Challenge

The above (slightly soiled) gauntlet is for you all you readers at home. Consider it my literary challenge, and I do hope that at least one of the four loyal readers I think I have will take the challenge. It is a simple challenge, at least for you, pick a topic, any topic, and I will blog about it. Keep it mind I do not do sensitive, girly, emotional types of blog post, so try to keep it within reason. Do not expect immediate results, or expect miracles. If you can come up with something that I feel is within my power I will try to churn out a reasonably readable post about it within a short amount of time. I seriously doubt that anyone will pose a topic, but since my previous outings have caused the well of my ideas to run dry, I hope that at least one of you can come up with something that sparks my interest. Keep in mind I am a snob, but not overly intelligent, so plan your pick accordingly. Do not make it too Laurel and Hardy like, but do not expect Rabelais. A immediate response is not to be expected, and I hope you would want me to at least spend some amount of time formulating a proper post. If, as I expect, no one bothers that just means that you bastards will just have to suffer to read whatever inane drivel I happen to produce from my own over active imagination. You have been warned. Oh and P.S. post your challenges here in the comments not by email, text, IM, or smoke signal.

Blanket

"One blanket each that's all that is allowed." These words, shouted in my general direction, brought me out of a lovely daydream, followed by the aforementioned blanket being tossed roughly at me. It is not in any way a remarkable blanket. A dull grey in colour, and a little frayed around the edges, it has clearly seen both several owners and better days. As I take in these minor details of the blanket's life, I realize that for some unknown reason I have been placed into what appears to be a prison cell. Huh, wonder how this came about? I do not remember committing any crime, or rather getting caught committing a crime. I do not recall any arrest, guilty plea, trial, judge, jury, or sentencing. Oh well, appears it is too late to worry about those details, time to access the current situation. A rather gloomy prison cell, but then again how many pastel, Charlie Brown-themed, prison cells have you ever seen? Dark, dank, smelly, and probably populated with bedbugs, and fleas. Well, it appears it is "home" for now. Not sure for how long, not sure exactly why, but certainly there will be someone along to sort those issues out for me at some point. I mean that is what usually happens in these situations right? Some older, wiser guy comes around like Cain from the Kung Fu series, and explains it all in delightfully cryptic terms teaching our young hero a valuable life lesson on the road to redemption. Happens all the time, nothing to be worried about, just make myself comfortable, and await the messiah of the this passion play to put in his appearance. Looking around I do realize that comfortable is going to be a relative term, a hard bunk, a lovely high, and of course barred window, and a bucket seem to be the latest in this prison's furnishings. As I take in this absurd scene, I suddenly reason why the first words I heard about the blanket were so important. It is fucking cold! Not just cold, but sheep bleating, mind numbing, balls freezing off cold. Shit, fuck, damn! This I was not prepared for (to the dismay of my long lost boy scout leader I am sure). Certainly this one blanket rule is a joke. This sorry excuse for a blanket is not going to get the job done when it comes to keeping me from being a giant prisoner Popsicle come morning. The "explainer" better be here in a hurry, or he is going to find it difficult to be heard as he passes on his wisdom because my teeth will be chattering to loudly. Plopping my cold ass on the bunk, I wrap my new most important possession around me, and try to think warm thoughts. I realize I got a little tipsy last night, and maybe had a round of shots, but that does not explain how or why I am suddenly locked away in this hellhole. How long can a alcohol induced black out last? How much memory can you wipe away with just booze? Certainly not enough to explain my sudden transformation from upright citizen to frozen prisoner number 22143. 22143? Where the hell did that come from? Nowhere as far as I can tell. I look at my non-descript, cheaply made, prison suit, and can not see any markings that account for my "knowledge" of my prison number. Maybe other important details of why I am in my situation will start rushing back to me in a flood of emotion. I felt neither still drunk nor hung over, and a quick inspection revealed no major bumps on my head, so hopefully I would be to reconstruct the events that landed me in my current predicament. After about an hour with no new flashes of memory, and in spite of the mind numbing cold, I begin to feel sleep might be the best plan. Everything will look better in the morning, it is night isn't it? Everything always looks better in the morning, except maybe that "looker" you took home from the bar at 2 in the morning, but still there is hope when morning breaks. After what felt like hours, I began to despair of anyone appearing to explain to me exactly what I had done to be placed in my present circumstances. Despite the bone chilling cold, I began to grow sleepy. I thought well sleep might not be a bad plan, and I began to nod off. My eyes grew heavier and heavier, and the time between me opening them back up grew longer and longer. Just as I was about to give up the ghost, and drop off to sleep, someone, whom I had not heard come into my cell began to shake me gently by the shoulder. As my half awake mind began to process this action, the thought that finally an explanation to why I am here awaits started to form in my mind. Finally, surrendering sleep to the insistent shaking I opened my eyes to see what all the commotion was about, and to receive my explanation. When I did everything became clear, but in a odd kind of way. The person shaking me was my bartender, and he was saying the line we love to hear "dude wake up it is closing time, you don't have to go home but you can not stay here."

