Overthunk

Yeah, I'm closer to 40 than 14, but that doesn't mean I can't pretend to be in that band I always wanted to be in. And no, I can't play the guitar for real, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the tar out of this game. In fact, that's the whole POINT. The second version of this Playstation 2 diversion, called Guitar Hero as you can see here, just came out, but I'm too busy woodshedding on a borrowed version of the first one to care about that yet. At first, I sucked so thoroughly the game kicked me out of the song and the crowd booed. Yet now, I can successfully hit 80-96% of the notes on average of tunes ranging from Boston's "More Than A Feeling" to Audioslave's "Cochise." The cool thing is, songs you don't even like much and dismiss as crap, you get new respect for when you try to play them. You also learn how Nikki Sixx must have felt when his fingers and forearms ached from the amount of rockin' he was doing, but

Seasons greetings, blogpadres! It's hard to believe it's been a year since my last post about cooking , but certainly it has. This year, instead of Candied Nuts, I decided to make Rum Balls. Though there may be some hidden symbolism in my two-years running choices of recipes that could be euphemisms for cajones , I choose to believe differently. That yellowed paper next to the plate is the recipe of old, typed on the ancient, black, 50-pound manual typewriter I was given by my grandmother as a kid. (Yes, even 25 years ago I was a writing, typing dork.) The recipe came from one of the neighbors on our street, who still lives there. And yes, my mom did make these and allow us to eat them as children. Who knows what current freakitudes (such as a simultaneous love of chocolate AND rum!) I can blame on this underage intake of hard liquor in candy form. This year, instead of rockin', I watched a DVD I found of the 1982 Leslie Nielsen series Police Squad , instead of egg nog, I w

When I was a youngster, toiling away at what used to be Southwestern Bell Mobile Systems (now Cingular Wireless), I swore off office politics. I reported to work, fended off oldsters who hit on me and my "sexy voice" daily, pretended to sell extra features, took much too long constructing a faux jellyfish from a styrofoam plate and bits of plastic for a team decorating contest, just generally toiled there in my cubicle from morning 'til night, fixing glorified walkie talkies. Then (usually a few minutes early), I went home. As a result, I never got the attention (nor the raises) of my superiors. Then I got ten years older. The world and its ways slowly and painfully revealed themselves to me. I realized, that in all kinds of realms, you have to do as Freddie Mercury suggests, and "Play the game, play the game, play the game, play the game!" With a single email that could have been utter bullstuff (it wasn't, but the point is, verification of my lofty claims

(English Title: Meat My Blade) On the potentially dismal occasion of my 36th trip round the sun, I visited a Brazilian churrascaria. If you haven't been to one, it's a magical place where you first take a stellar trip around the salad bar, which is really a buffalo mozzarella/kalamata olives/proscuitto/steamed asparagus/marinated mushrooms and more bar, then are whisked back to your table to delight in what you found there for a few moments while sucking down caipirinhas (a.k.a. Brazilian margaritas). Next, enter the intricate communication system in place akin to the sign language used by Drasnian spies , in the form of a circular card, one for each person at the table. One side of the card is red, the other, green. Flip that red card to green and wait. Within seconds, a fleet of smartly dressed, hot, Latin gauchos descends upon you, each bearing a rod of steaming, delicious meat for your consumption. Each meets your eyes as you communicate your most intimate carnal desires: O

Today between the schooling and the getting schooled, I went looking for vittles to Jack in the Box, in search of the elusive Jumbo Jack with cheese, plain, and two tacos. I'd gone to this particular one before, but I'd forgotten before that I'd sworn to myself that next time, I should go to the OTHER one a couple blocks before the one I've gotten used to going to. Why? you ask. Well, there's one of those homo sapiens oblivians working there. You know the type. The guy who, despite being of low socioeconomic status and considerably less than dreamy looks, flirts with anyone, anywhere, any time. The guy who leans out the drive-thru to impart his philosophies on life and love with you, even though you're just a passing blur framed by a car window. "You didn't KNOW you could substitute mozzarella sticks for fries?!" he cried to me, incredulous. "See that? You learn something new all the time! I can't believe you didn't know that!" &

I see a pink blog and I want it painted green. And in so doing, I FLUSHED AWAY MY BLOGROLL. DAMMIT and CRAPADOO! I'm sorry, blogpals. I shall repair the damage as soon as I am able. Know that, until then, your comments and your words and the time you burned here live on in my grateful heart.

