During my housesitting something I barely noticed has caused some alarm.

I think it was Saturday when I was up on the deck reading and writing when I noticed one or two guys down in the yard doing some yard work. I didn't think much of it (lots of people have gardeners, even me at one time) and the dog I was watching didn't object, either. Since she goes nuts whenever anyone approaches the home she guards or any stranger ventures onto the driveway and paid no attention this time, I shrugged and considered it normal.

They hadn't parked on the driveway, nor in the little "visitor" area at the end of the fifteen or twenty meter driveway that runs from the street past the front yard, the house, the carport, or half of the backyard (a drop of ten meters, easily), and when I glanced at them were raking up loose vegetation and bits of hacked up plants.

Later, I saw one (and there may have only been one) wrestling with a trash can, but I didn't get a clear view because of the deck I was on. Some time later, he was gone and the area he'd been working in looked neater.

Turns out, he was stealing mulch.

This just freaks me out. The home isn't on a through street (it's a loop), and I can't believe this was the result of months of planning a daring, daytime robbery. Nor can I give much credit to its being a opportunistic event. It just blows my mind that anyone would venture onto someone's property, work awhile, and cart off the results. It's as if someone showed up, mowed your lawn, and took off with the clippings.

If there's mulch missing, it's obviously my fault.

During my housesitting something I barely noticed has caused some alarm.

I think it was Saturday when I was up on the deck reading and writing when I noticed one or two guys down in the yard doing some yard work. I didn't think much of it (lots of people have gardeners, even me at one time) and the dog I was watching didn't object, either. Since she goes nuts whenever anyone approaches the home she guards or any stranger ventures onto the driveway and paid no attention this time, I shrugged and considered it normal.

They hadn't parked on the driveway, nor in the little "visitor" area at the end of the fifteen or twenty meter driveway that runs from the street past the front yard, the house, the carport, or half of the backyard (a drop of ten meters, easily), and when I glanced at them were raking up loose vegetation and bits of hacked up plants.

Later, I saw one (and there may have only been one) wrestling with a trash can, but I didn't get a clear view because of the deck I was on. Some time later, he was gone and the area he'd been working in looked neater.

Turns out, he was stealing mulch.

This just freaks me out. The home isn't on a through street (it's a loop), and I can't believe this was the result of months of planning a daring, daytime robbery. Nor can I give much credit to its being a opportunistic event. It just blows my mind that anyone would venture onto someone's property, work awhile, and cart off the results. It's as if someone showed up, mowed your lawn, and took off with the clippings.

If there's mulch missing, it's obviously my fault.

My life here is ending, and that's a little sad. There's good news, however -- the coffee machine worked this morning, so I get to say "it was working when I left."

I kid.

Here's disturbing news:
"IF EVERYONE LIVED LIKE YOU, WE WOULD NEED 3.9 PLANETS. "

That's what these people figured out, and I'm ashamed.

I will miss the company of the dog, the continual and required exercise going up and down stairs to get anywhere (a feature, I believe, of hilltop living), and the serenity this place surrounds me with.

And, I found some scissors, but I think they're cooking ones since they're in a drawer with melon ballers and lemon zesters.

My life here is ending, and that's a little sad. There's good news, however -- the coffee machine worked this morning, so I get to say "it was working when I left."

I kid.

Here's disturbing news:
"IF EVERYONE LIVED LIKE YOU, WE WOULD NEED 3.9 PLANETS. "

That's what these people figured out, and I'm ashamed.

I will miss the company of the dog, the continual and required exercise going up and down stairs to get anywhere (a feature, I believe, of hilltop living), and the serenity this place surrounds me with.

And, I found some scissors, but I think they're cooking ones since they're in a drawer with melon ballers and lemon zesters.

This morning I woke up early and promptly broke the coffee maker.

What happened is I removed the filter wrong, in spite of the training I received, or, to put it another way, the filter was awkwardly taken out. In either case, the water reservoir filled with spent grounds and, after rinsing the chamber out a few times...nothing. In the end, I risked somehow ruining the tea kettle and poured the water over the last of the freshly milled coffee by hand. Where there's a will...

I'm sure they'll be kind and say something like it was old or needed replacing, but that would just be kind. It's an elegant machine with buttons and features that don't exist in either ofmine.

After fiddling with theirs for awhile, I got it to display the correct time, but that's hardly its purpose.

I said "risked" in regards to the tea kettle because it meant I used the stove, easily the best home range I've ever seen. God knows what I could do with that if I put my mind to it.

After drinking three or four cups of coffee and completing my pet duties (including meeting a neighbor's dog who came bounding unbidden by me into the yard), I laid back down and slept some more. This home is easily the most tranquil, peaceful place I've been in years, and I'm wondering if there's something to all that "animals killed in anger" stuff.

While not precisely pastoral, I'm a few hundred feet up a steep hill, I think. The neighborhood is quiet unless police helicopters are circling the nearby reservoir and it's impossible for me to walk more than ten feet outside in any direction without destroying a spider web. I hadn't realized I was staying in the silk capital of the Western United States.

There are nearby art galleries and design centers, greasy food places, and a 7-11 where the people standing in line were explaining to each other their lack of recent film work by admitting "at the moment, I'm more into my music." Then, something about a busy producer "doing other works" at the moment.

There's a wonderful hammock here.

This morning I woke up early and promptly broke the coffee maker.

What happened is I removed the filter wrong, in spite of the training I received, or, to put it another way, the filter was awkwardly taken out. In either case, the water reservoir filled with spent grounds and, after rinsing the chamber out a few times...nothing. In the end, I risked somehow ruining the tea kettle and poured the water over the last of the freshly milled coffee by hand. Where there's a will...

I'm sure they'll be kind and say something like it was old or needed replacing, but that would just be kind. It's an elegant machine with buttons and features that don't exist in either ofmine.

After fiddling with theirs for awhile, I got it to display the correct time, but that's hardly its purpose.

I said "risked" in regards to the tea kettle because it meant I used the stove, easily the best home range I've ever seen. God knows what I could do with that if I put my mind to it.

After drinking three or four cups of coffee and completing my pet duties (including meeting a neighbor's dog who came bounding unbidden by me into the yard), I laid back down and slept some more. This home is easily the most tranquil, peaceful place I've been in years, and I'm wondering if there's something to all that "animals killed in anger" stuff.

While not precisely pastoral, I'm a few hundred feet up a steep hill, I think. The neighborhood is quiet unless police helicopters are circling the nearby reservoir and it's impossible for me to walk more than ten feet outside in any direction without destroying a spider web. I hadn't realized I was staying in the silk capital of the Western United States.

There are nearby art galleries and design centers, greasy food places, and a 7-11 where the people standing in line were explaining to each other their lack of recent film work by admitting "at the moment, I'm more into my music." Then, something about a busy producer "doing other works" at the moment.

There's a wonderful hammock here.

I'm writing tonight from a new place.

I've assumed the role of dog and house sitter for a few days, and I haven't been in this position for years. I did a fair amount of it, four or five times, when I was in college and occasionally since, but this is the first for years.