Le Misanthrope

The fellow above is one M. Moliere author of a somewhat famous play entitled Le Misanthrope. Clearly, not a lover of humankind, and overall bastard about town. Considering that I have been accused of being a misanthrope myself, I feel more than a little sympathy for M. Moliere's protagonist Alceste. I was once described as a misogynist, and was quick to point out that I do not dislike just women. I dislike all people. It has been said of me that "he just does not like people." A statement that I can not, even if I wanted to, deny. I sometimes try to blame certain aspects of my job for my misanthropy, but the truth of the matter is I was a misanthrope long before I obtained my present employment. In some ways a certain part of my job does exacerbate my condition, but it is not the cause. It is a long standing and deeply held conviction of mine, and I just do not seem to be able to shed it. I mean I just spent two whole days without having a real live conversation with another human being, and I loved it. It plays hell with the Christmas party season, birthday parties, and just any social function that will require me to speak to more than four people. I do not really care if it makes look like a grouch, but other people have sometimes been upset at my lack of sociability. I think it is for the best that I avoid these types of situations because I would either be unable to conceal my scorn, or I would be considered the worst conversationalist alive. People just seem to be rather put out when you explain that you do not like them. Trying to explain that it is not necessarily them personally, but them as a species does not seem to mollify them. My (quite few) friends understand my condition, and do their best to not be horribly offended by my bad behaviour. Which is probably why I consider them my friends in the first place. To be fair, I do not exclude myself from my misanthropy. I am certainly not a fan of myself, and in some respects I represent almost everything I can not stand about the human race. Of course that is probably because I am the one human being that I spend the most time with, and just can not seem to get away from. I look in the mirror, and bam! There I am. I go to the bathroom, and I am there dawdling about. Even asleep I appear in my dreams (well, me and a crow or two). I mean jesus, can I not get a moment's peace from myself. Spending all this time with myself causes me to notice, and be disgusted by my own (many) flaws. With that much time to pick them out it is inevitable that they become, to me at least, painfully obvious. Hopefully, that softens the blow of my condition in regards to other people, but even if it does not, I can not say that I am too upset. I do not really expect this condition to win me any popularity contests, and understand if the majority of people are put off my by position. Perhaps my misanthropy is part of the reason I blog. After all, I am certainly not inclined to open my "heart" in person (sober at least), and blogging allows me to express my feelings (provided I have them) in a impersonal forum. It is much easier, in some respects, to merely be read rather than listened to by people. By writing my thoughts and feelings out I am in many ways being a Fascist. Schopenhauer said that there were only about 25 books written in the history of time worth reading. His rational was that when you read a book the author of that book is taking over the controls of your thought processes, and his theory was that there are only a VERY limited number of people you should allow to do that. It is similar to a line by Blind Melon about reading a book to stay awake though it strips my mind away. It is much harder to do that in person since very few of us really listen to what the other person is saying. We are usually much too busy formulating or thinking of our reply to actually listen. Writing, on the other hand, is much more tyrannical. I can control (at least in theory), where this "conversation" goes, and how it gets there. I say in theory because I sometimes have a tendency to "write myself into a corner." It is a very similar experience to painting yourself into a corner, but you can not just wait for the paint to dry. I actually wrote myself into, and (I hope at least) out of about three corners during this post alone. I have to be careful of blind alleys when I write because I have a tendency to write what I am thinking as I am thinking it. Calm reflection does not appear to be my strong suit. Of course, the reader does have the ultimate veto power, they can just stop reading altogether. A lesser threat, but one that writers such as Arthur Rimbaud, have used to great effect is to approach the problem from the other way around. That is they just stopped writing.

A drunkard's prayer

A few of my elderly readers will recognize the fellow in the picture above. He is Otis Campbell the town drunk of Mayberry, and a delightful fellow. Now I do not claim to be the town drunk in the city in which I reside. There are, I am sure, much more qualified candidates (some of which I know personally). Besides the city where I live has more than enough space for multiple town drunks. Therefore, I am just one of many, a bleary face in the crowd as it were. However, tonight I am breaking new ground. For the first time in the "history" of this blog I am writing while ever so slightly intoxicated. Of course ideas for blog posts have came to me while I was hammered, but not until tonight did I maintain the required dexterity to type out my brilliant drunken thoughts. The tale I have to impart is a rather sad one, but I hope to tell it without getting too maudlin. After two nights of serious drinking I feel the need for a little confession. I haunt two bars in my fair city, and pretty much only two bars. Luckily for me they are right beside one another, within easy staggering distance. I have been going to one of them about a year longer than the other one, but each of them have their pro and cons. One has a better menu and is non-smoking, while the other has a nice long bar that begs to be propped up, and cool video games to play. After as many debauched nights as I am spent in these places, I have befriended the bartenders. Going on the theory that you can never have enough bartender "friends." Each of the bartenders are lovely fellows, and both treat me much better than I deserve. One of the great tragedies of my life is that, for some reason, the two bartenders do not like each other. This has been a source of some consternation for me. It is sort of like having two best friends that can not stand each other, and you are trapped in the middle. In some respects it is not quite that serious, but in other ways it is very, very serious. Now there is enough of a drunk in me to go around, and I have been able to consistently stagger from one bar to another with alarming regularity. The tension was there, but if you tip well enough, and drink enough eventually you either smooth it over or forget all about it as you sink into an alcohol induced stupor. Sadly this week tragedy struck. One of my bartenders managed to get himself fired, not too big of a surprise considering his boss fires people as often as he changes his underwear, but still a rather upsetting turn of events. Even worse was the manner in which I was made aware of my bartender's demise. My other bartender was the first to break the news, and he did so with a thinly veiled glee that did not reflect well upon him. Saddened by this news, I stumbled next door to see if the new was in fact true. Much to my dismay, it was, and standing there behind the bar was a totally new bartender. This was a very sad occasion because a good bartender is very, very difficult to find, and training a new bartender is a task that requires a great deal of time and patience. At my age, I am not sure my liver is going to be up to the task of "breaking in" a new bartender. All sorts of things go into the process, and it can be quite expensive at first. Eventually, a good bartender will realize that they have a good solid drunk on their hands, and will make the corresponding adjustments. However, in the meantime you have to suffer being treated like a common, twice a week, amateur drinker out to drink enough sexs on the beach to set some sort of personal record. The indignity of it all is enough to make you want to become a teetotaler. Of course being sober all the time has its own pitfalls that I am not sure I am quite ready to face on a 365 day-a-year basis. So for now I will spend a little more time at the bar that still has my regular bartender employed, and stumble over to the new bar to begin the long, arduous process of training a new barkeep on the width and depth of my drunkenness. This has great potential to end in tears. I can only hope that if it does the tears are at least laced with enough alcohol to make it all worth while.

A bit of a Puzzler

As I was discussing a previous blog post with a friend of mine the other night they had to go and ruin a perfectly good day by posing me the question of "Why do you blog?" I took a deep breathe and fully expected a witty answer to appear in a matter of seconds. It did not. Not only did a witty answer not appear, it eventually dawned on me that I am not sure I had AN answer at all. This was quite puzzling. I mean we should at least have some clue as to why we do the things we do right? I mean if you do not have a clue why you do something aren't you a bit like a brick wall? No one asked a brick wall why it is just standing there. Who knows maybe it is load bearing and critical to the integrity of the building. I eventually muttered some nonsense about it being a "creative outlet." My friend seemed satisfied with that answer but I am not sure it is really the reason. It is true that my job does not really allow for a lot of creativity, but I am not exactly sure I am a creative person. Also, I am not sure if what I blog is particularly creative. I could say that I do it in order to be read, but that answer smacks of a certain neediness that I find unattractive. Maybe it is just something to do as I pass the hours between sleep, work, drinking, and wild monkey sex. I certainly do not entertain the notion that anything I write has any sort of literary value. Perhaps, at some point it has provided a bit of comic relief, but other than that I am not sure it has any particular value. It has at times allowed (some of) my readers the opportunity to criticize me, and point out my faults. At other times they have praised what I wrote as being very insightful. I am uncertain on how to handle either the praise or the criticism. I guess a tendency to take either one with a grain of salt is my usual response. The problem that I keep coming back to over and over again is that here it is almost 2 full days later, and I still do not have a bloody answer. I find this unacceptable there has to be an answer somewhere locked away inside some vault of my inner self. I should have the key around here somewhere, and if not I should at least be able to pick lock. Sitting here watching the damn cursor blink over and over on the page of this post, I can not for the life of me, unlock this riddle. I suppose sometimes "I do not know" is, in fact, the best answer to the question.

