Stalling Again

...a thousand pages, give or take a few /I'll be writing more in a week or two/ I could make it longer if you like the style...

I'd say sorry for not posting more often, but I wonder, really, is anyone reading? Like, does anyone have the patience for it? It's all doomscrolling, echo chambers, clickbait and headlines.

TikTok has taken over where X, formerly known as Twitter, used to rule, and Twitter, though older, was higher profile than Instagram, all of which have supplanted Facebook, leaving it mostly to grandparently-aged folk, which is okay with me, since that age bracket describes most of my friends and much of my family. I'm guessing the longform of essay writing as a community activity is officially dead, which DanTobin DanTobin proclaimed years and years ago. Vines are also dead, but I'm not sure why they needed to die.

But at any rate, relevancy. Blogging as I understand it seems as if it might be returning, on a mysterious platform known as Substack, which may be different from Wordpress and Live Journal, but I'm not sure in what ways.  Among folk returning to the long form are  childhood pal Tim Kreider, my Blogger pal Dan Tobin, another Blogger pal formerly known as Totsie, and I get email notifications about Substacks I've... followed? I think followed, or maybe subscribed to? ...but not with a paid subscription like NYT or Patreon. I suppose I could ask a Substacker to explain to me what the benefits/ differences are of Substack to Blogger, but I hesitate to waste anyone's time with idle curiosity, because that's all it is. I certainly won't abandon my blog to start a new one; jeeze, this blog is almost as old as my grownass adult offsprings. 

I'm working on a "proper" blog entry, complete with links n stuff, as one does, and obviously I'm also working on (read: dodging completing) another review. The show has closed, but in my defense, I watched it on its final performance and immediately came down with Covid. 

I'm vaccinated, so it's uncomfortable and inconvenient and incapacitating, but not dangerous or likely to result in a hospital stay. I have, however, been knocked on my ass. I've slept on the couch since Monday, October 30th, and yesterday afternoon, had my 2nd shower since October 29th.

Today is the first day since the 30th that I've felt anything close to my normal self, and even so, maybe not, because I'm hoarding my methylphenidate. Our insurance, along with Gomez's job, ended in the middle of October, and I haven't sorted how to get new health coverage because, well, I've been sick. 

And I'm job hunting. Still. 

In other news, I'm worried about Mother, whom I've not seen in a month, as the care home in which she resides is about to be sold to an outfit which doesn't have a stellar reputation and has already notified residents of rate increases. Which won't affect us, because Mother was out of money ages ago, and has been a beneficiary of the Benevolent fund, which, along with Medicare/ Medicaid, pays for her residency. If that fund goes away, I don't know what we'll do. I'm sick at the stomach about it, but talking about it doesn't help. What are we to do with folk who outlive their money? 

But here we are. And here I am, not doing any of the things I'm usually doing, housework, yard work, showing up for any of my joblets... well, except for this one thing, stalling. 

Avoiding writing the thing I'm supposed to be writing, by writing something else entirely.

Seems like I'm ALWAYS doing THAT. 

The Beatles; "Paperback Writer;" Single, released May 1966

Filtering Artificiality

...I have no privacy (oh, oh)/ I always feel like somebody's watching me....

In an effort to foil Artificial Intelligence taking over the world IMMEDIATELY, the survey/ focus group/ product research company that I've become loosely affiliated with has begun to include an 'essay question' on their qualification surveys. This particular survey was about Narcolepsy, and whether I'm actually chosen or not is entirely immaterial to this post. 

One of the questions has a list of colors as responses, and the "question" is 'Select Orange as a response.' Maybe that's to see if you're a human who is paying attention, because I'm not sure how that would be a difficult one for AI to manage accurately. 

It is true, however, that I know little about AI. I've been deliberately avoiding fiddling with it on my computer, because I have no interest in helping it become smarter. I also refuse to talk to the spy device I carry in my purse or pocket. Google keeps asking me to speak aloud to its "Assistant" but I know if I do that even ONCE, the 'listening' function will wake and never go to sleep again, in order to be alert when I say "Hey, Google...." 

I also don't provide voice responses to the Automated Systems on the telephone. One particularly annoying one says "Oh, you don't have to press buttons. Just tell me how I can help you, by saying 'Customer Service' or 'Make A Payment.' I ignore that and keep touching my 'keypad' numbers. When I get a human being, (eventually), I tell them, "It's my policy to not speak to robots." They almost always say, "That's completely understandable." 