I like it.

This is a much nicer and fancier home than mine, with many things that I can break. I never used to worry about that, but I guess responsibility means more to me now. Also, much of this home is newly redecorated and I'd rather not be the one associated with the first stain or chip.

What's great about housesitting is it's like camping out. Only, camping out in somebody's else's home. One assumes they have everything needed for living, but what I like is having no idea where anything is. Kitchens are the biggest challenge.

For example: scissors. I assume they have one, everybody does. The thing is, much like moving into a new place, where would you put them? The thing that makes this more exciting is that the couple for whom I'm providing the service isn't me. It matters not where *I* might think a pair of scissors should go, it all depends on where they put it.

There are a million such delightful mysteries awaiting me. I'm not sure I'll be able to pull myself away from all the reading that beckons me to solve them all, but it will give me a good time and prevent boredom.

Also, they have a deck, and word has it I can blog from there!

I'm writing tonight from a new place.

I've assumed the role of dog and house sitter for a few days, and I haven't been in this position for years. I did a fair amount of it, four or five times, when I was in college and occasionally since, but this is the first for years.

I like it.

This is a much nicer and fancier home than mine, with many things that I can break. I never used to worry about that, but I guess responsibility means more to me now. Also, much of this home is newly redecorated and I'd rather not be the one associated with the first stain or chip.

What's great about housesitting is it's like camping out. Only, camping out in somebody's else's home. One assumes they have everything needed for living, but what I like is having no idea where anything is. Kitchens are the biggest challenge.

For example: scissors. I assume they have one, everybody does. The thing is, much like moving into a new place, where would you put them? The thing that makes this more exciting is that the couple for whom I'm providing the service isn't me. It matters not where *I* might think a pair of scissors should go, it all depends on where they put it.

There are a million such delightful mysteries awaiting me. I'm not sure I'll be able to pull myself away from all the reading that beckons me to solve them all, but it will give me a good time and prevent boredom.

Also, they have a deck, and word has it I can blog from there!

It's true that I seek out ways to differ from the masses, but I don't consider that a virtue. Still, I'm often reminded how successful I am at it.

Me:
I find the overwhelming majority of message boards to be filled with people who think in ways quite different from mine. I'm struck over and over again by the certainty of those around me, by the simplicity they demonstrate and I cannot. I guess these are the masses to whom the politicians speak when they reduce complex issues to soundbites.

Myself:
I wonder if I use humor as a weapon. I'm cynical, jaded if you will, and don't often demonstrate seriousness. It's not that I don't care or hold things dear, but I don't find much in my life that deserves reverance. I think, though it often offends those around me, anything can be poked fun of, but I do so by reducing it to an absurdity, not because I'm mean. I have a hard time with people who can't see the humor in their beliefs.

I:
One reason I hate the Republican party is because it caters to corporations. Yes, I know we all need to work and corporations hire tons of people, and, yes, they aren't really independent entities but, instead, are run by flesh and blood people with hopes, dreams, fears, and loved ones hired to serve their investors, but it's all too greedy for my liking.
But I also, often, hate the Democratic Party for its prevailing notion that we should all serve the state.
Maybe it's just that I hate politicians, who rarely listen but simply parrot what their party's insist they say. If any of them takes a non-party line, they suffer the loss of the party's backing and can't be elected. Both parties pander to their equally large supporters, both worry more about being elected than in serving, and Mr. Smith is nowhere near Washington and never has been.

I'm afraid I've painted myself into an unlovable corner in my effort to be true to myself. But, it's summer now, and no time to be worrying about that!

It's true that I seek out ways to differ from the masses, but I don't consider that a virtue. Still, I'm often reminded how successful I am at it.

Me:
I find the overwhelming majority of message boards to be filled with people who think in ways quite different from mine. I'm struck over and over again by the certainty of those around me, by the simplicity they demonstrate and I cannot. I guess these are the masses to whom the politicians speak when they reduce complex issues to soundbites.

Myself:
I wonder if I use humor as a weapon. I'm cynical, jaded if you will, and don't often demonstrate seriousness. It's not that I don't care or hold things dear, but I don't find much in my life that deserves reverance. I think, though it often offends those around me, anything can be poked fun of, but I do so by reducing it to an absurdity, not because I'm mean. I have a hard time with people who can't see the humor in their beliefs.

I:
One reason I hate the Republican party is because it caters to corporations. Yes, I know we all need to work and corporations hire tons of people, and, yes, they aren't really independent entities but, instead, are run by flesh and blood people with hopes, dreams, fears, and loved ones hired to serve their investors, but it's all too greedy for my liking.
But I also, often, hate the Democratic Party for its prevailing notion that we should all serve the state.
Maybe it's just that I hate politicians, who rarely listen but simply parrot what their party's insist they say. If any of them takes a non-party line, they suffer the loss of the party's backing and can't be elected. Both parties pander to their equally large supporters, both worry more about being elected than in serving, and Mr. Smith is nowhere near Washington and never has been.

I'm afraid I've painted myself into an unlovable corner in my effort to be true to myself. But, it's summer now, and no time to be worrying about that!

Now that it's summer my thoughts can return to things not related to love. This may prove beneficial, since I find it as hard to consider both love and everything else as I would driving while talking on the phone.

Also, love is a touchy subject and one I'm not so good at. I love the thrill of it, but I have a hard time keeping it going. It's not a fault, and I don't look at it that way, but it's annoying.

It keeps getting harder, too. I'm becoming more used to being myself and while I still think I do a good job of making considerations for others I may not be as tolerant as I once was. I don't actively dislike anyone, but I seem to inspire increasing amounts of frustration in those around me. It's not intentional, but I think it's there.

Someone I knew was recently married, and I think that's great. I'm a sucker for weddings and a huge fan of love, but it's summer now and I need to start worrying about my abs, I guess. That and my tan. There's little sense in paying all this money to live in Southern California if I'm going to be fish-belly white.

This year I hope to visit and swim in the ocean more, unless I'm lucky enough to be gainfully employed. I was never a surfer, but I body surf, which I consider natural and healthy. It's also good for one's heart since that typically gets plenty of exercise racing when it seems likely I will drown or become injured.

It's kind of sad to put love back on the shelf, but I hope to dust it off and see it as an old friend next year. By then I might even be reasonable!

Now that it's summer my thoughts can return to things not related to love. This may prove beneficial, since I find it as hard to consider both love and everything else as I would driving while talking on the phone.

Also, love is a touchy subject and one I'm not so good at. I love the thrill of it, but I have a hard time keeping it going. It's not a fault, and I don't look at it that way, but it's annoying.

It keeps getting harder, too. I'm becoming more used to being myself and while I still think I do a good job of making considerations for others I may not be as tolerant as I once was. I don't actively dislike anyone, but I seem to inspire increasing amounts of frustration in those around me. It's not intentional, but I think it's there.