"I" is someone else

As I was sorting through my (mostly junk) email today, I found among the notices that I had won the Nigerian lottery, and offers of all the free Viagra I could ever need, I noticed some jackass friend of mine had forwarded me one of those 25 things about you lists. Normally, if an email has FWD: on it I delete it out of hand (hint to those who know me, and send me forwards). Perhaps, it was because there was not anything on TV, and I seem to have run out of decent books to read, but I opened the damn thing. The usual nonsensical questions about my favourite ice cream, and red or pink where there, but one question got me to pondering (and then posting). It was if you were another person would you like/be friends with you? Now the initial reaction most people have is "yes" or "I think/hope so." Upon really putting some thought into it and getting past the knee jerk yes, and then the well I am a bastard, so no, I can to the conclusion that it would depend on certain things. We all have our circle of friends that we hope will last forever, and that constitute people we can trust with our inner most feelings. People you can call at 4 a.m. drunk out of your mind, and ask them to come pick you up from whatever sinkhole or wine house you find yourself and expect them to say "fine, jackass I will be there in 20 minutes." No questions asked or explanation necessary. Of course, you give them one because that is why you are friends, but if you were to say I do not want to talk about it, they say fine no problem. These are more than cronies from your college days, they are "pals" people who you realize might be the group that attend your wedding(s), child's birth(s), and eventually form the group that carry your ass to the grave if you kick the bucket before they do. Now try to put yourself in their position. Why are they here? Are you really that cool of a person? That much fun to hang out with? That trustworthy? That solid? Can you see yourself getting into a disagreement with one of them, and chucking X number of years of friendship because of it? Then think how well do they know you after all? We all wear masks, and we show different masks to different people. Have you let this certain person see behind the mask? To the uncut version of yourself? To the "I" that you sometimes think is someone else. Have you told them all of the reprehensible things you have done in your past, and if so, how did they react? Did you tell them things that you could not even tell to your family pictures? If they knew you as you (hopefully) know yourself, would they still be your friend? Hell, would they even speak to you every again? I, myself have a couple of "friends" like that people that would not cross the street to piss on me if I were on fire and vice versa. Or do you tell them just enough to get them to like you, and decide that is enough. Allowing the relationship to settle somewhere along the close friend level, but not sure I want to unburden my childhood psychosis to them. How many are in your circle of friends that were there 5 years ago? 10 years? 15 years? Are you a bad friend? So difficult to get along with that people just eventually stop making the effort? How many boon companions does a person really need? Is there one who moral compass points due north, and you can not fathom telling them some of your more lurid misdeeds. Is there another who's moral compass goes due south, and you sometimes wonder how such a monster can look so human. Where does your needle fall on that compass? Which one of them can you truly trust with something you need to discuss with someone besides your house plants or pets? What do you have in common? Are you all close in age, or educational background? Are you all a bunch of Wops or Frogs, or Yids? Is one of you much richer that the rest or one much poorer? If so does that affect the relationship? Which one could you trust with your wife or girlfriend or your car for that matter? Any of them? None of them? Could they trust you with their wife or girlfriend? Is there a "loser" in the group that you are still friends with out of some form of pity, or could you be the loser in the group, and just not realize it? Ever had to punch one of them in the mouth? Have they ever punched you in mouth? Can your friendship survive a punch in the mouth? These things and a multitude of more are the things I pondered on after reading that one silly little question. Clearly it is a slow news day. After all my pondering I think I found my answer, but I am not certain that I am happy with it. I can not say "Yes" for certain that if I were someone else I would be my friend, nor can I say "Not no, but fuck no." The truth is it would depend a lot on how I (the other self) saw me. How much of the mask I let slip, and how many of those questions had positive answers. For the most part, I figure myself to be a slightly below average friend to some, a shitty friend to others, and a rock to some. I am of the opinion that to truly know a person's worth do not ask their friends, but rather, ask their enemies.

Two For Joy

I know this is probably getting old to my dedicated public, but think how I feel about the situation. Maybe I just need to return to those lovely days of not sleeping to avoid this kind of stuff, but then again that was not a lot of fun either. Anyway this particular dream was rather short, and some of the details are lost to the history of my waking up so suddenly. For this was a sudden waking based on the actions going on in the dream. Like a drowning sailor breaking out of the water. Rasping and gasping for dry land, which luckily is not that far away. The dream starts out simply enough. I am just in a normal situation surrounded by a group of people that I sort of know. At least I think I know them, though no one particular person stands out of the group in my memory. The one person that I interacted with in the dream does leave a memory trail. She was a rather good looking and Swedish (for some odd reason). Not a member of the famous Swedish bikini team, or Greta Garbo, or even Tiger Woods' newly minted wife, but Swedish nonetheless. In my real life I do not know this Swede, but in the dream it appeared that I did. We were having a simple enough chat about what I can not recall, when she suddenly decided to switch to speaking Swedish. It seems she wanted to have a conversation without the other people in the room knowing what was being said, and speaking Swedish is a pretty damn good way of ensuring that. It is an interesting language that has words like Sjuksköterska (which means nurse) and hemskt (means awful, who puts four consonants in a row?). Not a language for the faint of heart, but it seemed that my dream self could understand a few, a very few, Swedish words. As she is blathering out Swedish at a amazing rate of speed, my poor dream self is trying very hard to understand what the hell she just said, and to formulate an answer in my first grade Swedish. Needless to say (but I will say it anyway) the intended conversation (whatever it was supposed to be about) quickly went to hell in a handbasket. She seemed a bit put out at my inability to respond with a coherent sentence part of my problem was I kept putting in French words so I would have a sentence of broken Swedish mixed with bad French. This seemed to flummox her to no end, and she began to yell at me in a mixture of Swedish (which I could not understand, but got the gist of, and English in which she was very clear in her opinion of my rather limited intelligence). Finally, after much gnashing of teeth, she spat out a final sentence in Swedish which was Jag är kråkan and then began a remarkable transformation which led to me waking up like a drowning sailor. You can translate what she said here http://lexin.nada.kth.se/swe-eng.html and then it will all become painfully clear why I am a little off center today.