it has been so long oh, how I wanted to come up to your place for some "coffee" but I knew that if I did being a slave to sensuality and my appetites and nothing like self-controlled i would just sit on the couch lean in ask you to kiss that certain place then 20 minutes later be doing the deed your hands touching me all over you know THE deed and the only thing that saves me from such a fate is having a rule so I have a rule no hoeing on the first date not with a long-handled garden tool nor with any other appendages because I think it's fair to make you work just a little harder for your journey to the center of the earth for your rendezvous with the fertile garden of femininity for your returning back to where it's safe and warm

It's also THOR'S DAY!!! So eat up, drink up, and battle valiantly on the way to Valhalla. I was going to insert a nifty Thanksgiving card here for you all, but Blogger is being a jive turkey. So you just have to imagine a lovely card with pumpkins and a cornucopia and stuff on it, that reads: Happy Thanksgiving -- May you always have much for which to be thankful! And underneath that in my Trebuchet hand, I've writ, "If you're reading this, I'm thankful for you!" And thus it is true, though it is only a vision in thy head. So shall it be written, so shall it be done. Happy T-Day to thee and thine, pilgrims!

While making some Thanksgiving fudge (yeah, I know, the Pilgrims didn't have fudge at the first Thanksgiving, but damn you people and your rules), it occurred to me that I do quite a few stupid things to amuse myself. Now, from the past and present, some of these stupid ways ::drumroll:: 1. Dictate to myself the ingredients and processes of making fudge as I am doing them, in survival Spanish, with the heaviest of Texas accents: "Ponga los nway-says en la dool-say. Es mas fa-seel!" :) 2. I used to go out into our backyard and pretend to make educational films, just like the jumpy, projector driven films we saw at school, that unspooled from one 12-foot-in- diameter reel to another as the teacher dozed at the back of the room. Of course, any time the film started to jump or skip or make that PRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMPHHTPRRRPHTMTMMTMTTTTPRRRRRRRR sound, the class noisily complained. If the film snapped in twain, the teacher was ready with a piece of Scotch tape. Try doing THAT wit

Because I attend an exclusive, prestigious, private university for graduate school, I stumble along amongst long shadows stretching along the Serengeti marble halls. Rich, thin, shiny, pretty women meander past me by on their slender, Nordic, giraffean legs, and I am as a squat chimpanzee in their midst -- clever, amusing, far more able to use tools, yet not half as majestic. Sometimes, in classes, we interact. I feel as if I travel in Pigpen's cloud, for my nails are clipped and short, and tiny continents with chipping borders appear on each finger, instead of glossy, manicured, monochromatic squares. My hair, unfashionably frizzy, is self-cut and a few weeks overdue for a $7 color out of a Garnier box. My $12 shoes have about breathed their last, as I shift about the desk in my Wal-Mart pants. Still, maybe opposable thumbs and the ability to throw verbal poo at their mystification at crazy tables-full of statistics is worth being grotty. Sometimes. ----------------- I can't d

Hey folks. This is a nonspecific teaser trailer. Oh, there ARE posts! OH, there are posts! Oh, THERE are posts! Oh, there are POSTS! I've got a couple in the pipe, but they need polishing before I'll let 'em out. So check back in a few. Weeks. No, days. Not hours. Why? 'Cause my little button nose is so far to the grindstone, it's just a skeleton nose, ground down to a fine sharp point. -------------------------------------------- I'm not the one whos so far away w hen I feel the snakebite enter my veins Never did I wanna be here again a nd I don't remember why I came. --- G. Smack (Hey, do you reckon that song's about HEROIN!?!?!?) Yeah. I'm much too tired.

Catch phrases run the gamut from "kiss my grits" to "can you smell what the rock is cookin?" I like to make my own, though, and of late, my favorite has been "I hate __________." We live in a world that is uncomfortable with hate, and because it is forbidden, I guess, is why it's fun to say. I'm not all about the hatin' exactly. It's just whatever you're not supposed to do is fun to do. Forbidden words hold more power. Also, there's no thinking, just denouncing. You can't hate everything. People are too complicated to hate. If you start to hate one, and then think some more, you'll find something that wasn't so bad. And if you hate someone for being a hatemonger, then you're just as bad as they are, aren't you? So hate has to be more specific, like "I hate floral print shirts." "I hate when good sloths go bad." "I hate vocational training." "I hate Death by Chocolate type desse