Someone I knew was recently married, and I think that's great. I'm a sucker for weddings and a huge fan of love, but it's summer now and I need to start worrying about my abs, I guess. That and my tan. There's little sense in paying all this money to live in Southern California if I'm going to be fish-belly white.

This year I hope to visit and swim in the ocean more, unless I'm lucky enough to be gainfully employed. I was never a surfer, but I body surf, which I consider natural and healthy. It's also good for one's heart since that typically gets plenty of exercise racing when it seems likely I will drown or become injured.

It's kind of sad to put love back on the shelf, but I hope to dust it off and see it as an old friend next year. By then I might even be reasonable!

here's a pic

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that's it

It may work if I add more text ... so now I will

Oooh! The text flows around it, but the pic shows and works as a popup, too! Now I wish I'd picked a better pic to test with.

Consequat nostrud eu. Dolore duis et eu qui iusto, consequat te. Enim laoreet dolore feugait commodo adipiscing dignissim at in nulla iriure at, ullamcorper quis lorem lorem feugiat. Exerci ex ut vel nonummy. Sed ut quis consequat in autem nisl ullamcorper sit, amet aliquam facilisis. In minim in esse dolore minim tation eum. Ex odio ea ut velit sed accumsan veniam, eum exerci vulputate, magna nulla exerci eu in illum. Dolor autem ea nibh nibh veniam tation hendrerit suscipit, consequat nulla enim.

here's a pic

!@(boxing1.jpg popimg: "boxmatch")

that's it

It may work if I add more text ... so now I will

Oooh! The text flows around it, but the pic shows and works as a popup, too! Now I wish I'd picked a better pic to test with.

Consequat nostrud eu. Dolore duis et eu qui iusto, consequat te. Enim laoreet dolore feugait commodo adipiscing dignissim at in nulla iriure at, ullamcorper quis lorem lorem feugiat. Exerci ex ut vel nonummy. Sed ut quis consequat in autem nisl ullamcorper sit, amet aliquam facilisis. In minim in esse dolore minim tation eum. Ex odio ea ut velit sed accumsan veniam, eum exerci vulputate, magna nulla exerci eu in illum. Dolor autem ea nibh nibh veniam tation hendrerit suscipit, consequat nulla enim.

Although you can't tell by looking, yesterday's post was a failure.

Unless you were very quick you may not have noticed troubles with yesterday's post. Oh, sure, the written part came up okay (and continues to be an insightful commentary on Michelin's woes), but the picture never came up as easily as advertised.

I couldn't leave my blogging software alone for too long, so I added some plugin that facilitates posting of pictures. After several tries, it failed differently than it had originally, and while I was encouraged by the progress I was in no mood to wrestle it further.

So I loaded yesterday's pic the old fashioned way, typing in the links and stuff.

Today one might expect another a nice picture, but one would be disappointed. I may tack one on later, but I'm content today to leave well enough alone and just go back to what I can do easily: ramble.

I've heard that the theme-switcher thing is working for some people, staying permanently fixed, and it is for me now, too. To the best of my knowledge, Half-Dozen is a non-intrusive, privacy aware site. I don't rip names or e-mail addresses from your browser, I don't collect time zones or much other than IP addresses and how you got here.

Also, I don't even worry very much about my site stats. I'm not in this for numbers, only trying to leave a record of my passage on this planet the least-intrusive way I know how and to amuse myself.

Although you can't tell by looking, yesterday's post was a failure.

Unless you were very quick you may not have noticed troubles with yesterday's post. Oh, sure, the written part came up okay (and continues to be an insightful commentary on Michelin's woes), but the picture never came up as easily as advertised.

I couldn't leave my blogging software alone for too long, so I added some plugin that facilitates posting of pictures. After several tries, it failed differently than it had originally, and while I was encouraged by the progress I was in no mood to wrestle it further.

So I loaded yesterday's pic the old fashioned way, typing in the links and stuff.

Today one might expect another a nice picture, but one would be disappointed. I may tack one on later, but I'm content today to leave well enough alone and just go back to what I can do easily: ramble.

I've heard that the theme-switcher thing is working for some people, staying permanently fixed, and it is for me now, too. To the best of my knowledge, Half-Dozen is a non-intrusive, privacy aware site. I don't rip names or e-mail addresses from your browser, I don't collect time zones or much other than IP addresses and how you got here.

Also, I don't even worry very much about my site stats. I'm not in this for numbers, only trying to leave a record of my passage on this planet the least-intrusive way I know how and to amuse myself.

Not only is this blog not working the way I'd hoped (user selected Themes don't stick), but the US Grand Prix held today was..."weird."

It all started Friday when two Michelin-clad Toyotas suffered tire failure in practice.



As neutrally as I can put it, Michelin warned the teams using its tires (who are seven out of the ten competing) that their tires weren't safe. Then things got interesting.

Michelin, somehow, managed to produce and overnight a bunch of tires it Indianopolis. These, I believe, were also bad, but the main issue is that F1 regulations require a car to start with the exact tires on which it qualified. Also, they cannot change tires during a race.

The FIA (the governing body) stuck to its guns and said the Michelin teams couldn't swap tires. Overnight, and before today's race, the teams that run Michelins came up with other ideas, including putting a last-minute chicane in the course (that's the name for those quick right-left series of turns in the middle of straightaways to slow cars down).

The teams, naturally, are required to furnish safe vehicles for the races (even outside the litiguous US), and weren't about to compete with tires that they'd been told were unsafe. FIA wouldn't consider changing the track to suit teams which couldn't follow the rules and otherwise and compete, and a sham resulted.

While all twenty cars took to the track for the "parade lap" just before the start of the race, as they approached the starting grid the Michelin cars peeled off into their garages. As the lights signalled the beginning of the race, only six cars were in place.

The Ferraris, who've been having a bad season, run Bridgestone tires, and handily won the race. The only other two teams that run Bridgestones are Jordan and Minardi, who fight to stay off the bottom.

Fans booed and moronically threw debris on the track, and the six cars that started ran the race distance without incident.

The drivers and teams who chose not to race, rationally for both safety and contractual reasons, apologized to the fans, but Formula One, today, shot itself in the foot.

Not only is this blog not working the way I'd hoped (user selected Themes don't stick), but the US Grand Prix held today was..."weird."

It all started Friday when two Michelin-clad Toyotas suffered tire failure in practice.



As neutrally as I can put it, Michelin warned the teams using its tires (who are seven out of the ten competing) that their tires weren't safe. Then things got interesting.

Michelin, somehow, managed to produce and overnight a bunch of tires it Indianopolis. These, I believe, were also bad, but the main issue is that F1 regulations require a car to start with the exact tires on which it qualified. Also, they cannot change tires during a race.

The FIA (the governing body) stuck to its guns and said the Michelin teams couldn't swap tires. Overnight, and before today's race, the teams that run Michelins came up with other ideas, including putting a last-minute chicane in the course (that's the name for those quick right-left series of turns in the middle of straightaways to slow cars down).