One for Sorrow

The story goes that the number of the birds of the above type you see determine your fate. One for sorrow, two for joy, etc. etc. Not really sure if that is true or not, but I am a bit worried. I also wonder if the count is cumulative or not. I see just one at a time, which indicates sorrow. That isn't good for the home team at all. It appears that to dream of crows means disappointment in everything. Grief and misfortune. This just keeps getting worse from sorrow to grief in two easy steps. Shouldn't there be some sort of support group for this kind of stuff? Clearly after the events of my last post I have been a bit wary when drifting off to sleep, but for a while I was crow free. This was good news, I figured that the books had just seeped a little too deep into my subconscious, and the one dream managed to get rid of it. All well and good until about a week later when dream number two with a crow takes place. This was a sad dream (hence the one for sorrow I guess). It involved the first girl I ever was cuckoo for cocoa puffs over, and that was a LONG time ago. When she first showed up in my dream I thought "hey this is not so bad." I mean after all she was really cute, and perhaps in my dream I was going to get things right this time. In real life things ended in (my) tears, as these things tend to do, but I was hopeful that in dreamland I would be able to get my shit together. We were not doing anything especially interesting (again with the no sex, dammit to hell), but at least no one's heart had been broken. In fact, things (in the beginning at least) seemed to be going remarkably well. The dream girl had consented to go on an actual date. Something that never happened in our real life "relationship." Oh happy days! Second time was the charm. She said yes! This was my big chance to get it right for once, and maybe I could stay asleep long enough for the x-rated bits this time. I get my positive answer and immediately rush out to my vehicle to go pick up my dream date, and as you probably have guessed by now tragedy was waiting. It seems some rotten bastard had rear ended my car while it was parked, and the damage was beyond some simple repair. Of course it seemed that this was the ONLY vehicle around for MILES (hey it is a dream after all). Date ruined, chances at redemption shot to hell, and certainly not going to be any sex in this dream. Of course, as this realization sinks slowly into my pea brain, sitting on my shoulder cawing its head off is a crow. Well at least this time it was an actual crow, and not some girl named Crow, I am taking this as progress no matter what the dream interpretation people tell me.

Murder of Crows

Bear with me this is a long story, and it takes a side trip in the middle, but I think it is either very creepy or very cool. It all starts in bed, as most cool and or creepy things do. I had a rougher than usual Wednesday night, and was determined to catch up on my sleep Thursday night. Therefore, according to plan I toddled off to bed rather earlier to snore away the night. In due course off I go to dream land. We all dream or so the experts tell us, and some of us are better at remembering their dreams than others. I usually do NOT remember my dreams, I guess I am just retarded that way. Sometime during the night I woke up, and in my confused state I realized that I had been dreaming. I only figured this out later so bear with me. I only assumed I had been dreaming because I was saying a word that was clearly the answer to some question I had been asked in the dream. I chuckled a bit and thought "wow I wish I could go back into that dream, and give my dream self the answer to the question." Now, this is the aside, and I will try to make it short, but bear with me. I had just finished reading a trilogy of books by K.J. Parker entitled The Scavenger Trilogy. They are very good books, and I recommend them to anyone looking to read about 1400 pages of interesting fiction. I have to give some detail of the books in order for my dream sequence to make sense, but I wont give away too much. The main character in the books loses his memory. He wakes up in a stream surrounded by dead bodies with no idea how he got there or who the hell he is. The rest of the books are sort of his journey to discover who and what he is. Eventually, he meets a fellow that tells him they were school chums together, and begins to fill in the blanks. It seems the main character is from another continent from where he woke up, and his school chum tells him that he always talked in his sleep in his native tongue which no one could understand. The main character would always wake up and say that he had been dreaming, but could not remember his dreams (sometimes he would shout in his sleep, and the others would wake him up, and he would say that he had been dreaming). The school chum tells the main character that he suggested the main character try to put something in his dream that he could focus on that would help him remember his dreams. I know odd, but hey this is fiction after all. The main character for lengthy reasons picks a crow as his memory device, and is able to understand that now when he sees a crow (and he sees a lot of crows) he is dreaming and should pay careful attention if he wants to remember.
That is the aside that I needed to veer off into in order for the rest of my story to make some sort of sense. When I awoke from the first dream, I did not really remember many details. The details of the first dream only came to me later after I had a second dream. However, I guess the books had more of an affect on my mind than I realized. When I woke up the first time, and after I realized I was answering a dream question, I thought "maybe I should put a crow in my dream to help me remember." I chuckled a bit and rolled my goofy ass over and went back to sleep. Along comes the second dream of the night, and it was a real corker. I will use italics to record those details so this already rambling post does not go over the edge. I apparently had been recently married by proxy to some lady that I had never laid eyes seen before. Not only had I not seen this woman, but I had not even seen a picture, photograph, artist's rendition, or portrait of her. I have no earthly idea why I had married this woman, or why she was such a mystery. I figured she was hideous or had a humpback, and I was being punished for my sins. I travel to my newly minted bride's parents estate, and blimey it was a PALACE . There were these two huge pools (sadly it was pissing down rain, and therefore, no obligatory bevy of bathing beauties, it seems my dreams sometimes suck). I am introduced to the parents who seem happy to have me as a son-in-law (a clear warning sign to my dream self that the woman must have a hare lip or something really wrong with her). I then meet a girl that people indicate is my new wife, I take a gander and am not too horribly disappointed. She does not have any clear deformity like an extra arm or anything. She is a little chubby, but I am in no position to deny a woman a little meat on her bones, she is not Orca fat, and looks pleasing enough. However, she is encumbered with a child, some little toddler that is running around screaming like all toddlers do. This appears to upset my dream self quite a bit (as, to a lesser degree, it would my conscious self, I am not a fan of children). My entourage, which for some odd reason consists of people I knew in high school, and have not laid eyes on in real life for over twenty years, does not seem too upset at my situation. Me and my "wife" are duly introduced to each other, and the wedding feast begins. (Leave it to me to skip the sex part, and go straight to the food part, bollocks my dreams stink, no wonder I do not remember them). At the feast everyone seems to be having a wonderful time, I guess feasts are like that in dreams. Somewhere about the third course I look down and realize that I am wearing one of my real life suits. This shocks me horribly because my "work" suits are not fashion statements. They are fairly cheap suits I buy because I have to wear one at work, no Armani here. Well too damn late to change now, so back to the feast I go. It seems my new in-laws have some sort of estate in the Azores islands that I think is to be my wedding present. Things are looking up it seems, rich in-laws that live in luxury, and my very own "estate." Perhaps this is worth a slightly chubby wife with child included. Even better news follows, it seems I have been put into the in laws will, and they appear to be fairly old people. Much joy for me! (What this says about my real life self, I really choose not to think too much about). The will? Me? The heir apparent? More wine! Sometime around course four, I think, even better news it appears that chubby girl is NOT actually my new bride. This puzzles me a bit until I am informed that she was a "test." Seems I passed without even knowing it, and was not sure why I was being tested. It seems that the real bride is a real stunner. (Although I never actually see her in the dream, damn and blast). This is also good news, and clearly a reason for the feast to continue. However, this is where the dream train goes off the rails for good. Suddenly I am alone in a room with a girl I went to high school with, and have not spoken too in over 20 years. Odd, but hey this is a dream. We begin to catch up on "old times" and chatter away about nonsense for a bit, and then I wake up. No big deal end of dream time to stagger out of bed, and go to work. I was surprised that I was able to remember this second dream in such detail, and while I was getting ready for work the details of the first dream began to come back to me as well. I did not think too much of it until suddenly while I was in the shower the name of the girl I had went to high school came back to me. It took a few seconds I got her first name pretty quickly (and I will not divulge it just in case she is alive and does not want to be slandered). Repeating her first name a couple of times jogged my memory enough for me to remember her last name, and this is what I think is the creepy/cool part. Her last name is/was Crow.