In any case, the "essay" I created has nothing to do with Narcolepsy, nothing to do with AI, and nothing to do with smart device who listen in order to target market to their users, and everything to do with me and my feelings of loss and regret. 

The prompt: If you could have dinner with any three people, past or present, who would you choose and why?

The response:

If I could have dinner with any 3 people, past or present, I'd choose my Mother before she had Alzheimer's disease, and also my Grandmother, before SHE had Alzheimer's disease, and my sister, whom I don't get to see very often. I'd have dinner with my Mom and Grand as they were in 1985, but my sister and I could be ourselves as we are now. I didn't know how much I needed to appreciate their wit and humor. I miss that about them. I miss it even more when I'm with Mother, who hasn't died, but she isn't who I think of as "My Mother" anymore. 

None of that is particularly surprising, I suppose, but the question poked me kind of sideways, and my response surprised me. Like, I was THERE with my sister and mother and Grandmother in 1985, but I wasn't yet who I AM, the person I think of as the "real" me. And "real" me didn't get a chance to enjoy Mother, or Grandmother, as much as I might have wished, because I didn't know. The last time she visited Maryland in 1998, to meet my newest baby, Grandmother was slipping into dementia.

We can create AI and Viagra, but we can't fix Alzheimer's Disease. Sigh.

Rockwell; Somebody's Watching Me (1984)

Everyday Exchange

...even though you're crazy you will never be a bother....


She returns from the MRI, smiling. I hand her pocketbook to her.

How was it?

"It was fine. I guess. It's like being in a coffin."

I don't ask how she would know.

I made sure you were dressed warmly this time. Last time, you were cold and squirmed a lot. 

She sits and begins rummaging in her bag.

Whatcha looking for, Mama?

"Hair brush. I don't know if I have one, though."

You do. I saw it when I moved it from your winter purse.

"Why did you have my winter purse?"

You were carrying it this afternoon when we came here today. I transferred the things from your winter purse to the summer one.

"So you weren't totally idle."

Yes, I amused myself moving your things from one purse to another. Well, most of the things.

She looks alarmed.

"What do you mean, most of them?"

Well, I threw away all the used tissues.

She feigns irritation. "Hmph. I was saving those."

And dumped the crumbs.

"Poor ducks will starve."

But your hairbrush and your lipsticks are there.

"So I can be beautiful. I just don't know for who. You, I guess."

You do clean up nicely, I must say. 



Red Hot Chili Peppers; The Hunter

Hoppin' Madness

...along came a man by the name of Charlie Mops/ and he invented a wonderful drink and he made it out of hops.....

Yesterday, the dog food was in the refrigerator. Today it was in the dog dishes on the floor in the kitchen. It's a warped life when normal looks odd.

Extremely Athletic Sister said today that Mother was on a tear about people lying to her and stealing from her. She said she didn't inquire, just redirected. Because from Mother's perspective, we did steal her dog and lied about taking the car to the mechanic.

When I arrived to share a beer, she pulled out that loop on me. Since she'd been spoiling for it all day, I went ahead and gave her an argument.

I gave her an argument.

She told me I was patronizing. I told her that her perception of her abilities and her actual abilities did not match, and that I could list examples all she liked, but she wouldn't believe me, and wouldn't remember, and then wouldn't remember later that I'd listed things for her.

And then I changed my tone, and we weren't arguing anymore.

I wasn't invested in the actual argument; I know I can't win. She can't, either, but if she wanted a good grouseabout, it's no skin off my nose.

She drank about half of the Natty Boh I poured into her glass, which was about half the can. I drank the other half, and then the rest of hers when she passed it to me.

I'm'a have beer with her again tomorrow.

Yes, I think I will.


Traditional Irish; Beer Beer Beer

Absurdness Normalized

...teach me how to be sensible/ logical, responsible, practical/ and they showed me a world where I could be so dependable/ clinical, intellectual, cynical.....

Four days ago:

When Extremely Athletic Sister comes in, talking to herself, except she isn't, she's on the phone, I beckon her to peek in the microwave.

In one of the divided dishes EAS got for meals-on-wheels- esque prepared suppers that we've been doing for her is....dry dog food. In the microwave.