The teams, naturally, are required to furnish safe vehicles for the races (even outside the litiguous US), and weren't about to compete with tires that they'd been told were unsafe. FIA wouldn't consider changing the track to suit teams which couldn't follow the rules and otherwise and compete, and a sham resulted.

While all twenty cars took to the track for the "parade lap" just before the start of the race, as they approached the starting grid the Michelin cars peeled off into their garages. As the lights signalled the beginning of the race, only six cars were in place.

The Ferraris, who've been having a bad season, run Bridgestone tires, and handily won the race. The only other two teams that run Bridgestones are Jordan and Minardi, who fight to stay off the bottom.

Fans booed and moronically threw debris on the track, and the six cars that started ran the race distance without incident.

The drivers and teams who chose not to race, rationally for both safety and contractual reasons, apologized to the fans, but Formula One, today, shot itself in the foot.

If you hadn't noticed, you can now make my blogs look any way you want. Well, as long as what you want is reflected in one of the Themes I've so far made available.

When industriousness, or boredom, returns, I'll be able to offer more choices. Also, some of the themes have new stuff (such as a bio) for me to fill out and I still need to get the theme-switcher thing to look good on all the pages.

Who am I to decide how my blog looks? The content will be mine, and when all's said and done, that should be why anyone visits. With that in mind I'll more carefully consider what I blog about, and no more of this rambling stuff.

Starting with the next entry, that is.

If you hadn't noticed, you can now make my blogs look any way you want. Well, as long as what you want is reflected in one of the Themes I've so far made available.

When industriousness, or boredom, returns, I'll be able to offer more choices. Also, some of the themes have new stuff (such as a bio) for me to fill out and I still need to get the theme-switcher thing to look good on all the pages.

Who am I to decide how my blog looks? The content will be mine, and when all's said and done, that should be why anyone visits. With that in mind I'll more carefully consider what I blog about, and no more of this rambling stuff.

Starting with the next entry, that is.

Last night I discovered I'd picked up a thumbtack in my front bike tire, but that didn't scare me and set my heart racing, that was later.

It's been years since I've repaired a bike tire, and the last ones I did were the tubeless type, what we called "sew-ups." Still, I felt I could handle the task. The thing is, I needed all the parts and since I couldn't very well ride the bike (well, I could, but chose not to), I decided to take the bus and get what I needed. The one thing I didn't need, maybe, would be a pump. I'd bought one a few years back for the wheelbarrow tire, but had no idea where it was, exactly.

First thing this morning I located the pump and, even more astonishing then finding it was discovering it still worked. It has a plastic lever thing, and those quickly age and fail on me, but this one lasted (at least through today).

Since I had plans to go out for dinner and knew that would mean a few bus rides, I got a day pass this morning for my trip to the bike shop. What I thought I'd do, for the first time ever, was to transport my bike on the rack on the front of the bus.

For everyone who isn't me, this is no big deal, but I'd never used it before. I've seen them, and have seen people use them when I was sitting inside, but I've also heard bus drivers yell at people and get all annoyed when they don't work it right. This frightens me. I don't want to look like a doofus.

Fortunately, the other day I was able to find a stationary bus and very quickly determined how the uncomplicated apparatus functions. Armed with that knowledge I felt confident that I could mount my bike on the front of the bus and to do so without holding everyone up.

I had my bike by the bus stop. The bus approached, and I got it on with only a minor setback because of the kickstand, but my heart was racing! Getting it off when I arrived at my destination was child's play, and I got the needed parts (including a spare inner tube in case I botched the repair job).

Naturally, the same bus driver took me back. What he thought, if it was anything at all, about me taking my bike up and down a three mile stretch of road is unknown. I muttered something about a "wasted trip" when I left, but that was mostly to salve my own insecurities.

I got the inner tube out, patched, and put it back in before remembering to remove the thumb tack. It didn't re-puncture the tube, which surprises me.

This is the type of thing that serves as drama in my life.

Last night I discovered I'd picked up a thumbtack in my front bike tire, but that didn't scare me and set my heart racing, that was later.

It's been years since I've repaired a bike tire, and the last ones I did were the tubeless type, what we called "sew-ups." Still, I felt I could handle the task. The thing is, I needed all the parts and since I couldn't very well ride the bike (well, I could, but chose not to), I decided to take the bus and get what I needed. The one thing I didn't need, maybe, would be a pump. I'd bought one a few years back for the wheelbarrow tire, but had no idea where it was, exactly.

First thing this morning I located the pump and, even more astonishing then finding it was discovering it still worked. It has a plastic lever thing, and those quickly age and fail on me, but this one lasted (at least through today).

Since I had plans to go out for dinner and knew that would mean a few bus rides, I got a day pass this morning for my trip to the bike shop. What I thought I'd do, for the first time ever, was to transport my bike on the rack on the front of the bus.

For everyone who isn't me, this is no big deal, but I'd never used it before. I've seen them, and have seen people use them when I was sitting inside, but I've also heard bus drivers yell at people and get all annoyed when they don't work it right. This frightens me. I don't want to look like a doofus.

Fortunately, the other day I was able to find a stationary bus and very quickly determined how the uncomplicated apparatus functions. Armed with that knowledge I felt confident that I could mount my bike on the front of the bus and to do so without holding everyone up.

I had my bike by the bus stop. The bus approached, and I got it on with only a minor setback because of the kickstand, but my heart was racing! Getting it off when I arrived at my destination was child's play, and I got the needed parts (including a spare inner tube in case I botched the repair job).

Naturally, the same bus driver took me back. What he thought, if it was anything at all, about me taking my bike up and down a three mile stretch of road is unknown. I muttered something about a "wasted trip" when I left, but that was mostly to salve my own insecurities.

I got the inner tube out, patched, and put it back in before remembering to remove the thumb tack. It didn't re-puncture the tube, which surprises me.

This is the type of thing that serves as drama in my life.

Today I survived an earthquake. It scared me for about a second.

That's what they usually do, and it's like someone yelling "boo!" I jump, my heart lurches, and then by the time I figure out what's going on, it's over. Sometimes the earthquake will go on another few seconds, giving me a thrilling ride, but I'm no longer scared.

This one, also, didn't cause any tsunami warnings, not that I know of. And, yes, I still have issues with that last one. If there were earlier warnings that I missed, I may re-think my position, but getting the alert fifty minutes after the earthquake and five minutes before any wave would have come and gone, is useless. I think everyone knows that earthquakes can cause tsunamis, at least by now they should, and those who don't aren't really adding much to the gene pool.

Also, the whole TV warning thing brings up my earlier point (which may or may not have ever made it into a blog) that creating a multi-million dollar system in Indonesia may assuage our guilt, but won't help the huge rural population who can't be notified.

When I was growing up we had air raid sirens that were tested the last Friday of each month at 10:00am. That's when we'd hide under our desks, too. Well, they've torn down all the sirens and had stopped using them years ago, but now that we've got all this money for putting goddamn cameras up all over the place why can't we put them back up?