Forbidden

I have just engaged in a horrible, horrible act. I know that really does not come as a surprise to anyone, but this time it surprises me quite a bit. I realize that I have done mind numbingly bad things in my past. Things that really do not need to be dredged up every again, things that the light of day need to continue to not illuminate. However, this particular act of mine is above and beyond my usual bad behaviour. I did not kill anyone, or commit any sort of crime of violence, but I still feel the shame of it all. I certainly feel like I have done something terrible, my mood has darkened, and I think I might need to drink myself silly, or just go to bed right now. The unclean feeling that I have, and the bad taste in my mouth just do not seem to want to go away. They linger like the last drunk at a New Year's Eve party that you finally have to tell "dude it is 4 a.m. go home, and go to fucking bed already." I am not sure that I am going to be able to remove this particular stain on my soul. I feel like a criminal sitting in a chair across the desk from the duty sergeant who is going through my rap sheet, and making little "tutting" noises. The look of contempt on his face as he looks up from my police blotter up at me makes me want to curl up into a very small ball, and hope that he forgets I exist. I understand the suspense must be killing my patient readers as they ponder what it is I could have done that is any worse than things I have done in my past. The good news is that the only true victim of this "crime" is myself. Rather poetic that I have done all those horrid things to other people in the past, and now here I am doing horrid things to myself. Guess I wanted a change of pace. The crime (kind of overly dramatic, but hell I am in a mood), that I am guilty of today is simple, it is censorship. I just brought the iron hand of the censor down upon my own fool self. I spend a good two hours writing an extremely long blog post about something that I a) feel strongly about and b) is a very good insight into my life (trying my best to follow Coleridge's dictum), and then I censored it. Not only was it very long, and very personal it was fairly well written. For once, I took some time over a post, and chose my words carefully. I would not say that I was overly impressed by the end result, but I was at least slightly proud. Like a new father would feel, I suppose, until he his told that his "baby" is some sort of beast. I guess I should take some solace in the fact that I had the good sense to realize that posting it was not really the best plan. I have in the past, cut my nose off to spite my face just on general principle. Perhaps, as I approach my fortieth year (good god, I am old!), wisdom may finally putting in an appearance. A part of me believes that, but the bigger part of me is disgusted by my actions. I feel like a moral coward, and let me tell you it is not a pleasant feeling. It is not like I just took parts of the post out to keep it safe. I did not change the names to protect the innocent. I did not try to make it deliberately vague so that people could read it, and still not know exactly what I was talking about. I did not do any of those simple things, though to make it vague would have been virtually impossible. No, I cut the whole fucking thing! I did not censor, I executed. I did not try to excise part of it to make it where it could be posted. I took an axe to it not a scalpel. So now I feel like I have stolen the crown jewels, and pawned them off to buy a really expensive label maker. Like I took my grandmother's retirement check, and blew it on the ponies. Maybe one day I will screw my courage up to the sticking point, and post the damn thing anyway, but for now it stays an undiscovered country.

Style

After receiving a couple of (near) compliments on my ability to write, I decided to go back and re-read some of my older posts. Well, I say re-read, some of them I never actually read all the way through. My defense to not doing that was that I wrote them, I should not be forced to read them. I understand that this is not the best defense, but it is the only one I have. Unlike some people I know, I do not write a "draft" of my posts, and then go back and edit. I probably should, and I commend the people who are dedicated to their craft enough to put in the extra time and effort. I just normally write it all out about ten seconds after I think it. Very much a brain to page kind of exercise. I will, upon occasion, think about a topic I want to blog about for a couple of days, and maybe come up with a brief general outline, but for the most part I just type it as I think it. Looking back on some of my earlier posts horrified me. Some of them are SO very bad, that I cringed, and immediately considering deleting them from my sight. That I could write such dribble shocked me. I am not sure why I was so shocked at the abominations I had created, I certainly understand my limitations when it comes to the written word. Even giving myself some slack (for a change), I still looked at some of those posts, and thought "My god, why did I write that?" "What possessed me to think that any of that made sense, and that anyone, anywhere would want to read it?" However, before I took a battle axe to my blog, and sheared it of all the posts that I believed only a third grader could be proud of authoring, I paused and considered that to do so would be intellectually dishonest. After all, no matter how absolutely horrible those posts are, and in my opinion they are shockingly bad, they still are mine. I can not abort them now that I think I have improved my writing skill. In truth, I am not sure that I have improved my writing skill in any quantifiable way. Perhaps in two weeks when I glance back over this post, I will be just as shocked at the poor quality contained within. Then again I have been accused of being too hard on myself, and I would think that if that applies to anything in my life, it applies to my "writing." I try to do better, I really do. I attempt to avoid too many posts that contain arrant nonsense, but I am clearly not always successful. I can only look back at those old posts and sigh. They are like ugly children, sure they are ugly, sure they are stinky, but for better or worse they are mine, and I can not disown them no matter how hard I try. I suppose even the ugly duckling needs a little love, and maybe with a little more care I can stop producing ugly ducklings and come up with a few lovely little swans.