I do not understand this. I do not expect to understand this. What I want right now is for someone else to not understand it with me.

EAS peeks. Her face crumples into a bulldog frown- I've always loved my sister's expressive face- and it tilts to the side a little. She waves arms and hands in a "What is this new madness?" gesture.

Mission accomplished. I am satisfied. I shrug at her and she, still frowning, wanders away, talking, listening.

Yesterday, via text, Extremely Athletic Sister to me:

         Discovered why mom puts the dog food in the microwave

And there is a longish pause. For suspense, I guess. 

        To keep the flies off of it
      
        Aha. Except not really.
               Since she keeps dog poo on the porch. And ties the screen door open.

    That kind of logic doesn't work here.

Damn straight it doesn't.


Supertramp; The Logical Song

Girl Scout

...any way you want to eat them it's / impossible to beat them/ but bananas like the climate/ of the very,

very tropical equator.....

She has an appointment at ten. Sister intends to arrive at nine, be at the office at nine thirty. It's eight thirty and she's not answering her phone. I drive over at 8:45, finally reaching her over the phone.

"I'm just going to take the dogs for a quick walk, just up the block and back, and then I'll jump in the shower and become clean, dried and dressed." I hear her, but I don't believe her.

I arrive, and the shower is running. I pull two gowns from her closet and leave them on her bed, then head downstairs to make some preparations. She's not going to have time for second or third breakfast, and I hope she's had first breakfast already.

Excerpt from the Jackie's World document I created for the person Mother calls "the babysitter."

Schedule, such as it is:Jackie thinks she wakes up early in the morning, by six-thirty or seven, so we’re going to let her go on thinking that, okay? She is almost always up before eight, though, and letting dogs out, giving them breakfast and having her grapefruit half. (note: the dogs do wake her up to be let outside between 6-6:30 but she will often go back to bed)

Breakfast comes in 4 parts: Grapefruit halfHavarti cheese and half a pearCoffee and crossword puzzlesTwo eggs and toast or English muffin

She doesn’t always get to all four of these parts, but can become agitated if any one part is missing. I think she phoned me 3 times in the amount of time it took me to get from my home to the grocery to her home, because she was out of grapefruit. I live ten minutes from her neighborhood, and the grocery is five minutes away from her. So. No more running out of grapefruit.

The most often skipped bit is the eggs and toast. She’s crabbier if she doesn’t eat eggs, but she doesn’t always feel hungry.
After Breakfast 1-3, she’s ready for her shower, if she has somewhere to go. She’s pokey about getting into the shower, but once there, washing and dressing (and doing hair and makeup!) takes maybe 20 minutes. If I put a clean outfit on her bed, she’ll choose a clean shirt and pants from the folded ones on top of her dresser. If I don’t put an outfit on the bed, she’ll put on whatever is on top of her dresser, which might be clean shirts and pants, but often is the clothes she took off last night. I try to put her already worn clothes into the laundry hamper, but I’m not always speedy enough to get to the dresser before she does.

If there’s time before we go out to our comings and goings, she has eggs. I offer her water and vitamins around now, if she hasn’t had them already. She likes the gummy vitamins very much.

She thinks she’s been making the coffee that’s in her carafe, but she hasn’t. I brew it in a ceramic cone and a mason jar, because I don’t understand that stupid little coffeemaker of hers.

"I don't eat the crossword puzzle," she always argues, but it doesn't matter whether she EATS it or not. If she NEEDS it for her good morning, it's part of her complete breakfast.

While she's in the shower, I'm in the kitchen. I found her newspaper. She's called three days in a row, claiming her paper isn't being delivered, asking me to get one for her. I don't know why she thinks she's not getting one. The paper I bought for her on Monday, I found two copies of on Tuesday. Tuesday's paper was on the table. It's Thursday. I unwrap the paper, fold it so the crossword is exposed, grab a pencil, tuck it in my bag. I peel a hard boiled egg, put it in a container, get a small container for salt and pepper, moisten some paper towels, fetch a plastic container of melon from her fridge. Everything goes into the Jackie Bag.

Sister arrives as I'm prepping, talking on the phone. Some very important work thing. Most of her work seems to be about phone calls and meetings. I don't really understand what she does. Whatever it is, it pays a lot better than what I do, which is take care of Mother, write, perform and work at the school or flower shop when I can.