In just an hour or so of watching old cartoons on Boomerang (old meaning, 30's - 60's produced) I mentally tallied a few stark differences between the cartoons of now and those of old. On the Pink Panther I DVR'ed, there were about five scenes containing guns, including one fired at the Pink Panther's head at point blank range, rendering him grey-headed and exploded, one cigarette (smoked by the gunman), and some scant sexual references to can-can girls (by the Inspector), and even a suicidal duckling on an old Tom and Jerry I caught who attempted a self-gullotine with a giant ax on a string. So the question is, then, how come we watched all this and there were few to no school shootings back then? Why did public violence seem to increase in an inverse relationship to the amount of violence that was fretted over and strained from kids' tv in the 80's and 90's? Now new cartoons are mostly a contest to see who's more badly drawn or the most insane. Where

Brought to you from the State Fair of Texas is this concoction invented from materials on hand while sitting waiting for a sheep dog show to start. Fair Food Burritos 1 bag freshly spun cotton candy 1 paper cup slightly stale popcorn Peel off thin layers of cotton candy to create a candy "tortilla" in your hand. Sprinkle in a handful or so of popcorn inside the cotton candy tortilla. Fold "tortilla" together, adding extra strips of candy on the top or sides to seal it in. Stuff in mouth, making "mmm" sounds as you go. It's a crunchy, soft, sugary, salty slice of junk food genius. Enjoy!

Even though we're all unique and special, just like every fuckin' snowflake and everyone else, we are also composites of stereotypes. While everyone talks shit about stereotypes, we also know that they wouldn't exist if there wasn't some truth to them. Here's a list of some of mine, in no particular order: American White Female Of Irish Descent -- i.e. Hot-tempered, Hardworking, Drunken, Proletarian Short and Fat Poor kid Teacher Texan From Dallas Writer Blogger College edumacated Curly-tressed Bleach blonde Intellectual Artist Musically obsessed Dog person Gamer Animal lover Homeowner Conventiongoer Sister Conservative Tree hugger Foulmouthed Computer geek Yep, that pretty much sums me up. Or not. Care to put your labels on the table?

If you just want to experience New Orleans without all the sweating and beignets and staggering and hurricanes, read this: A Confederacy of Dunces There's a statue of Ignatius Reilly in the French Quarter somewhere, and I'm kicking myself that I didn't see it. A movie might be made at some point, but, I guarantee you, it will be a gossamer shadow of this book's greatness. Read it. Even if only for the pale purpose of saying you've read a Pulitzer prizewinning fiction. Suffocate yourself laughing, slobber everywhere crying. Just read it. Trust me.

worship me for my drollness or sarcasm, one of the 2 or both at once like a big yin yang thing sweet and sour tangy syrup msg for your tongue and brain

(least that's how they pronounce 'Histoires' in French) Why the frog, say you? 'Cause I'm here to favor you with some tales from the dank, mildewed streets of New Orleans' French Quarter, which I got invited to journey to a few weeks back. And let me say, not to worry! Depravity and drunkenness, never affected by natural disasters, are in full swing. TRAVEL TIPS When you know you'll be passing through airport security, avoid wearing an underwire bra that costs less than $10. If you do, boob inspections by security officers will be provided courtesy of Wal-Mart stores' Cheapest Undergarment Materials Possible Division. For added fun, get a call from your school about missing children who are in your class (who merely strayed from their waiting spot after school and have since been found, but that's not mentioned until 2 minutes into the call) at the same time. ITINERARY If you stay on Bourbon Street and it's between March and November, this is you

Step into motorized listening booth Accelerate onto thoroughfare Put on heaviest metal to blot out niggling thoughts that pull at brain Let the unrelenting bass guitar thundering report of sticks on skin banging angry cadences Drive out these idiot notions Purging needless pain from the soul ------------------------------------ Does that make me crazy? -- Gnarls Barkley

Why it's still embarrassing to purchase products of a feminine nature after 20 years experience, I don't know, but sometimes it is. I decide I don't want to navigate the perilous waters of Wal-Mart, so I'll stop at the drugstore (as it used to be called in the parlance of my youth), even though I KNOW a guy will be working the counter at 9:30 p.m. I'm perusing the products, looking for my preferred species, and a Whitman's candy display is there on the end of the aisle, sparking a train of thoughts: "What the fuck is that doing there? Oh, no wonder I couldn't find it the last time I was looking for a last-minute gift -- it's here in this fucked up place, what kind of layout is that?" Then it hit me: "WHOA, it's there because duhhhhh, it's the most expensive chocolate in the store and it's right here next to the pads and tampons!" Stunned at this sexist display, I continue to shop, looking for other shit to buy to distract