January 9th, 1977

Yes, January 9th, 1977 was a long, long, time ago. However, I remember exactly where I was, and what I was doing on that day like it happened last week. Guess that is a sign of becoming an old fart, when you start saying you remember shit like it was yesterday. Oh well, I am old, so might as well starting acting like it, rather than acting like I am 19 so people are shocked when they find out my real age. On that particular day in 1977 I had just passed being 7 and a half years old, and I was watching my heroes the Minnesota Vikings play in Super Bowl XI against the John Madden coached Oakland Raiders. Now I have never, to my knowledge, stepped foot in the state of Minnesota. I have no relatives from there, no real connections at all with the state that explain why I am a Vikings fan. However, I do know the reason for my fandom. It would appear that sometime before that fateful day in January, 1977, I, with all the innocence and ignorance of youth, picked out a Vikings jersey from the Sears catalog (another sign of how fucking old I am). Here is where the story goes to hell in a hand basket. My mother decided that it would be a good idea to buy me this jersey as a present. Now most people will think this is cute, it IS NOT cute, it is what I consider to this day child abuse. If only my mother would have had the great good sense to say "No son that team will cause you decades of untold misery, here pick out a 49ers jersey or a Cowboys jersey, or a fucking Steelers jersey." Alas, she did not do that, and here we are almost thirty-two years later, and I have watched the Vikings fail again to make the Super Bowl. It is a sad fact of my life that I can clearly remember Fran Tarkenton, the Vikings QB toss that critical, game losing, interception to Willie Brown to run back 75 yards for a Raiders' touchdown, and nail the coffin lid of Minnesota's chances firmly shut. It is one of the clearest childhood memories that I have, and that is probably a line sad enough to make you cry. I am pretty sure my seven year old self shed a few tears that day. Actually, I am almost positive that I cried like a Frenchman at the fall of Paris, and had to be put to bed without any dinner. This trauma has probably helped to make me the angry, miserable, bastard that I am today. I still call my mother every year when the Vikings' hopes have been dashed, to blame her for her unpardonable sin. She, like most guilty people, denies her crime. Claiming that it is not "her fault the Vikings lost." Actually, she is correct it is not her fault they LOST. However, it is, and always will be her fault that I am still crushed when they do. At least I have progressed from the tearful 7 year old from 1977, now I am the foul mouthed, get me a fucking drink, and leave me the hell alone 39 year old that really wants to break something. It is a sad commentary on my life, and a clear indication of my misplaced priorities when I am able to say that my longest standing relationship of any kind is with the Minnesota Vikings. People have found out to their cost that it is not a wise thing to come between us. Perhaps every year on the 9th of January I should go out and get raging drunk (not that I need any more reasons to get raging drunk). After all, that day some thirty-two years ago was the last time the Vikings played in the Super Bowl, and from the looks of it they may never get there again (if you doubt me look up their 1998 season, I am still unable to discuss it rationally). Upon calm reflection maybe January 9th, 1977 is the day where it all started to go horribly wrong, maybe the Minnesota Vikings helped my childhood end a little quicker than it needed to, and not on a high note. Maybe they taught me a valuable life lesson about how we can't win all the time, and get used to being disappointed a majority of the time. Maybe we deserve each other, the Vikings and I, underachievers both, annual disappointments followed by a spring time rekindling of hope, and then a season of ups and downs that usually end in tears. Of course these things do usually end in tears, but even now only an hour or so after watching them fail for another year all I can think is we will get them next year. I guess hope does spring eternal.

A late but happy christmas

Clearly, I am not a fan of the holidays. Ask people that know me fairly well, and they will tell you that Scrooge does not have anything on me when it comes to the "humbug" department. Until I am visited by four ghosts, and suddenly see the light I will remain the "humbug" fellow that I am. Even then I would not be so easily convinced, as much as I drink, random ghost sightings or visual hallucinations are part and parcel of some of my more vivid dreams. Sadly for me and the literary community, I do not write epic poetry while I am in my drunken stupors. However, this christmas was not as bad as usual. I did manage to beg off of going home, and spending "quality" time with the parental units. Perhaps they have finally ascertained that "home" it where ever I happen to be. In this case a house that I can barely afford, and can not give away, i.e. sell for anything but a bag of chips. The "home" that my parents wish me to go back to is a very small, very shitty, little town called Gleason (pop. 1,463). It is a poster child for one horse towns. In this day and age that would equal to being a one stop light town. Not a red light, that would be too fancy, and more than the budget could bear. No we have a stop light, just one bulb, one colour, thank you very much. Being bore, bred, and educated in such an environment did not produce the witty, sophisticated, well spoken fellow that at least three people read, on occasion, on this blog. No I managed to obtain the benefits of a classical education both on my own, and quite by accident. So, I would quite expect that the majority of those 1,463 people's imagination would boggle at the list of my christmas guests. Of course, for their safety no names will be doled out, and who can blame them? To be counted among my friends, and my christmas guests could be considered a slander that would require an immediate lawsuit. Either way the list included one Swede, one Scotsman, an Englander, and later an Aussie. I was the only U.S. citizen at the table, not like that is a badge of honour, and I was also the person with the least amount of education. Considering that I spent a decade in various and sundry post-secondary school, and have the massive student loans to prove it, that is no mean feat. Lots of food was consumed, lots of drink was consumed, and a poker game or two broke out. Apparently everyone had fun,and no international incidents occurred. No one got too terribly mad at another else, and no one tried to punch anyone in the face (unlike my usual christmas experiences at "home"). International relations were quite pleasant, and we even managed to stagger out to a bar without any violence, of course it helps that we did not invite any Irish.

STC

"I could inform the dullest author how he might write an interesting book — let him relate the events of his own life with honesty — not disguising the feelings that accompanied them.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1797).