I go to the car to get a gift I bought for Sister while I was on a tiny four-day vacation with my family, find a bottle of water and take it with me to tuck into the Jackie Bag.

"I'll be ready when I'm ready," she snaps, coming downstairs in a floral sundress, snatching her grapefruit half from the fridge. She roots through her silverware drawer, hunting.

"It's probably in the refrigerator," Sister offers.

"What is?" snarls Mother.

"You're looking for the grapefruit knife, aren't you?"

I fetch all three of them from the cheese drawer, where they appear to live now. Aha! This explains the frequent appearance of half the contents of her silverware drawer on the counter. She looks for the knife, gets frustrated, decides to have pear and cheese, and finds the grapefruit knives when she opens the cheese drawer. And the flatware doesn't put itself away in the drawer.

At the table, Mother mangles her grapefruit half, stuffing sections into her face. I hand her a cup of hot coffee, sit down opposite her, calmly, while Sister opens her gift.

"Your gift is in the fridge. I brought fudge for you. You had some last night, for dinner, I think."

"Sounds like dinner to me!" She brightens as she eats her fruit.

Once we've packed ourselves into the car and she finishes the cup of coffee, I begin offering breakfast items.

"I peeled an egg, would you like it?"

"Wow, an already-peeled egg, what luxury." She takes it. I pass the smaller container with salt and pepper, thinking she'll dip the egg. No, she sprinkles the spice onto the egg.

"Here, I have this container- you could sprinkle over that, instead of over your lap."

"It's a black and white dress. It won't show." She takes the plastic dish.

Next, I offer the banana, then take the peel, put it in the container that had the egg, offer a wet towel, then the bottled water.

"What a Girl Scout," my sister observes. No, these are skills left over from my diaper bag days. But I keep those words on the inside of my teeth. No need to point out what Sister has never done, or equate my mother, right in front of her, to a small child.

It does make me ponder, though, about how nobody bats an eye when one straps a human being into a seat, then ignores the resultant screaming with an indulgent smile, and it's all perfectly legal, as long as that human being is under three feet tall.


Elsa Miranda; The Chiquita Banana Song, 1945

Do-gooders, Attend:

...If you need me, let me know, gonna be around/ if you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down....

AN OPEN LETTER FROM A DEPRESSIVE TO ALL “WHAT-CAN-I-DO-ERS” EVERYWHERE

Look, I’m probably not going to call you. I’m not up to saying “fine” when you ask how I am. I’m certainly not up to explaining to you how I ACTUALLY am. I’m not up to listening to you tell me to cheer up, to tell me I have so much great stuff in my life, or how bad YOUR life is in some weird attempt to point out how comparatively well off I am.

Honestly, I’m not even up to searching you in my phone or pressing Call.

I know you love me. I know if I called and asked you to take me out to lunch, you would. I know if I called and asked you to pick up a carton of ice cream and drop it off, you would. I know if I called and asked you to come watch a whole season of Angel with me, you’d wait until you hung up to sigh and roll your eyes. But you’d come.

I can’t. I can’t call you first. I can’t even make myself get in the shower.

I know some of you non-Depressive types are all, Oh, I don’t shower every day all the time. Like, once a month I have a No Shower weekend. Or I go to bed still in my clothes all sweaty from the gym. Or, yeah, I’ve skipped it a couple of times myself. This is not that. Not at all. I am in the clothes I wore, that I slept in, from three days ago. Every day, I INTENDED to get in the shower. And then didn’t. It seemed like too much trouble.

Do NOT ask when the last time was that I brushed my hair.

I can’t ask you to come over. There’s nowhere on the couch for you to sit. Some of the laundry is clean, but at this point, I’m not sure which pile it is. I’m sure some of these papers are important, but I can’t sort them to find which ones. I certainly don’t know what to DO with them. And some of them are probably VERY important.

There are a lot of them I haven’t even opened. I can’t make myself do it.

I can, however, develop a shorthand with you.

If you were to call me, for example, and ask how are things, I might say, “Not great.”

You might understand that by Not Great, I mean that I am creating an ass-shaped hole in my sofa, wearing unmatched pajama separates and haven’t done any grocery shopping in two or three weeks.