If you take one of those big ol' rubber bands and swallow it in an attempt to engineer a cut-rate lap band surgery... you might be a redneck. Or you might just be that fat-addled and lacking of insurance. ----------------- p.s. Did you know that tapirs , even though they look like pigs with mini-elephant-trunks, are odd-toed ungulates, related to horses and rhinoceroses? They are said to eat dreams in some Asian countries, which could help me, because I've been having bad dreams lately. In specific, I awoke from a nap this afternoon with a fading remembrance of a big tray of deviled eggs, which I had apparently made. I hate deviled eggs. Conclusion: I need a pet tapir.

Although I can theoretically make up any new statement at any time like lemurs banging out Updike novels on word processors, I find myself saying the same things over and over and over. The dumb thing about this is I repeat stuff to people who know me intimately. "I just can't deal with a militaristic management style." "It has to be Hellmann's." "Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me." "I'd rather roll the dice." I try not to, but I still do. Evermore Wages the war 'Gainst being a confounded Colossal bore. ----------------------- Did you ever find yourself sad that a Little Debbie pumpkin cookie was gone? Well, I just did. --------------------- p.s. Go out and find acoustic F*** It Up by Towers of London. Drink lots. Play it. Secret of universe inside. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- With every breath, I thought I'd had too much. With every breath I

Two years I've been writing this. Two years. Most of you and I have known each other for most of that span. Why is it so hard to believe, the constant flow of time? -------------------------------- Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems -- but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems incredible. -- Salman Rushdie

Hi everyone, Because friends share in good things and bad and this is important to me, I thought you all might like to know. My mom, who had been battling many health problems, especially during the past few years, passed away Friday night. She was not a perfect person, but her love for me was. I figure if you want to know more, you'll ask. But if I don't seem quite myself for awhile, that's why. Thanks.

If this was myspace, you'd be annoyedly scrolling down, trying to find the clickbox to stop the page's theme song. Today, it would be the song "Defender" by the epic metal band Manowar . Ride like the wind Fight proud, my pup You're the defender God has sent Why? For this, the tiniest of dogs, exploded into violent barking and enthusiastic lunging at this threatening sight: A rather crappy patio set -- loaned out, but then returned. Once empty patio I look up to you and heed thy call This plastic ends my search I'll live your dream now passed to me And I now wait to shake the hand of fate Like the dusk awaiting dawn So umbrella, flap your spell With no heart to do me well So its written, it shall be Trust me, it's a great song. And in no wise wussy. Great to swing a paladin sword by. Oh, and there at the beginning? THAT'S ORSON WELLES.

(Warning: Cheese may be needed. Whine ahead.) The trouble with anything online is, it's you but it's not you. With predominantly online relationships, this is you but not you added to them but not them. This plus time equals an exponentially inaccurate virtual folly. The most important stuff that happens in my life, I don't write about. What's the line between "free spirited" and "skanky"? How come the amount you want someone is inversely proportional to the amount they want you, and even if that ratio changes, between the same two people , it still applies? Death: horrifying snuffer of sacred life force, or just welcome relief? What if all the things I'm pretty sure God is ok with, He isn't? Is it possible to never hear another depressing news story again? As I age, my emotions rule me less, resulting in more days of relative calm and happiness. As a tradeoff, I don't get as excited about as many things. If you want something, give up on

On another trip to the Half Price Books store, I had to use the loo. They've cleverly used the covers from old Harlequin Romance novels from the 50's and 60's as a border atop the wainscoting, so they're at eye level as you wash your hands and such. There were bunches and bunches, but a few titles struck me as perhaps more... significant than others. Could our pre-Internet forebears have been more clued in to the variant stripes of sexuality than is commonly suspected? Exhibit A: Gay Cavalier Exhibit B: Master of Saramanca Exhibit C: Citadel of Swallows and finally, Exhibit D: A Night for Possums.