Since I have recently been "accused" of being a bit of a "confessional poet," I felt the need (after looking up what it meant) to post a bit about whether or not I would consider myself one. I was able to find this lovely quote by Mr. Coleridge that pretty much summed up what I hope to achieve with this blog. Of course, I had no idea that I was attempting to place myself in such exalted company, and clearly I can not make a rhyme to save my life. I was pleasantly surprised that Coleridge is to be considered a confessional poet, his poetry was some of the first that I was ever "exposed" to as a child, and I still remember some of it quite well. "The Pains of Sleep" (http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/stc/Coleridge/poems/Pains_of_Sleep.html ) remains one of my favourite poems, and when sober I can almost quote the entire first verse. Not bad since I last read it about 15 years ago. "Dejection: An Ode" and "This Lime Tree Bower, My Prison" are also some of my favourite poems. Clearly, Coleridge had a problem, it was called being addicted to opium, and his stated reason for writing one of his most famous poems Kubla Khan is that he was high as a fucking kite at the time. His excuse for not finishing the poem is even lamer, he was interrupted by a "gentleman from Porlock" i.e. he fucking came down off his high, and his "muse" deserted him.

However, this is not a post about my man love for Coleridge. I think I have made that pretty plain. It is a post (I hope) about what I am trying to accomplish. I realize that there are not a vast number of actual "events" in this blog, and perhaps that means I am not following Coleridge's advice. Instead, I try to, with honesty, attempt to detail my thoughts, reactions, or missteps in relation to the event whose details I ,with malice of forethought, blur. I hope that I am not the dullest of "authors" (not really sure blogging counts as being an author). Since this is my "confession" I believe I get to decide the exact format, and I choose to gray out the events, and to not disguise the feelings that accompany them. I think it is more important to detail the feelings that struck me after I missed that absolute sitter with the keeper beaten, than to detail the lovely cross I wasted, and the crowd's justified poor reaction to my folly. I am sure there are people would could also claim that my honesty is in question as well, and that may be a crime that I am guilty of. The honesty part is a big step. First, you have to realize that you must be honest with yourself, and conclude that you are not the hero of every story/event in your life. In fact, sometimes you are quite obviously the most villainous fellow in the room. Sometimes you are not even the most important person/object in the event. This is a hard concept to wrap my mind around since I hope that I would at least be the star of my own life, but sometimes I am merely the Peter Ustinov to some upstaging bastard's Kirk Douglas. To thine own self be true sometimes has to mean that you must truthfully admit you were a proper bastard in a certain situation. How else can you confess? False confessions (and I have be told I have seen a lot of them) are just some fool's way of making themselves feel either better or more important than they actually are. Perhaps, as Peter O'Toole (as Henry II in the Lion in Winter) "my life, when written, will read better than it lived." I am not convinced that is necessarily a bad thing. After all, it does imply that someone took the time, and thought you were important/interesting enough to write down your life's story. We all have, in some respects, our own set of "Notes from the Underground," and it might not matter to anyone else in the world but the person writing the notes. Even the most mundane things could, in theory, be made to be engrossing. I believe that is what Coleridge is trying to say. Do not concern yourself with the idea that the details would bore a vulture to death, concern yourself with the feelings, and then worry about how to turn them into something that other people, who are as "Idle as a Painted Ship Upon a Painted Ocean," would want (or better yet feel compelled to) read.

Me and Trash Can #1947

Tragedy has struck. It seems that sometime around 9:00 a.m. today person(s) unknown made off with my trash can. Since today is trash pick up day, I strongly suspect that the mob, err Fat Tony, err no the lawfully licensed and bonded trash company has stolen my trash can. Of course I can not prove it because I did not witness it myself, nor after canvassing the neighbor have found anyone willing to come forward, and say that they saw the incident. As Denzel Washington put it so well "it is not what you know, it is what you can prove." As of right now I cannot prove who took it my trash can, but I am pretty sure I know. After all, who the fuck steals a trash can? I have waited a good while to "report" this abduction to the authorities (who do you call when some can naps your trash can?) in the hopes of receiving a ransom note or a list of demands that I would need to meet in order to obtain the safe return of old #1947 unhurt. No note has been forthcoming, no demands have been expressed. In a panic/rage I called the first authority I could think of. They, of course, directed me to someone else. I called the second "group" and they informed me that "the missing cart will be located and returned in 1 to 10 business days." The bloody things is not MISSING, it has been STOLEN, CAN NAPPED I tell you. This is a CRIME, and I demand justice, or at least my fucking trash can back. #1947 has, to my knowledge, not run up any major gambling debts, has not been sneaking around with other trash can's women or men (I confess I am not sure if #1947 is a male or female. How does one check without being rude?). No, #1947 has, in our two year relationship, been a solid (waste) citizen, never once complaining about the foul stuff that I crammed down its throat. He/she took being wheeled to curb without comment, even when I was clumsy/drunk a time or two and banged him/her into the car or wall. Now all I can do is sit forlonly as the sleet pelts down, and stare at the last known location (i.e. my curb) that I left #1947, wonder what terrors he/she is being subjected to my the manics that are cruel enough to can nap a man's trash can three days before Boxing Day, when #1947 will be sorely needed/missed.

Dawn's Watch

Dawn breaks and my watch begins. Fancy little line isn't it? A little over dramatic, but hey it is 7 fucking o'clock in the morning. My "watch" is not nearly as dangerous as it sounds nor is it as dangerous as the Night's watch. I do not have to face the things that go bump in the night while they are bumping in the night. I have the pleasure of dealing with these things after they have stopped bumping (for the most part at least). My watch is not exactly on the front line, we stand a middling distance behind a certain blue wall that, at places, is too thin. However, most of them do their best, and we are grateful for the attempt, but they can not solve or stop every thing, and dawn always breaks. When dawn breaks me and my companions attempt to sort all the night's problems out as best as we can. Sometimes it appears that we are trying to bail out the ocean with a very, very, small spoon, but nevertheless we try. Those that we defend, I, for one, do not love, but someone seems to think that I do a passable job at it, and I have not been relieved of my job yet. We are not perfect, just like any other organization we have our share of people that are depriving a village of a perfectly good idiot, and we have people who's brilliance can be at time utterly breath taking to watch. I, like the vast majority of my companions, fall somewhere in the middle (probably on the low middle, but still near enough to call the middle, I can at least SEE the middle when I look up), neither too stupid to live or too smart for our own good. We are the few deep breathes that everyone must take after waking up from a bad dream with no one by their side. We try to calm, and make sense of the situation (for the most part). Most of us are not the fighting type, which is why we are on Dawn's Watch to begin with. We understand that "man" is born to hate, and in some respects, still at times an animal. Luckily for me by the time I see them most of them are in cages already. Of course they will tell you that they do not deserve to be, and it was all just a "big misunderstanding" or that they "did not do it", or "the other person is lying". These are the "excuses" that I get the pleasure of hearing most often. On occasion someone will come up with a novel approach, and at times those are truly mind boggling, but in a weird way appreciated. The "space alien" excuse can provide a little humour, or maybe a challenge in its own unique way. I am not exactly sure when my "watch" will end, I do know that when it does someone will take my place. The "things that go bump in the night" do not stop. If it is cold they slow down, but they do not stop. They have always been there, and they will always be there. It is incumbent on people like myself (the big hero, ha ha) to attempt to thin their numbers, but we are encumbered by all sorts of limitations some good, some bad. They even made us swear on oath when we signed up for this watch. It isn't for life, though some of us do serve for the majority of their lives, but I still consider it to be a pretty serious thing. At times, it is hard to remember the words, other times it is difficult to follow the spirit of the words. However, I said the words, and for this dawn, and for as many dawns as I am allowed, I will be here trying to sort out things that go bump in the night.