If you were to call and invite me to lunch, I probably would say No. If you asked would I go with you to a new place you wanted to try, you might understand that “Okay, sure,” is as close as I can get to “That would be nice.” If you were to call and ask me to help you choose a new comforter, I might say Yes, especially if you told me you’d pick me up in an hour. I probably would even shower.

If I had any clothes clean.

If I could ask, I might ask you to come over and just BE with me, without talking about My Problem, or really anything. If I could ask, I might ask you to make me some soup, tea, cinnamon toast. Do not ask me if I am hungry. I can’t remember the last time I cooked an actual meal, which you can probably tell by all the cereal bowls I haven’t washed and the pizza boxes I haven’t thrown away. You could tidy up, or help me. I won’t ask.

If you were here, you might find me a set of fresh clothes and a mostly-clean towel and send me to get washed.

I don’t advise drawing me a bath.

You might pack up my booze and hide it in the trunk of my car, or the trunk of your car, if you think I’m likely to abuse it. You’re probably right. If I say something horrible, forgive me. Let it pass. I’m not my best self.

If you were here, you might clear off the sofa a bit, find the remote, dig something from the freezer to put in the oven and queue up some old movie or television show I like. Watch it with me. Don’t make snarky comments, unless that’s something we usually do together. I’m not up to snark, but it might be reassuring to hear you. Don’t expect conversation from me, but if I do feel like talking, don’t try to ‘solve’ things.

You may understand when I say “Been better” that my meds aren’t working. You may ask if I’ve been taking my meds. You may ask when my next doctor’s visit is scheduled. You may offer to drive me to the appointment. You may offer to call and schedule my next visit. You may offer to pick up my ‘scrip.

I probably won’t believe you’ll do those things, but it’s nice of you to think of them.

It would make me cry if you actually did them, but in a good way.

If you’ve gotten me to agree to go out somewhere with you, don’t ask me where I’d like to go. Ask me if I have a preference. If I say “coffee shop”, please don’t ask which one. If you ask “is Starbucks okay?” I will probably make a face and tell you they burn their beans, but whatever, and will drink a Starbucks something or other. You choose the size. I can’t keep up with the stupid names they have for Small, Medium and Large. Don’t make me make any decisions. If I say “Whatever, “ know that it means “You choose. I can’t.” People-watch with me. You’ll need to start. Notice someone’s flashy jacket, excellent haircut or silly walk.

If I have kids, offer to take them out, to that new movie, or Trick-or-Treat, or someone’s birthday party. If I’ve agreed to a manicure or pedicure, bring them along and walk around the mall or park with them while I’m in the chair. Offer to have them over for dinner, or a sleepover. They’re not having a good time here with me, and I feel just dreadful about it, but I can’t let myself think about it too much or I cry and that scares them.

If I have a hobby, ask me to show you how to do something. I’d like to show you, and it might kick me back into doing it for myself. I probably know where the stuff for it is, and could tell you. You may have to move a few piles of crap to get at it, though.

You really must not mention the condition of my house. I KNOW.

If it’s a nice day, suggest we walk together. Bring the dog along, if either of us has one.

Give me a hug. Don’t worry if I don’t return it. If I do return it, wait for me to let go first. Give me another hug. Lean against me, or let me lean on you while we share popcorn and a movie… nothing too deep or challenging, though. A ‘60s monster movie, anything from the ‘40s, especially the Marx Brothers, almost anything with Adam Sandler in it. Pour more hot water in my teacup. Ask if you could make more popcorn.

If I cry, hand me a fresh tissue and bring the wastebasket in here with us. Keep handing me fresh tissues. Pat me and be soothing. Don’t tell me to stop crying. I will, eventually. Don’t look at me, though. I’m embarrassed.

Remind me that I didn’t always feel this badly. Remind me of something fun we did together. Suggest we do something fun together soon. Schedule that. Schedule it now. Show up for it.  Dinner, a show, beers. A haircut might be nice. A massage is too much commitment.

I’d have to shower.     

                                                                                                             -Cybele Pomeroy, 13 August 2014

ABBA, Take A Chance On Me

Scratch, kiss.

...carries a postcard/ won't the big city be nice/ that's the place with the action/ she's gonna have her a slice....


Between the storm and dawn, I dream of you.

In the morning, I open windows to admit the sound of rattling rain.

Last night, knowing I'd been with another, he ignored me and refused to speak.

