blog “From the Coordinator of the Michigan Pink Pistols, a GLBT and Kink friendly, shooting sports group. It’s called “Big Gay Al’s Big Gay (Gun) Blog,” as it’s mostly about guns and gun rights, Open and Concealed carry, and sometimes about other things, and it’s so GAY!” What is it? It’s super, thanks for asking! Again, this is not another single issue blog (Boring!). His status updates at the end of each post crack me the hell up… “Current Mood: Calm
Current Music: Rocky Horror Picture Show – Sweet Transvestite
My Carry Pistol: RIA M1911-A1 .45ACP 100 years old and still going strong”
More to come…
Today is Sweetpea’s 40th birthday. We were planning to go to a rock and gem show, to a lunch at a Japanese restaurant that we’ve not been to together in years, and then I planned to surprise her with a new car. This morning started off quite well. Her pain level was at a “dull roar” as she put it. I was very excited as that is sometimes a good sign that we will make it out the door together. As the morning went on I could tell that her pain was increasing by a number of signs. The amount of time she was able to move around without sitting to rest, the length of her shower, the length of her sentences or the timbre of her voice. Truthfully, I knew that it was most likely that we would not make it out today. But I had the hope that we would. As it turned out, she did not feel well enough to leave the house today.
13 years ago, less than a year after we were married, a careless driver in a large truck made a stupid decision that resulted in a broken neck, a spinal injury, a twisted back, a dislocated shoulder and various other smaller injuries. It robbed of her health and vitality and took from us all of the plans we had made for our future together. It took away the body that she had so proudly trained and disciplined in the United States Army. It took away choices that should have been ours to make. It changed both of our lives in a way that we had never imagined possible when we stood together in the rose garden under a blue sky, daffodils and trees in bloom, and pledged our love and lives to one another.
She suggested that I go out and enjoy the beautiful weather that we are fortunate enough to have today. She suggested that I perhaps go to my favorite spot in the park near our library and watch the ducks, watch the people, or sit and type on the notebook. She said that she would be fine curled up with her book and our kitty by her side.
The park is beautiful today. The ducks are up to their usual ducky activities. The violets, pansies, ans alyssum are beaming at every passerby. The people are walking and talking, sitting and running doing their thing. At this very moment two ducks are busy making baby ducks less than fifty feet away(!). Of all this I am glad. I only wish that she were well enough to sit beside me and take all of this beauty in together. Her limitations are something that I have no control over and that is a very frustrating situation for one who can repair almost anything that almost anyone can break. She is the one intricate machine that I have no skills to restore of perfect. Acceptance of this, of her condition, of the limitations that it places upon our relationship, is a difficult proposition. Acceptance has been gradual over the past years and is a progressive process that cannot be accelerated or hurried. It is not always a forward and linear process. It will see ups and downs, progress and recess, but it does continue.
We are entirely dependent upon each other. She on me for emotional, physical, and financial support. I on her for strength and purpose. I am so very glad that that I can be here for her. in fact I am happy that I able to do so. I cannot imagine her on her own trying to deal with a life disarranged by chance and circumstance. We do the best we can with what we have. As she reminds me, it could have been worse. She is not paralyzed. She is not dead. We still have each other and she is my world. She is the reason I get up every morning. She is the reason that I do not give in to despair. She and her outlook are the reasons I keep on going.
She heals me.
I like bicycles. A bicycle was my first means of transportation and a dandy one at that. They’re neat. What’s not neat? A couple of Lance Armstrong wannabe’s on my two lane rural road. When I attempt to pass you, Mr. Tour de Farce, the last thing you should do is swerve to the left over the center of the road. I don’t know what it is that you were trying to do but I am big and hard and you are small and crunchy.
You have the right of way but I have a shaken can of Diet Pepsi with Lime.
You should not smack the passenger door of a truck as it attempts to pass you in a slow and safe manner. You should not shower a driver with profanity and throw your water bottle at him as he is contemplating your inexplicable behavior. You should not call a driver out of his truck in an attempt to instigate a violent confrontation. You should not run towards a driver who has just stepped out of his vehicle after an extremely dyspeptic dining experience and a frustrating day of rewiring his camping trailer. You should listen to your buddy when he tells you to cool it or you will get in trouble. Again. You should know that a can of any soda with a citrus product in it, even an artificial one, will sting your eyes. You should know that if you throw your water bottle at a truck that you will not have said water to rinse warm Diet Pepsi out of your eyes with. You should know that folks out here carry ax handles (or worse) but that some of them will show tremendous restraint and employ much funnier means of self defense. You should know that you cannot outrun the long arm of the law on a bicycle no matter whose logo you have on your shirt or whose tires are on your carbon fiber rims.
And finally, you should know that the driver has refused to press charges because he is still laughing his ass off.
Sharing the road. It goes both ways!
The following will serve as a warning to you, the reader. It is a note sent to my brother prefacing a short story I had written. This post should be kept in mind if you decide to continue reading this blog.
Hey there mister,
I couldn’t decide whether to begin my Quicksilver trilogy or my epic space opera, so instead I chose to excrete the offal that you will find below. The main reason I began writing it was in order to hear my writing spoken by the Kindle. Damn if it doesn’t sound just like a work by a famous author! Either I have to make a recording of it, or you have to get you some Kindle action going on, or you have to find a Kindled spirit and trick them into uploading it onto their device and then beat them into turning on the text-to-speech so you both may share in the agony that is my writing. Hearing my writing is actually one of the best motivators that I’ve ever had. In fact, I’m rather surprised that the Kindle emitted no sparks! Neither did it deign to release its factory smoke charge. It’s a fucking miracle of modern technology that my monitor didn’t implode after the first sentence, though it had every right to. Who knows, if my technology continues to accept this drivel without crapping its buffers, then I’ll keep writing like a ferret on crystal meth. Let me know what you think. I’m pretty damned glad there’s 700 miles separating us because there’s nothing worse that a literary critic demonstrating his disgust by hurling a Molotov cocktail from a speeding vehicle to drive home the point that I have diverged from the well worn path of Joyce and Frost. Somebody told me that I should take a writing class. I told him that he should consider taking a shutting-the-hell-up class and that he could reasonably expect to graduate as the valedictorian. Actually, I told him that I already know how to write, as well as read, although not at the same time but I can switch off rather quickly.
The story is set in the future in a place that will become evident once you have read just a small portion, although I would truly appreciate it if you would continue reading, possibly to the end of the as yet unfinished story. I have taken the liberty of including a PDF of the same inane ramblings should you decide to share it with somebody in need of an intensely dysphoric experience. Please feel free to strip my name from the file and to tell the victim that you found this tract in a recycle bin or compost pile. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any shame or humiliation that almost certainly would be directed against you in light of being related to the author (I use that term very loosely…). Seriously though, I had to wrap six or seven layers of duct tape around my bulbous torso to keep from splitting my sides so you may want to consider taking such prophylactic measures before reading. Perhaps a strip over the eyes wouldn’t hurt either. Please be sure to use plenty of Neosporin on your eyes after you’ve stabbed them with pencils, you wouldn’t want an infection.