I think a tsunami warning siren system would be much better than what we have now, tho not as fancy. It would have the benefit of working, which is more than I can say for our current one. Then again, maybe those in the rest of the US would just love to see 8 million Angelenos trying to reach high ground in five minutes.

It would look good from space.

Today I survived an earthquake. It scared me for about a second.

That's what they usually do, and it's like someone yelling "boo!" I jump, my heart lurches, and then by the time I figure out what's going on, it's over. Sometimes the earthquake will go on another few seconds, giving me a thrilling ride, but I'm no longer scared.

This one, also, didn't cause any tsunami warnings, not that I know of. And, yes, I still have issues with that last one. If there were earlier warnings that I missed, I may re-think my position, but getting the alert fifty minutes after the earthquake and five minutes before any wave would have come and gone, is useless. I think everyone knows that earthquakes can cause tsunamis, at least by now they should, and those who don't aren't really adding much to the gene pool.

Also, the whole TV warning thing brings up my earlier point (which may or may not have ever made it into a blog) that creating a multi-million dollar system in Indonesia may assuage our guilt, but won't help the huge rural population who can't be notified.

When I was growing up we had air raid sirens that were tested the last Friday of each month at 10:00am. That's when we'd hide under our desks, too. Well, they've torn down all the sirens and had stopped using them years ago, but now that we've got all this money for putting goddamn cameras up all over the place why can't we put them back up?

I think a tsunami warning siren system would be much better than what we have now, tho not as fancy. It would have the benefit of working, which is more than I can say for our current one. Then again, maybe those in the rest of the US would just love to see 8 million Angelenos trying to reach high ground in five minutes.

It would look good from space.

Well, maybe not my actual mother, more like a metaphorical one.

This happens to me sometimes: I regret my height. Because I'm mildly tall, just over six feet, people frequently mistake me for an adult. They ask me things, they expect things of me, they treat me as if I know what I'm doing. Most often the people doing this are me, but that's not the point.

I have very little idea how to live. I no longer have much of anything in the way of definitive answers. I used to, but not any more. I'd forgotten how much I wished for someone to tell me the answers until just lately when I was watching the US Senate debate those judge nominations.

These Senators, I realized, are mostly lawyers. Lawyers, by training and profession, are somewhat more lax with the truth than I'd prefer and instead rise to the top and get rich and famous by being able to argue effectively. Arguing effectively, I'd argue, isn't the same as telling the truth.

I don't know what's going on with Social Security, with Gitmo, with most anything any more. I don't hear answers, I hear slanted arguments, and it makes me sad. I don't have time to research all this shit, and I want someone, like my mom, to tell me what's going on.

Only my mom had her own agendas. Maybe it's just that I'm finally realizing that nothing can be summed up in an hour or even a day. Things honestly are complicated, and the best we can do is pick the less horrible option.

I wish life was simple, the way I remember it being.

Well, maybe not my actual mother, more like a metaphorical one.

This happens to me sometimes: I regret my height. Because I'm mildly tall, just over six feet, people frequently mistake me for an adult. They ask me things, they expect things of me, they treat me as if I know what I'm doing. Most often the people doing this are me, but that's not the point.

I have very little idea how to live. I no longer have much of anything in the way of definitive answers. I used to, but not any more. I'd forgotten how much I wished for someone to tell me the answers until just lately when I was watching the US Senate debate those judge nominations.

These Senators, I realized, are mostly lawyers. Lawyers, by training and profession, are somewhat more lax with the truth than I'd prefer and instead rise to the top and get rich and famous by being able to argue effectively. Arguing effectively, I'd argue, isn't the same as telling the truth.

I don't know what's going on with Social Security, with Gitmo, with most anything any more. I don't hear answers, I hear slanted arguments, and it makes me sad. I don't have time to research all this shit, and I want someone, like my mom, to tell me what's going on.

Only my mom had her own agendas. Maybe it's just that I'm finally realizing that nothing can be summed up in an hour or even a day. Things honestly are complicated, and the best we can do is pick the less horrible option.

I wish life was simple, the way I remember it being.

I was just notified about a tsunami alert in my area. My tax dollars at work.

Sometime in the recent past the TV began broadcasting ugly alerts (in two languages) about potential weather events. I guess it's part of some federal notification system that came about because of 9/11, but I see it mostly as being some sort of CYA thing. "Why aren't we told?" the public cries and so now I get alerted whenever anything can happen.

I give this system about one more year before everyone ignores it.

Anyway, because we've now seen the horrors of tsunamis, just to keep the panic level at orange the gov't kindly informed me that it was possible that a tsunami would strike Los Angeles between 8:31 and 8:45, heading south from an earthquake up by Eureka.

We've been having earthquakes forever, but now that people have seen one create a tsunami, we're justified in freaking out "just to be safe." They said, I think, that no tsunami had been seen anywhere up or down the coast, but you can never go wrong in freaking out the population, so they let me know "one could happen."

At 8:40

I was just notified about a tsunami alert in my area. My tax dollars at work.

Sometime in the recent past the TV began broadcasting ugly alerts (in two languages) about potential weather events. I guess it's part of some federal notification system that came about because of 9/11, but I see it mostly as being some sort of CYA thing. "Why aren't we told?" the public cries and so now I get alerted whenever anything can happen.

I give this system about one more year before everyone ignores it.

Anyway, because we've now seen the horrors of tsunamis, just to keep the panic level at orange the gov't kindly informed me that it was possible that a tsunami would strike Los Angeles between 8:31 and 8:45, heading south from an earthquake up by Eureka.

We've been having earthquakes forever, but now that people have seen one create a tsunami, we're justified in freaking out "just to be safe." They said, I think, that no tsunami had been seen anywhere up or down the coast, but you can never go wrong in freaking out the population, so they let me know "one could happen."

At 8:40

Here's a few things I've picked up riding public transportation the past few months, things I never knew or considered when I had my car.

Only ten percent of the buses, if you're lucky, take you where you want to ultimately go. Those that do, never do so directly, but swing past every possible or conceivable location on the outside chance that someone will be waiting. Any destination outside of a tiny handful requires me to change buses, at great benefit and convenience to the bus system. I've seen lots of street corners that I never dreamed of.

Here in LA, there's the big, city bus system (Metro) that costs nearly twice as much as some of the bus lines run by nearby incorporated cities. Those other buses are always full, run about three times as frequently, and may even be turning a profit.

The Metro bus isn't as full of ads as I remember when I took them to high school. It used to be like sitting on a matchbook cover, but that analogy no longer holds. There are no more advertising matchbooks, but instead of ads there are now public service announcements (and the occasional lawyer). Most surprisingly is the poetry. Yes, poetry. There's poetry up where the ads for DeVry used to be, and it isn't all that bad.

Some buses use a GPS system so a disembodied recorded voice can call out the next stop. It would be cool, but lacks the human touch. I like it better when the bus driver does, though I can only rarely hear him.

The number of people in LA who prefer to ride the buses I catch may be limited to the driver.

The drivers often let people ride for free. Fuck the system.