This morning, he is huggy kissy again; despite his polydactlism, he is unable to open the food container for himself.

Evidently, he has forgiven me for scratching someone's itch and having a little pussy on the side.

Still, he gives me a filthy look over his shoulder, and twitches his tail as he walks away.


(Adam Ant; Puss'N Boots)

Going Guerilla?

...when their eloquence escapes me/ their logic ties me up and rapes me....

My Tonguebiting Inner Editor has been escaping more frequently and biting her tongue very little. She may become a permanent fixture or a super-hero or both. Red Penny: Apostrophe Avenger, Comma Co-ordinator, Semicolon Semanticist, Interrobang Interpreter...

It's enough that I'm faced with purchasing "cami's" or "DVD's" at my local shops, forced to suffer the comma-splicings of Subaru: "It's what makes a Subaru, a Subaru", assaulted by a drug company's (I've blocked which) catchy jingle of "O-N-E-L-E-S-S, I wanna be one less, one less", infuriated by my local police force's billboard announcement, "I save lives everyday, what do YOU do?" (I catch your errors, assholes. Hire a writer. 'Every day' is TWO words, and you need different punctuation between your two independent clauses- tell ya what: you draw guns and drive squad cars; I will write and edit) but to now face, on a daily basis, the social (mis)stylings of my 'friends', some of whom have been students- writing students!- of mine, has pushed me right to the edge.

Evidently, I'm not the only one.

You've been warned.


(The Police; De Doo Doo Doo, De Da Da Da)

Recycled Content

...what are words for/when no one listens/ there's no use talking at all....

I'm part of an association of writers, and we've a monthly challenge to use 10 of 15 randomly selected words to generate a short piece. Since my actual blogging time has been sacrificed to Reality, here's something from January 2010:

Ugh, moonlight, thought the hyena, trying not to choke on the dry sugar cookie he'd stolen from the warm-box inside the fence. When he'd crossed the lot, there had been clouds covering the brightness, and though there was no snack box full of chickens in this fence, the door to the warm-box was open, and he'd gulped down half a plate of hot things, tipping the plate to the floor with a fur-raising crash, before slinking away with a final one in his mouth. But now the clouds had gone. Running parallel to the shadow of the fence, quartz-coloured light sliding along his back and flanks, he thought of the gopher he'd had yesterday, and the one he almost had today, and the one he'd like to have tomorrow. Hot things on a plate from a warm-box were all well and good, but you couldn't really live on them. Gophers and chickens were what made the world go round.

Hyenas know nothing of monotheism, monotheism having been invented by a patriarchal society trying to wrest deity from women. A pack of hyenas is matriarchal, with each member of the pack having to put in a figurative oar for the common good. Kills are co-operative, and the young, elderly, and weak of the pack are encouraged to eat first, rather than be left with beak, neck or knuckle after the strongest have finished feeding.

Can we draw a parallel between a capitalistic and socialistic economy? Here we are in our urban tundra, fussing that our market is out of our favorite brand of Dijon ketchup while in a location not far from here, there is someone living without electricity or indoor plumbing. Darwinistic capitalism is all well and good, but I'm not certain it makes for civilized society.

Apologies for lack of actual content. I've so much material, but no time for transcription. I need more hours. Will someone send me some time? Mine gets used for things that aren't important, like meals and laundry and plumbing, rather than good stuff like writing.


(Words; Missing Persons)

Prompt, Return.

...If you want to destroy my sweater/ Hold this thread as I walk away/ As I walk away/ Watch me unravel, I'll soon be naked.....

It's not that I haven't been writing; it's that I haven't been writing HERE. I guess I need/want more interaction, and I've not felt as if I was dancing for anyone but myself here. So I've been on a weirdly wonderful site for fibre artists which has resources, but also groups and forum boards. They sucked me in the way chat rooms never did.

Posted today to the "Poets And Writers Who Knit" group.

Write something without using the letter ‘e’ at all.

Write a day from the point of view of the dog. Or the lawn chair. Or the homeless person on the bench.

Write a piece with words that smell or taste.

Write a letter to your favorite (dead person, fictional character, angel, pet) then mail it to yourself.

Write with your non-dominant hand.

Write your own obituary. Write your own eulogy. Put them with your Will.

Write a business letter entirely in LOLcat.