Well, I guess it didn't HAVE to die. But nonetheless, I destroyed it with the weight of 12 bricks and my stupid, stupid stupidity. See, the littlest dog I have has an amazing ability to dig holes under fences and squeeze her tiny self under. One morning, I woke up and SHE WAS GONE. After I freaked out and papered the neighborhood with ugly yellow signs, a man called me. She was apparently having a good time helping him put down some paving stones in his back yard. I was so glad to see her, I cried. I told her then to always stay with the pack, and she has. Still, I feared losing her, so I went and got a bunch of bricks. Bricks are heavy and scratchy. I had about 75 of them, over 2 trips. I could only take about 4 at a time. More were too heavy, because I had to carry them from the front of the house all the way around to the back, and I did not want to drop any of them on any metatarsals or the like. On the 2nd carload, I got frustrated. I don't own a wheelbarrow or a dolly or

Those who read this screed with any regularity are already acquainted with my love of John Updike, who, besides just possessing my esteemed enamorment, has won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction not once but twice. The day before yesterday I just happened to drop by the Half-Price Books in my town, where I, on a whim, thought some new Updike might just be the thing. So I picked this up. Note its price: $4.98. Well, the day went on, I continued shopping, visited with friends, and was waiting for my Independence Day Freedom Potato Salad spuds to finish boiling when I thought I might read a story or three while I was waiting. After all, there were 40 of them. Oh, look at that, an inscription in a used book. Let's see whose Great Aunt Margot gave this to them on which holiday... Well, I'll declare. That there says, "for Mark a rare volume John Updike" Being me, my first thought at any awesome event such as this is, "Nuh UH ." So of course I went and checked here

I pay $1000.00 per class to attend a prestigious private university. I am midway through a Master's degree and have a 4.0 grade point average that I intend to keep for the duration. I have over 17 years experience at adulthood and I own and operate my own house, car, career, and life. Yet still, the other day, I felt mortified and 12 all over again. In this particular class, there are those writing-surface-fused-to-an-uncomfortable-chair type desks that thin people don't think twice about sitting in. I, however, have gone through a past period of hugeness where I could just barely wedge between the chair back and the writing surface edge. Happily, now I can fit without too much problem, though I still marvel at the 6 to 8 inches of gut-to-desk space that most people have in those. Anyway, so the professor has this brilliant idea to play a game for an exam review (I know, wtf, it's grad school, I was thinking the very same thing). She decides that rather than raising our han

Whereas... A = Driving two hours across town to a moderately important, though brain killingly dull, work function, being late and being turned away due to one's frazzled inability to manage simple Mapquest directions and "thinking" one has the cognitive capacity to find "a faster way," B = Bloating up like a bullfrog doing whippets, and; C = Being moved to tears by "needing a man in my life who loves puppies and makes cakes like that fine Brawny paper towel guy" or the minor annoyances such as the lack of ketchup... A + B + C = P Dig?

Hey, listen. I went all over the town, nay, THREE towns, looking for that wrinkle-concealing, chunky gold necklace that my mother wanted for her birthday. At Macy's, they only had a buncha tacky chunky bead strings and some wisp-thin silver chains, plus a store-brand marcasite encrusted $20.00 watch that I carried around for awhile, possibly arousing the suspicion of the security guards, before unceremoniously replacing it on the tiered table created specifically for Low-End Emergency Gift Jewelry at the finer department stores. So I went down to Nordstrom's and everything there was widely spaced and affluent enough that I felt white-trashy in just my black low cut shirt (revealing the pinkish, dwindling remains of a between-boob-blemish) and nondescript black shorts, but still I found nothing I deemed to her liking. Can I help it if on the way out of there I dropped in to Payless and found some 1 1/2 inch brown leather heels that fit and that were comfortable and coordinated w

Main Entry: ad·dic·tion -- noun 1 : the quality or state of being addicted 2 : compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol, or raising digital fish) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal; broadly : persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful (such as staying up until 3 a.m. tending digitized virtua-osteichthyes until your eyes feel like the gravel at the bottom of the tank). It all started with a tipoff from here . I played this damn fishycrack for about 7 days for free, and then I forked the $20 over for the full version and now I'm waist deep in this muthafucka with a 2 to 3 hour a day habit. I have found 5 of the magic fish. 6 and 7 await, and I SHALL FIND THEM. O YES.

I'm starting a band. There have to be some other people over 30 who want to slant towards the dream as death edges ever closer.

if drivin' down the road with your left arm hangin' out into the blisterin' Texas sun, eatin' cherries and spittin' the pits out the window just to watch 'em fly, singing along to Dwight Yoakam and swipin' the final "g" off ever danged word makes you a hick... then I'm guilty.