People use their phones to let others know "I'm on the bus." I'm glad I don't feel the need to communicate every little thing in my life. If you ride the bus, you get to see the type of people who listen to iPod knockoffs, too.

The drivers are almost universally pleasant. You can't legally talk to them, but some are downright chatty.

I can't wait to get a car and drive again.

Here's a few things I've picked up riding public transportation the past few months, things I never knew or considered when I had my car.

Only ten percent of the buses, if you're lucky, take you where you want to ultimately go. Those that do, never do so directly, but swing past every possible or conceivable location on the outside chance that someone will be waiting. Any destination outside of a tiny handful requires me to change buses, at great benefit and convenience to the bus system. I've seen lots of street corners that I never dreamed of.

Here in LA, there's the big, city bus system (Metro) that costs nearly twice as much as some of the bus lines run by nearby incorporated cities. Those other buses are always full, run about three times as frequently, and may even be turning a profit.

The Metro bus isn't as full of ads as I remember when I took them to high school. It used to be like sitting on a matchbook cover, but that analogy no longer holds. There are no more advertising matchbooks, but instead of ads there are now public service announcements (and the occasional lawyer). Most surprisingly is the poetry. Yes, poetry. There's poetry up where the ads for DeVry used to be, and it isn't all that bad.

Some buses use a GPS system so a disembodied recorded voice can call out the next stop. It would be cool, but lacks the human touch. I like it better when the bus driver does, though I can only rarely hear him.

The number of people in LA who prefer to ride the buses I catch may be limited to the driver.

The drivers often let people ride for free. Fuck the system.

People use their phones to let others know "I'm on the bus." I'm glad I don't feel the need to communicate every little thing in my life. If you ride the bus, you get to see the type of people who listen to iPod knockoffs, too.

The drivers are almost universally pleasant. You can't legally talk to them, but some are downright chatty.

I can't wait to get a car and drive again.

I may have noticed it was Officially Spring earlier, and if I did, it's Officially Spring Again! Just in time, too!

Today I saw my local symbol of Spring, the possums returning to Westchester. I hate possums, although I'm told I shouldn't. No, they aren't officially rats, but they look like them, and just being marsupials isn't enough for them not to give me the creeps.

They do, and I'd be happy not seeing any more, ever again.

Today's possum was walking, slinking, sauntering, along the power lines. It's the same thing I've seen rats do a few times and squirrels all the time, but the possum does it slowly. Asshole.

So, now that it's Officially Spring I need to get cracking on my Spring Cleaning. I have some outdated thinking to throw out, some computer organizing to do, and a couple rooms to thoroughly clean. The odds of me doing any of the above are slim.

But ... with the return of the possum things can only get better, especially if I don't see him again.

I may have noticed it was Officially Spring earlier, and if I did, it's Officially Spring Again! Just in time, too!

Today I saw my local symbol of Spring, the possums returning to Westchester. I hate possums, although I'm told I shouldn't. No, they aren't officially rats, but they look like them, and just being marsupials isn't enough for them not to give me the creeps.

They do, and I'd be happy not seeing any more, ever again.

Today's possum was walking, slinking, sauntering, along the power lines. It's the same thing I've seen rats do a few times and squirrels all the time, but the possum does it slowly. Asshole.

So, now that it's Officially Spring I need to get cracking on my Spring Cleaning. I have some outdated thinking to throw out, some computer organizing to do, and a couple rooms to thoroughly clean. The odds of me doing any of the above are slim.

But ... with the return of the possum things can only get better, especially if I don't see him again.

A friend of mine is expecting a baby in a few months, but the baby isn't expecting dancing bears on his walls and ceiling fan.

I don't know when it happened, but one wall in my boyhood bedroom was painted with Disney characters by my aunt (in strict conflict with copywrite laws). She was a commercial artist, and should have known better, but maybe that was all later on. She may have just been a freelance artist or something when she painted my walls. I was told that her most famous work was the alligator featured on Glad bags, but that's not the point.

Sometime between when my parents bought the house and I was about five and noticed it, a mural was painted on my bedroom wall. Donald Duck and his nephews, Goofy, Thumper the rabbit and, of course, Mickey Mouse danced and smiled. At the home of my friend, a large Deadhead Dancing Bear (in both yellow and green) graces the nursery wall.

I like this idea of painting on walls.

A friend of mine is expecting a baby in a few months, but the baby isn't expecting dancing bears on his walls and ceiling fan.

I don't know when it happened, but one wall in my boyhood bedroom was painted with Disney characters by my aunt (in strict conflict with copywrite laws). She was a commercial artist, and should have known better, but maybe that was all later on. She may have just been a freelance artist or something when she painted my walls. I was told that her most famous work was the alligator featured on Glad bags, but that's not the point.

Sometime between when my parents bought the house and I was about five and noticed it, a mural was painted on my bedroom wall. Donald Duck and his nephews, Goofy, Thumper the rabbit and, of course, Mickey Mouse danced and smiled. At the home of my friend, a large Deadhead Dancing Bear (in both yellow and green) graces the nursery wall.

I like this idea of painting on walls.

Here's what I know about wishes: they probably don't have much to do with beggars or uncles, and mine don't come true. If they did, I'd be dead.

That thought just occurred to me yesterday while I was riding into Hollywood. I was eager to arrive, stuck in traffic, and wished it was ten or fifteen minutes later so I could be there. Then, it dawned on me that this wasn't the first time I'd wished it was later than it was, not by a long shot.

If my wishes had come true, and my mother always cautioned me about "wishing my life away," I'd've chewed up my remaining years many times over, I think, in a series of half-hour and weekly chunks. I don't do it constantly, but it seems like I've done a lot of wishing I was just that much older, that it was next month or the next day, and I'm thinking, now, that if I'd gotten those wishes I'd probably be over one hundred years old by now.

So, it's a good things my wishes don't come true, not all of them, anyway.

Here's what I know about wishes: they probably don't have much to do with beggars or uncles, and mine don't come true. If they did, I'd be dead.

That thought just occurred to me yesterday while I was riding into Hollywood. I was eager to arrive, stuck in traffic, and wished it was ten or fifteen minutes later so I could be there. Then, it dawned on me that this wasn't the first time I'd wished it was later than it was, not by a long shot.

If my wishes had come true, and my mother always cautioned me about "wishing my life away," I'd've chewed up my remaining years many times over, I think, in a series of half-hour and weekly chunks. I don't do it constantly, but it seems like I've done a lot of wishing I was just that much older, that it was next month or the next day, and I'm thinking, now, that if I'd gotten those wishes I'd probably be over one hundred years old by now.

So, it's a good things my wishes don't come true, not all of them, anyway.

One thing I'm fairly confident of, but my dog isn't, is that he will never know the pleasure of eating a Vienna Sausage.

He knows, through means a mystery to me, the sound of one of those little cans opening, and I can't fathom how that sounds different than anything else. It can't be experience, either, since I only have Vienna Sausages once or twice a year, but somehow he knows.

Knows and reacts. Knows and wants.