Write based on a word chosen at random from the dictionary.

Write like Yoda.

Write a paragraph that ‘sounds like’: the swishing of leaves, the clatter of the city, the roar of the ocean.

Write like Charlotte Bronte.

Write something beautiful about something ugly.

Write the reverse of a suicide letter: I’ve decided to live because….

Write like Yoda attempting Bronte.

Write the shopping list of a villain, real or fictional.

Write a love letter to your favorite body part.

Write me a message if any of these are helpful.

I suppose I haven't actually been blocked, just blocked for the sort of thing I generally post here.

Working through that, though with this list of prompts, one would think I've no excuse for blockage at all.


(Undone (The Sweater Song); Weezer)

Love, Blind.

...Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand....

We are here because we love my daughter. We watch one of the less painful of the 3 1/2 hours of recital numbers. Fuzzy isn't in this one, in fact will not appear until the eighteenth number in the second half of the show. This one, however, is a song we like, me because it's mine, and them because it's old, but still good. The teens fling themselves around the stage, neon wigs and sunglasses mercifully remaining where they belong. Fluffy thinks this is a remix. A few minutes into the song, (Good heavens, Miss Hakamoto! You're beautiful!) he leans over and whispers. "No. Not a remix. It just sounds so much better in the car with the top down."

I don't know if I've mentioned that I love my son.


(Tiny Dancer; Elton John)

The Problem

...a shoe thrown at me from a mean old man/ get my dinner from a garbage can....

"The problem with television lately- one of the problems- is that I never know whether I'm watching an ad for a restaurant or if it's a cat food commercial." -- Me, the other day.

They paid three mil for a slot, and were largely lame. Superbowl commercials ain't what they used to be. The only one I liked: Maybe You Should Get A Dog.

Remember the cat-herding one? That was great. Except: what the hell were they advertising? What company? Does it even exist anymore?

But if I say "Chow-chow-chow", you KNOW what I'm talking about, the brand and everything. And that was just some forward-backward-forward footage.

How much did THAT shit cost, huh?

No three mil, shah.








(Stray Cat Strut; Stray Cats)

RE: Election

...freedom's day has still to dawn, we've never yet lost heart!/ we'll fight it out until the end - we'll fight for we cannot fail/ we know we'll win although they have our lads in Crumlin jail....

Dear John,

We applaud your efforts on the behalf of the Republican party. But, dude, it's not as if you ever really had a shot. Eight years of national economic rape makes Conservatives look bad and the chances of a Republican for a third term in a row pretty slim anyway, but then you have to go up against someone young, good-looking, and articulate. Man, can that guy put together a sentence. It's completely true that he comes off as rational, while you sputter and fume like a cartoon character. Some people even compare him to JFK, and you know what a bunch of slavering idiots Americans were over that overeducated prettyboy.

So, anyway, just wanted to say don't be too bummed about this, and we appreciate you taking one for the team.

Love,

The Republican Party


(Irish Republican Prison Song; The Wolf Tones)

You Betcha!

...Texas always seemed so big/ but you know you're in the largest state in the union/ when you're anchored down in Anchorage....


So my nutty neighbor wanders over, drunk, (a common state), and in the course of asking me to look after things a bit around his house- finally he remembered about the cat- suggested I would be "just a fucking riot" as Sarah Palin.

I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. I pointed out that Tina Fey seems to have that pretty well covered already. I've been compared to Sandra Bullock, any number of 'models' of My First Sex Teacher, (no, you do NOT get an url), and "that girl on Just Shoot Me", who has a name; it's Laura SanGiacomo.

There is limited gain in resembling minor stars, especially ones who are not currently "hot". I'm not sure there's even much of a market for AngelinaJolie-alikes, and she is certainly the definition of HOTT. Yes, with two Ts. TomCruise-alikes, though, have been popular for three decades. Since I don't sing, Marilyn was never an option, and I'm not quite, uh, generous enough for Mae West. I've been Betsy Ross, however: even ancient, fictitious politics are big business. My pal who plays FDR gets some play with that, plus his Nixon's always popular; my friend Jim has earned a lot of money portraying a president whose policies he can't admire- at least, not if he wants to retain the title of 'actor'- and a girlfriend of mine was briefly rolling in it- "I coulda bought a car," because she resembled Monica Lewinsky.

