Although today is a very bad day for a wholly other reason, one that might be discussed later, this also did happen:

Sorry Teresa, but apparently WP doesn’t count “email followers.” A pure bunk move, if you ask me, for the accurate count of you who follow is actually 101. On the plus side, this now allows me to tap into some Depeche Mode at the end of this post (Marian claps her hands in anticipation), so at least there’s that.

Anywho, I just wanted to say thank you to all 101 of you. I know you don’t have to follow me, and I’m sure that quite often you find yourself asking why you did in the first place. No one could blame you if you did.

So, I’m sorry to bother you again today, and I’ll get out of your hair shortly. But again, I did want to thank you guys for being part of my blogging family – my tribe – I appreciate your willingness to join me on my ride. It continues to be a total pleasure.



Recycling thoughts

The ancient woman stood there staring – just a little too long – at the recycling bin that was almost her height. No words were exchanged between her and I, nor she and it. But the look in her eyes spoke volumes. It almost seemed as if she was desperately trying to figure out this brave new world, wondering if she still had a place in it. And just what in the hell it all meant anymore any way.

It wasn’t until long after our paths crossed, that it dawned on me that her hair was blonde. And at her age, most assuredly not the kind of blond that sprouts naturally from the head. No, this blond was much more bottle-fed than breast. The hair was carefully quaffed as well. Silently sitting atop her head, with what had to be at least half a can’s worth of hairspray holding it up to the heavens. Reaching upwards to the very place it seemed she would surely be going to sooner, rather than later. Now, all of that has nothing to do whatsoever with the first part of this post of course, with the possible exception of this: while it was pretty clear that the concept of recycling was alien to her, the concept of defying the aging process was not. I suppose some sciences are just easier to understand than others. Especially the ones that are in place to help us to feel young and pretty.

Not to necessarily define recycling as a “science” per say. For it’s much more just about being a responsible and good steward to the earth and future generations, than it is anything else. As a concept however, it’s relatively new, and to one of her generation, one that was never a very large concern before. Why should it be now? Hers was the generation that scrabbled out from under the Great Depression. Hers was the generation that destroyed Hitler’s dream of an Aryan wonder world, one “free” of God’s chosen people. Hers was the generation who picked us up as a country – as a species even – and firmly plunked us upon the road that we now travel upon. Faster and faster every day. Hadn’t her generation done enough already? Hasn’t her generation paid every price possible? Now they also have to separate the damned cans from the garbage? Now they have to lug not one, but TWO heavy, clunky, and generally smelly bins to the curbside and back, each and every week? Now, after diligently taking care of so many yesterdays, they need to be concerned about tomorrow? Again? For what?

If indeed those were the questions she was asking, and the thoughts that were rummaging through her head, I had not an answer for her. As I was in a sour mood already, I was in no place to remind her that future generations would also need these resources. Future generations would benefit from us not using up every last one of them. I was not the one to tell her any of that. Especially when I knew that she could have just as easily responded with “what future generations? The future generations that will once again blow the banks while they push for their own greed and want? The future generations that will give birth to the future Hitlers? The future generation’s mad men who will devise yet even more plans and ways to kill the future generations themselves? The future generations that won’t share, won’t learn and won’t keep the peace? Those future generations? The very ones who will continue to spread the disease? The cancer that we are? Who needs them? Honestly, who?”

I know she could say that, and I know that my response would be – for now at least – that of silence. Who indeed? I suppose God for one, for it was He (“She”, “It”, whatever) who put the plan into action in the first. But the question the woman didn’t raise as a result of the conversation we didn’t have is an interesting one – who does need the future? Who needs the present even? Well, I suppose we all do. I mean, to ask the dumbest question ever (and you had been told that there were none…), what is life without life? What is the present, without the past to remember, or the future to hope for? And what good is a future without any of us to inhabit it? In short, what is so hard about our just rolling with it (life, that is), and as changes come along, incorporating them into our new present the best we can, simply for a better tomorrow? Even if it’s one that we won’t be around to see?

True, she was recycling, but she seemed none too happy about it. She was incorporating the new present into her life, but to me at least, she seemed rather leery as to what would result from it. And why it was even required in the first. But then again – as I was simply passing her by and engaged her not, and as her existence to me took up a mere several seconds-worth of my life – maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe what I truly saw was her, simply and solely staring at the recycling bin, thinking to herself “damn, that mother fucker is almost my height!”



I’m beginning to think that “Freshly Pressed” is a lie. A ruse even.

Here’s this weeks 100 Word Song… you in, Jaxqi?

And, assuming you’re a Whovian, here’s a little something to blow your mind. If for some unknown reason you find yourself not being a Whovian, then seek help. Call the Doctor.

No, not here…


That’s right, today’s post is actually living over at Cam’s place. You see both Kir and Cam cajoled me into writing some fiction that didn’t involve dead people, evil dead people, creepy living people who see dead people, and/or the burdened spouses of dead people. In short, they tricked me into writing something good.