He goes nuts over those tiny canned weiners, and I can't imagine why. He's never had one, not that I know of, and I don't think they're any better for him than they are for me. In fact, I'd completely forgotten about them until last week when I was hungry and needed something soft to fill the hole in my stomach.

Vienna Sausages, it must be said, are very soft.

At any rate, he freaked when I opened the can. Until the last one was done, a period of about fifteen minutes from can to pan to stomach, he was never less than a foot from me and was devoting his entire existence to me and my snack. I've never felt so self-conscious in my life. It was unnerving.

I tried giving him some dog treats as an appeasment, but he'd already had dog cookies in his life and somehow knew they weren't as tasty as a tiny hot dog, which he's also never eaten.

I didn't lord my little snack over him, but he acted as if I had.

One thing I'm fairly confident of, but my dog isn't, is that he will never know the pleasure of eating a Vienna Sausage.

He knows, through means a mystery to me, the sound of one of those little cans opening, and I can't fathom how that sounds different than anything else. It can't be experience, either, since I only have Vienna Sausages once or twice a year, but somehow he knows.

Knows and reacts. Knows and wants.

He goes nuts over those tiny canned weiners, and I can't imagine why. He's never had one, not that I know of, and I don't think they're any better for him than they are for me. In fact, I'd completely forgotten about them until last week when I was hungry and needed something soft to fill the hole in my stomach.

Vienna Sausages, it must be said, are very soft.

At any rate, he freaked when I opened the can. Until the last one was done, a period of about fifteen minutes from can to pan to stomach, he was never less than a foot from me and was devoting his entire existence to me and my snack. I've never felt so self-conscious in my life. It was unnerving.

I tried giving him some dog treats as an appeasment, but he'd already had dog cookies in his life and somehow knew they weren't as tasty as a tiny hot dog, which he's also never eaten.

I didn't lord my little snack over him, but he acted as if I had.

Some guy wrote a book that was reviewed on TV the last week or so. I wasn't paying all that much attention and have no idea what his name is (or, that of his book), but it was one of those "real" ones, non-fiction, and had something to do with economics or psychology or something.

I should probably read it.

Anyway, the point I got out of it is that humans make a lot of questionable choices. We think we're all rational and shit, but that part of us is constantly fighting against eons of evolution and our instinctive (and older) lizard brain. Before we could talk, we responded. His book (maybe) told of a test where subjects were given a choice between twenty dollars now or twenty-five next week, or something like that. While we realize we'll be getting more money if we wait, our lizard brain wants the money now, and many people took the instant gratfication. It may have even been the majority.

But that's not the point.

In today's wired world people aren't watching TV news or reading newspapers. Some (most?) see this as a good thing, as more power for the consumer, who can now pick and choose his or her news at his or her own time. I admit it's convenient, but most admit that there's a problem with it: we tend to pick that with which we already agree, reinforcing our beliefs. This, I think, may lead to insularity, if that's the right word. Mostly, we end up creating deeper gulfs between each other, side up in tribes, and seek continual reassurance that "we're right."

A lot of this news comes through the Internet and is delivered to Blackberries and cell phones, which, in a sense, make the problem worse. It used to be that students and people looked around when they had spare time, but now I see many of them talking on phones. Instead of taking the world as it is, they plug themselves into music they've pre-chosen, talk with those with whom bonds have already been formed, and shut out the world.

I think one of the greater reasons I am now who I am is because I was subjected to much that I didn't choose. In High School, few want to learn ("Where's the relevance?"), and I'd be much shallower if left to my own design. Most of the time I was right about not thinking a book or issue on the news, that the girl sitting next to me was boring, that I wouldn't care to eat that, but I've been pleasantly surprised many times, too. If I had control over what I learned, or who I got it from, I'd be more boring than I already am, and that would be sad.

It's our lizard brain, I'm convinced, that convinces us to spend our public moments plugged into that which we already know and are familiar with.

Some guy wrote a book that was reviewed on TV the last week or so. I wasn't paying all that much attention and have no idea what his name is (or, that of his book), but it was one of those "real" ones, non-fiction, and had something to do with economics or psychology or something.

I should probably read it.

Anyway, the point I got out of it is that humans make a lot of questionable choices. We think we're all rational and shit, but that part of us is constantly fighting against eons of evolution and our instinctive (and older) lizard brain. Before we could talk, we responded. His book (maybe) told of a test where subjects were given a choice between twenty dollars now or twenty-five next week, or something like that. While we realize we'll be getting more money if we wait, our lizard brain wants the money now, and many people took the instant gratfication. It may have even been the majority.

But that's not the point.

In today's wired world people aren't watching TV news or reading newspapers. Some (most?) see this as a good thing, as more power for the consumer, who can now pick and choose his or her news at his or her own time. I admit it's convenient, but most admit that there's a problem with it: we tend to pick that with which we already agree, reinforcing our beliefs. This, I think, may lead to insularity, if that's the right word. Mostly, we end up creating deeper gulfs between each other, side up in tribes, and seek continual reassurance that "we're right."

A lot of this news comes through the Internet and is delivered to Blackberries and cell phones, which, in a sense, make the problem worse. It used to be that students and people looked around when they had spare time, but now I see many of them talking on phones. Instead of taking the world as it is, they plug themselves into music they've pre-chosen, talk with those with whom bonds have already been formed, and shut out the world.

I think one of the greater reasons I am now who I am is because I was subjected to much that I didn't choose. In High School, few want to learn ("Where's the relevance?"), and I'd be much shallower if left to my own design. Most of the time I was right about not thinking a book or issue on the news, that the girl sitting next to me was boring, that I wouldn't care to eat that, but I've been pleasantly surprised many times, too. If I had control over what I learned, or who I got it from, I'd be more boring than I already am, and that would be sad.

It's our lizard brain, I'm convinced, that convinces us to spend our public moments plugged into that which we already know and are familiar with.

Today I accomplished a few things, but I'd hardly call the day productive. Something about that word connotes value or worth, and I can't claim that.

A great deal of time was spent on playing with my website. I try to get my money's worth out of it, and today I learned a bit more about how some of the things I have set up there work. Yes, you'd think I would take care of that before publishing them, but I like living on the edge, finding out as I go along. More surprises that way.

Then I read as long as I could, as long as my eyes could take it, and walked the dog around the block. Then, I remembered all the blogging and writing I should be doing and wondered about what to say. As you can see, I may have run out of interesting ideas before getting to this one. It would be a pity, I think, for Crenellated Flotsam to suffer, and I should avoid doing that.

I finally found the aggragator I've been looking for. Now that I've set it up to check my site(s) for comments and things, well, my hits are incredible! My entire web site needs only me to reach double digits! I should concoct something that will let me subtract out my own hits, lest my head swells from all the attention I think I'm getting.

Oh. And I had steak and potatoes for dinner.

Today I accomplished a few things, but I'd hardly call the day productive. Something about that word connotes value or worth, and I can't claim that.