So, Sarah Palin? And me?

It could be the beginning of a profitable relationship.

If I can get past the research.


(Anchored Down In Anchorage; Michelle Shocked)

Inevitable, Eventually

...baby baby, please let me hold him/ I wanna make him stay up all night....


There is no reason that it should work, but it does. A kilt, sunglasses, a Rogues tee shirt, a pin-studded black leather biker vest and a real for sure Santa Claus beard ought to look terrible. He looks fantastic.

It's Festival time again. Outfits of all descriptions are on display for the next seven weekends.

Our bubbles are appreciated, and brightly dressed panto clowns sneaking through the village gets more attention than it deserves. We form a bright barrier between squishable patrons and working elephants, and provide a distraction while EMTs revive an overly marinated young lady lying prone on the path. But my naughty habit of baby-nabbing catches up with me at last.

A woman has seen me take a small girl up high in the air and return her unharmed. She brings her own child for a photo, then without warning snatches her up and shoves her into my unprepared arms. I smile grimly for the shot, managing not to stumble, then walk away. "Give my child back!" she shrieks. What? You gave her to me, this grubby, cheese-dust smeared urchin. GAVE her. The child begins to cry. I hand her over, irritated expression deliberately in place, brushing orange grime from my costume.

Hand ME a filthy child, will you? Not again, I bet.


(Stay Up Late; Talking Heads)

Unlikely Viewing

...the drink will flow and blood will spill/ and if the boys want to fight, you'd better let them....


My favorite bit of the Saturday Night Fights was when Gina Carano, after being declared the winner on a TKO, walked over to Kaitlin Young's corner and gave her a little kiss.

My next favorite bit was after the final match of the evening, when Kimbo did the same thing to Colossus Thompson. Neither of these moments made the news, naturally. I cannot disagree in any large part with this statement, which did show up:

The pacing of the show suggest the promotion needs to work out the kinks before their second broadcast. CBS viewers got less than nine minutes of action over the first hour and a half of the broadcast. The show also ran more than 45 minutes over its allotted time, no doubt sending network station affiliate general managers into apoplectic fits as they waited to cut to their local news. Such an overage would be unheard of on an Ultimate Fighting Championship telecast.

Well, no argument except "viewers got less than nine minutes of action", which they did not.

They got fewer than nine minutes of action.


(The Boys Are Back In Town; Thin Lizzy)

Selfish Imagery

...looking so long at these pictures of you/ that I almost believe that they're real....


So these photo mini-posts.

(Also this photo, from 2004, titled 'Tall Mysterious Fairie', and this one, currently the favorite of all photos ever taken of me, unless it's the one by Nelson Steele, taken in 1997, of me blowing a bubble through the bubble and I can't FIND you, Nelson, I've Googled you every way I can think of, and can't find you for permission or a negative of that GORGEOUS shot which I may scan and download, come on, find me, sue me for copywrite infringement, do you hear me? Mimi is loooooking for yooooouu....)

Believe it or not, this is not just vanity, though I've plenty of that, I admit. (I've in fact been admired for it- "I love your vainity", a crunchy granola earthmother acquaintance of mine responded when I said I wore my hair up in the convertible to avoid a white streak on my neck. What? Wouldn't you?) No, I have a purpose, a quest, a mission.

The reason I've been scouring the 'net, haunting Flickr like a deranged talent agent, is because this weekend, Mimic and I debut a new look. A look that I thought would be fabulous, but which proved an engineering nightmare. Is it worth putting more effort into it, or am I throwing good labor after bad? Literally, the only way I can tell if a costume is working for me or not is to see a photograph of it. And I don't have one yet.

So, I'm looking. If any of you have photos that you're waiting to upload.....



.........HURRY UP!!!

(Pictures Of You; Cure)

Silver Lining

...those soft and fuzzy sweaters/ too magical to touch....


The continuing cold enrages me to a fit of shopping: lowcut sweaters to augment outrageous tiny tops that have burst from my closets, demanding to be worn.

Because it is April, the sweaters are on sale.

(.....still waiting for Naked Season.)



(Centerfold; The J. Geils Band)

Timely Edit

Apparantly, the correct time for the Sunday Matinee shows is 3:00 PM, rather than 2:00 PM.


My apologies for passing along inaccurate information, and I hope no one has been inconvinienced in any way.