Please take a stroll over, but make sure you come back, letting me know how you liked it.

Assuming you liked it.

And assuming you can tell me without using swears.

OK, fine. You can go ahead and use swears.

Happy Friday!


If you had asked the younger me if I would ever include a Dave Matthews Band song on a blog post of mine, my immediate and rather indignant answer to you would be “what in the HELL is a blog post?”

Here’s this week’s 100 Word Song.

And here’s a picture of Dave Matthews before HE knew what a blog post was either.


Sunday Suburbanite Soldiers run not-so gallantly across the cracked and well-travelled grey plain. Avoiding the pot holes as best they can, while plunging head first into battle, waging war upon the storefronts and upon each other. Knocking down one enemy, both real or perceived, at a time. Due to a bout of weekend work, I sit on the same unbloodied field, watching them. Amazed.

First off, not only I’m working on a Sunday, but I’m doing so at the request of my Roman Catholic clients. I know they’re Catholic because it says so right in their organization’s name. Jaded, I think to myself that the “sabbath” rule must have went away the very second they realized that they could make cash even on the day of rest. Oh, if they would only hurry up and figure out that they could do very much the same by simply allowing gay marriage.

But that, is most definitely a topic for another day.

No, today we’re focusing on the shoppers. The mad, crazy, self-serving, gotta-have-it shoppers. SUV’s a blaze, burning trails down ancient, yet mighty highways. Highways that can still remember how they used to get at least one day of the week off. One day of the week pretty much to themselves, free from people and their SUV’s. SUV’s, wishing that they could at least once, see this “off-road” that they had heard so much about. Wishing they could actually be either put to the use that they were intended for, or simply put out of their misery altogether. They were designed for adventure. They know that. Just as they know that they are instead loaded everyday simply with the stuff of the mundane. The stuff that any average sized car could actually handle quite well.

But again, this too is a topic best left for another day.

For today is Sunday. And while, to a dwindling few that means giving thanks, to many others that means taking product. Taking product at discounted prices. Taking product at “BoGo.” Taking product unneeded, but priced right. So the sun, and the warmth, and the freedom of the day need to wait in line. Waiting behind the conditioned air of the mall, the false light of the fluorescent. Waiting behind the schedule of the trip, as the family “crams” itself into a vehicle that weeps over its own blatant misuse. Burning fumes that darken the otherwise bright day, all in an effort to get there “before all the good stuff is gone.” But invariably, the “good stuff” always is. And what is the “good stuff” anyway?

At last, the topic for today.

The good stuff, oddly, isn’t the stuff you find yourself pining for after an artificially inflated woman comes on the television and tells you to. The “good stuff” is usually, in fact, the stuff that is only considered a “necessity” by the average household. The kind of stuff that no artificially inflated women ever feels the need to sell you on. I know, I know, it does seem blasphemous – but trust me – the average household does not need Guitar Hero. Sorry, but it’s true. The average family also doesn’t need a television in each and every room. But you just try and tell the average family that. In fact, the average family doesn’t even need in excess of 200 sqft per each and every room. But again, the reaction you’ll likely receive upon informing the “average” family of this, may very well leave you with a headache and black ring about your eye. This is America after all. Every man for himself is what they say, and I’ll be godammend if I don’t get mine!

I am amazed that we live in a country where enough just never seems to be enough. Where comfort has been replaced by gain. Replaced? Hell, “decimated” is a better word. I’m not saying you shouldn’t provide and be provided for, I’m just saying that moderation goes a long way. I have a dear friend who’s house I’ve never seen in person, but one that I am jealous of, based upon pictures I’ve been able to view. They have a very nice house. One that is comfortable. One that is whole. The hard wood floors are aged to highlight the fact that they are NOT Pergo. The walls proudly hold up a sampling of rockabilly paraphernalia and a child’s art. The furniture is far more welcoming than standoffish, and the dog – who is constantly in trouble for some such thing – still seems very much at home in her surroundings. In all, it appears a very comfy place. One that is filled much more with love and personality than it is “stuff” and – well – even “more stuff”. In short, she’s figured out that enough is exactly that.

Now I can’t speak of my house, as I fear it’s just an unholy wreck (at least that’s what C calls it most often), but I would like to think that it too has more love within it than overpriced crap. And sans the boy’s ever-growing Lego collection, I think we might actually have a pretty good shot at just that. But I digress again.

So, where were we?

Oh yes.

Citizens, please! Take back your Sunday. Take back your peace. Take back your comfort. Stop running about, grabbing every last thing. It’s just all landfill in the final analysis any way. Stop missing out on the Sun for the Sale. On the clean, fresh air for the conditioned. Please. Relax. At least one day out of the week. After thirty thousand such days or so, you’ll be breathing your last. And your “stuff” will not leave with you. Your stuff won’t even care that you’ve gone. Only your memories will carry on, good and bad. Wouldn’t you rather leave more good ones, than ones of simply running across battlefields, cracked and grey?