The Way

No this is not some post about Taoish principles, and how to achieve enlightenment. The above picture is a snapshot of the nearly 9,000 mental defectives that braved 40 degree temperatures to run the annual St. Jude marathon in my fair city. Now, I am not a runner never have been, and never will be. I think people who run for the "fun"of it are mentally defective and dangerous to society as a whole. However, as I sat for nearly an hour stuck in traffic because the route of this "race" managed to close down parts of three MAJOR streets (all always very busy) in my fair town, I begin to think about being in the way. Clearly to me, and the rest of the poor bastards stuck in our cars watching these idiots stagger past (some of them were looked like they were 100 years old and about to die. why in the name of all good sense you would run a marathon at that age boggles the imagination) THEY were in the way. In the way of traffic, in the way of all normal, right-thinking citizens that choose to DRIVE rather than run on streets. I did take a moment to realize that to them I guess the cars we were driving were in the way. In the way of them trying to commit suicide by running. The idea hit me that no matter where you are in the world/universe, you are probably in someone else's way. Lingering in a doorway while you try to figure out the mysteries of higher math? Trust me you are in the way of some other bastard who just wants to get into the room. Trying to decide which particular brand of toilet paper you want? You are in the way of some person who just LOVES Angel Soft, and will not use anything else. Children are fantastic at being in the way. They are like free radicals. Straight lines and children are not friends. They walk, toddle, stagger, or fall in all sorts of random ways and directions (another reason to not like the little germ factories). I find this extremely frustrating, but I also think that perhaps I need to realize that these rules do apply to me as well. Although, I do not linger in doorways (Trust me, I tried it one day just to see the appeal, and I just did not like it so much), and I do not spend too much time pondering my choice of toilet paper. I am pretty sure I am still somehow in some other person's way. I am sure they are standing behind me as I struggle over the "ketchup" and "catsup" dilemma, thinking just pick one fat boy, and move on with your life. Still even with this in mind, I seriously wanted to run down a few of these mental defectives today, if only to put a couple of them out of their misery.

Who Knew?

Yet another reason for me to be madly in love with Greta Garbo!


Your result for The Nationality Preference (W. Euro)

Swedish Girls (sans goats)

9% Italian, 9% German, 36% English, 73% Swedish, 27% Spanish and 45% French!

Seems like you're into ultra-fair skin types with very, very delicate features and light hair. In the northern country of Sweden, these traits are very common (as well are health spas, by the way). Some famous swedish beauties include Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Mini Anden, and Victoria Silvstedt. Sweden is one of the world's largest exporters of up and coming models.


http://www.okcupid.com/tests/the-nationality-preference-w-euro-test

The "What Type of Intellectual are You?" Test

Yes I was/am this damn bored.



The Dialectician


You are The Dialectician!You've accepted long ago that gaining knowledge is a lifetime project. In fact, in your mind, you've just barely scratched the surface. But you feel an urge to learn everything you can from whomever you meet, and to encourage others on their own pursuits.People may find you unconvincing, or are so confident in their knowledge they don't recognize the challenges you can produce. But the dialectician has usually been recognized as ahead of his time, eventually.


http://www.okcupid.com/tests/the-what-type-of-intellectual-are-you-test

Homeward

"When are you coming home" the wolf that raised me (otherwise known as my mother) asked me for the hundredth time in a month. I tried to explain, again, that I was speaking to her from my home. Where I live now is my home. The lair that I was born and raised in no longer qualifies as "home" to me. I moved away for a reason, and no amount of mother's guilt (much more plentiful than mother's love) will make it home again. I guess she did not realize that she raised a roaming wolf and not one that was willing to stay in the same territory. I have no desire to go back to the den where I was whelped. I do not wish to here that the paterfamilias is not long for this world. He has been trying to die for three years, and I know that one of these times he will, but each time I have to be guilted by that story makes me feel a little less badly. Not that I wish for him to take his last bow, but his quality of life has to be very close to zero. I am sure he has a different view, and that is part of the problem. Him and I have always had different views on pretty much everything. Also, I have no desire to go home to the rest of the clan either. It seems to be a character trait of my family to think that when I open a book it is an invitation to start a conversation with me. There is a reason I am reading a book it is to attempt to avoid having to talk to anyone in the room. I like to read, it is the ONE thing that my father and I can agree on, of course we read wildly different stuff, but hey it is a start. Another lovely aspect of going "home" is the couch on which I get to sleep. It is not a fun time, so I get very little sleep, and then get to wake up and face the family in a foul mood to begin with. Then comes the meal, my grandmother (who has taken her last bow) could cook VERY well. The she-wolf not so much. I guess I should not complain I cannot cook either, but at least I do not bother to try. Perhaps, the cooking gene skips a generation or maybe two generations. Going "home" is like falling off the edge of the world. My parents have no computer, no internet, barely have cable, and my cell phone does not world there. It is like becoming a political prisoner, all ties with the outside world are cut off, and I am held incommunicado until I scale the wall i.e. get in my car, and make a break for it. I am just not a fan of "home" nor I am giddy over Thanksgiving, though you could never tell it by the looks of me or by the look on my doctor's face after I climb off the scale in her office. The small black thing I call a heart is certainly no longer at the "home" of my family. It is merely an exercise in frustration when I go back, and one day I suppose I should screw my courage up to the sticking point, and explain to the she-wolf that she did, much to her dismay, raise a lone wolf.