A great deal of time was spent on playing with my website. I try to get my money's worth out of it, and today I learned a bit more about how some of the things I have set up there work. Yes, you'd think I would take care of that before publishing them, but I like living on the edge, finding out as I go along. More surprises that way.

Then I read as long as I could, as long as my eyes could take it, and walked the dog around the block. Then, I remembered all the blogging and writing I should be doing and wondered about what to say. As you can see, I may have run out of interesting ideas before getting to this one. It would be a pity, I think, for Crenellated Flotsam to suffer, and I should avoid doing that.

I finally found the aggragator I've been looking for. Now that I've set it up to check my site(s) for comments and things, well, my hits are incredible! My entire web site needs only me to reach double digits! I should concoct something that will let me subtract out my own hits, lest my head swells from all the attention I think I'm getting.

Oh. And I had steak and potatoes for dinner.

Where did I leave off?

The big news is my spanking-new blog! It has, so far, a test entry!

After tabulating the vote, I decided instead of trying to keep my writing thoughts here that I'd create a new blog just for them. It isn't, yet, on the half-dozen home page, but the address is www.half-dozen.net/Scribe

Those who prefer me to stay on topic may find that blog more enjoyable. Oh, sure, there'll be whining and bouts of unbridled optimism, but I intend, there, to stay on topic and blog about reading and writing. Here, as before, most anything can pop up at any time.

Like this:


Yesterday I noticed this tool wasn't set up for kindly Dr. Jennifer Chen to use. It's sad that I know the tools dentists need for extractions, but she seemed surprised that I'd notice it missing. "You're smart," she said, omitting that if I had intelligence I wouldn't be losing teeth due to neglect and horrifying habits. "But I won't need it."

I didn't know the name of the tool, so I asked. It's an elevator, and if one were to do a Google search on "dental elevator" there's all kinds of links to pages that make me shiver.

The tooth (and I didn't get its number) offered only mild resistance. I was fine, rode my bike back home with a mouth full of gauze, and it wasn't until the Novocaine wore off that I felt much of anything at all.

Then it hurt, but a few hours later I took some aspirin, which did the trick.

Where did I leave off?

The big news is my spanking-new blog! It has, so far, a test entry!

After tabulating the vote, I decided instead of trying to keep my writing thoughts here that I'd create a new blog just for them. It isn't, yet, on the half-dozen home page, but the address is www.half-dozen.net/Scribe

Those who prefer me to stay on topic may find that blog more enjoyable. Oh, sure, there'll be whining and bouts of unbridled optimism, but I intend, there, to stay on topic and blog about reading and writing. Here, as before, most anything can pop up at any time.

Like this:


Yesterday I noticed this tool wasn't set up for kindly Dr. Jennifer Chen to use. It's sad that I know the tools dentists need for extractions, but she seemed surprised that I'd notice it missing. "You're smart," she said, omitting that if I had intelligence I wouldn't be losing teeth due to neglect and horrifying habits. "But I won't need it."

I didn't know the name of the tool, so I asked. It's an elevator, and if one were to do a Google search on "dental elevator" there's all kinds of links to pages that make me shiver.

The tooth (and I didn't get its number) offered only mild resistance. I was fine, rode my bike back home with a mouth full of gauze, and it wasn't until the Novocaine wore off that I felt much of anything at all.

Then it hurt, but a few hours later I took some aspirin, which did the trick.

(tooth out ... no complications .. Novocaine worn off)
(I'm hungry)

(tooth out ... no complications .. Novocaine worn off)
(I'm hungry)

Tonight I'm going to a publication party, but not what you're thinking.

Each year (I'm guessing) the UCLA Extension (where I've taken most of my writing classes) hosts a Publication Party where the instructors who've been published in the past year recite parts of their work. Then, they stand around outside and sell copies of their work.

The event features writers of all types, and the poetry is usually quite good.

This will give me a chance to add to my "to read" list. I do it not only to kiss up, but to see what type of work is currently being published. Then, later, in the confines of my home, I can attempt to discern just how far from mainstream I am.

Not all, probably not even most, of the authors are mainstream. They're mostly literary types, which is the type of book I think I write, but I've studied under some, wish to under others, and hope to remind myself of how "flesh and blood" authors are.

I'm rambling. I hope to find some little known works and to make my small contribution to encouraging and supporting the arts.

Also, the event's on the UCLA campus, at the Fowler Museum. I get to see that free, too!

Tonight I'm going to a publication party, but not what you're thinking.

Each year (I'm guessing) the UCLA Extension (where I've taken most of my writing classes) hosts a Publication Party where the instructors who've been published in the past year recite parts of their work. Then, they stand around outside and sell copies of their work.

The event features writers of all types, and the poetry is usually quite good.

This will give me a chance to add to my "to read" list. I do it not only to kiss up, but to see what type of work is currently being published. Then, later, in the confines of my home, I can attempt to discern just how far from mainstream I am.

Not all, probably not even most, of the authors are mainstream. They're mostly literary types, which is the type of book I think I write, but I've studied under some, wish to under others, and hope to remind myself of how "flesh and blood" authors are.

I'm rambling. I hope to find some little known works and to make my small contribution to encouraging and supporting the arts.

Also, the event's on the UCLA campus, at the Fowler Museum. I get to see that free, too!

One thing I'd like to play with is the trackback feature.

This new blog is creating a huge number of errors for my site. Not surprisingly, I'm getting tons of 404-File Not Found messages, almost entirely from robots who are looking for my archived entries. Wordpress keeps them all in a tidy database, but I guess the robots were used to finding them where they used to be. I wonder how efficient it was to index all those old entries each time, and what led them to it in the first place.

Which brings up something about the old Greymatter program I really miss. I used to be able to look at access logs for the blog, and I don't think Wordpress has that anywhere. I could see who was going where and doing what, and now I can't. Sure, this looks and acts much better, but I may need to look around and see if there's a plugin or something that will tell me what's going on.

Also, today (for the first time!) I'm trying (with this entry) to create an "extended entry." With any luck, there should be a "...more..." tag following this paragraph. I used to use that to talk about writing, but maybe I'll just have to put my writing stuff into a cleverly-named category. I wonder how many people pay attention to categories...

One thing I'd like to play with is the trackback feature.

This new blog is creating a huge number of errors for my site. Not surprisingly, I'm getting tons of 404-File Not Found messages, almost entirely from robots who are looking for my archived entries. Wordpress keeps them all in a tidy database, but I guess the robots were used to finding them where they used to be. I wonder how efficient it was to index all those old entries each time, and what led them to it in the first place.

Which brings up something about the old Greymatter program I really miss. I used to be able to look at access logs for the blog, and I don't think Wordpress has that anywhere. I could see who was going where and doing what, and now I can't. Sure, this looks and acts much better, but I may need to look around and see if there's a plugin or something that will tell me what's going on.

Also, today (for the first time!) I'm trying (with this entry) to create an "extended entry." With any luck, there should be a "...more..." tag following this paragraph. I used to use that to talk about writing, but maybe I'll just have to put my writing stuff into a cleverly-named category. I wonder how many people pay attention to categories...