Yep, today I went to buy dog food and make some copies at the local shopping center, and I saw this. I was gonna take a picture with my camera phone, but I thought better of it. I'd give better odds than not that this Bubba had a gun rack in his back window. I wonder if was a "You must be as tall as the catalytic converter to drive this truck" sticker anywhere on this thing when he bought it... (Yes, I made that picture. It was fun.)

Pants. Pants and a sock. Pants that didn't appear to be poop-soiled. Pants that didn't even appear to be old or much worn. Not hobo pants. Just black jean pants. Right smack in downtown Dallas , not a side street or culvert. Where people perambulate, not where they sleep on benches or burn barrel fires. Non-hobo pants, near a cathedral, seen shortly after Chinese New Year. Crumpled waist down, as if Clark Kent had lost weight, making their fit too loose, and they slipped free of his waist as he raised his arms to the sky, and Super-flew into the blue, a freak gale or greedy grackle snatching a souvenir sock from one foot.

Yep, that's a tiny cellphone-captured moment of a schoolbus sitting in the parking lot of a liquor store on a rainy afternoon about a month ago. The name of the package store in question is Centennial Fine Wines and Spirits (which you can read if ya squint hard enough at it), on Central Expressway, Dallas, Texas. (In the same liquor store where I once met that Sam Elliot lookalike guy, as a matter of fact.) (But I don't frequent it that often, honest.) (No, really.) The name of the district who operates the school bus had been obscured with black paint.

Didja ever... ...get fired after one day of being a shitty telemarketer by a manager with B.O.? ...hide all the knives in the house so you wouldn't be killed in the night by someone you were sitting for? ...rend your own flesh asunder by gnawing? ...wrestle a hulking autistic girl to keep her from banging her head repeatedly on the wall? ...somersault gently from a crushed hulk of a vehicle into the warm, summer Arkansas grass? ...walk home, stoned and alone? ...get a whole barful of drunk college kids rocking out to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me," then kiss a stranger upon leaving the stage? ...tramp through a Louisiana cornfield where bits of hay eerily whirled high into the air and where bears had recently been seen? ...spend most of an autumn day reading in an old horse trailer? ...listen to a schizophrenic grandma argue with people you can't see? ...start a paper cup fight of epic proportions at a now-defunct outdoor music festival? ...confiscate $600.

This man crafts literary crack. This is John Updike. He writes books that I cannot put down. They cause me to neglect the myriad obligations of life. I simply can't be arsed. I'm reading. I must finish the next part (cruelly he doesn't write in chapters much, just puts three-dot divisional markings between sections). Right now I'm battling my addiction to his Rabbit series. It's not polite. It's not politically correct. It's chock full of sex. It's dated (published in the 60's and 70's). It makes me laugh, cry, and agape with wonder at the power of its images. Still, like all junkies, I think you should try it. If you have any appreciation at all for how difficult writing is, it will make you bow before it. You might even see God in some of its shadowed corners. But I warn you: you will have to apologize to people for the things you did not do.

Don't get me wrong. Mostly I exist in a fog where exhaustion, anxiety, cynicism or paranoia spin a wheel to see who's watch it is, b ut sometimes... I drift into this cozy, mellow headspace where I am really present, living in the moment, and just revel in the beauty of life as it is right then, some kinda hippie-ass universal warmth lighting and radiating through my being. It's happened a couple of times on sunny days driving home with the windows open, but it also happened today while eating Hamburger Helper cheeseburger macaroni -- a reverence and appreciation for what is, a genuine humility. No Xanax, no wine, no cannabis. Just the Symphony of it all or somethin'. ---------------------------- "Just let your love flow." - The Bellamy Brothers

Listen to a marginally interesting tale of gas station cooperation!

(Or, Why I Should've Had a Blog in 2002) And NOW! FORGOTTEN CRAP FICTION THEATRE PRESENTS: Couch The notice came in the mail about 24 days after it first began sitting on the curb. It was once my Grandma’s couch. Hell, people who weren’t even alive anymore had spent nights nestled among its vaguely comfortable splattering of brown flora. Eventually it had made its way to my house, after the dividing up of the stuff. I needed a couch, and it had served well. But then, a jobless person had come to visit. For weeks and weeks. A fellow who, while he was likable enough, was a world-class sofa spud. And through a steady diet of time-devouring video games and TV westerns, his stationary ass had dented the poor old thing beyond hope or repair. Thus, it was kicked to the proverbial curb. One afternoon, my friend and I were nearly to the car when a couple of power walking neighbors happened by. “You know, you can call for pickup on bulk trash,” they told her. “Yeah, Thursdays before 5:00 p