Tonight, before I discovered I'm covered with bug bites, I had plans to go out and take some pictures of my decorated neighborhood. The ferris wheel just down the block is a sight to behold.

It's scaled to ferry stuffed animals around, and that's exactly who's seated in it. It goes around just the way a ferris wheel should, and has even spawned a smaller imitation farther along. My favorite decorated house is the one with the Mexican or Southwestern motif, with lit green cactii and chili peppers.

But tonight, prior to discovering a huge lump on my elbow which forces me to eat like a gentleman and keep my elbows off the table, I and my dog noticed the neighbors are either tired of the holidays or concerned about irreparable environmental damage and have opted to leave their displays unlit and foreboding. Maybe they're worried about the world their children were inherit, or maybe they just weren't home yet.

In any case, my elbow hurts when I touch it, so I'm not doing that.

Tonight, before I discovered I'm covered with bug bites, I had plans to go out and take some pictures of my decorated neighborhood. The ferris wheel just down the block is a sight to behold.

It's scaled to ferry stuffed animals around, and that's exactly who's seated in it. It goes around just the way a ferris wheel should, and has even spawned a smaller imitation farther along. My favorite decorated house is the one with the Mexican or Southwestern motif, with lit green cactii and chili peppers.

But tonight, prior to discovering a huge lump on my elbow which forces me to eat like a gentleman and keep my elbows off the table, I and my dog noticed the neighbors are either tired of the holidays or concerned about irreparable environmental damage and have opted to leave their displays unlit and foreboding. Maybe they're worried about the world their children were inherit, or maybe they just weren't home yet.

In any case, my elbow hurts when I touch it, so I'm not doing that.

I was thinking of listing my Christmas resolutions before I realized I didn't have any. What I *did* have was this idea that Christmas resolutions would be much better than New Year ones because it would be fine if they expired in a week.

What may have started me thinking about all this was my unhappiness with being surrounded by people who jump to conclusions, just like I do. In fact, the only difference may be that I don't see it when I do, which is coincidentally the same thing I notice about being hypocritical. I'm not, but I sometimes think everyone I've ever met is.

The lastest trigger for my exercise in leaping to a conclusion came early this morning when I noticed the outdoor lights no longer worked. The switch was up, which should have bathed the front yard in festive, sparkling icicle light, but wasn't. I flipped the switch a few times, and it felt loose and funny, so I concluded that it had been broken yesterday when people were hauling all the luggage out to the car.

Someone, and that would be someone who wasn't me, must have been sloppy and hit the light switch sideways, breaking it. I would never do that, I'm always careful, or at least aware of what I'm doing, so I made a short list of culprits. I would don my martyr suit tomorrow, ride out and get and replace the light switch, and keep my mouth closed, taking the secret to my grave.

That grave, I realized, might come quickly since I tend to work on electricity without always shutting off the breakers. I've seen pros work on live circuits and have always been impressed by that, so I figure that's the way to do it.

Anyway, later in the day I was taking out the trash cans for collection and noticed that the string of lights was only partially plugged into the extension cord. When I shoved the plug all the way in, the lights blazed forth as only several hundred mini light bulbs can, and I was pleased.

Not pleased that I'd tarnished the name of a family member and had accused her of breaking the switch, but glad that I wouldn't have to ride out and find a replacement light switch. There's little to be gained by fixing something no one knows is broken, and if you know me it's all about getting recognition and milking it for all it's worth.

Shallow, I know, but having labored for years under the delusion that a good deed is negated if someone knows you've done it, trust me, that whole "do a good deed every day and don't get caught" practice is overblown. Sure it makes me feel better, but I'm not sure I want to be swamped with secrets on my way across the Styx.

I was thinking of listing my Christmas resolutions before I realized I didn't have any. What I *did* have was this idea that Christmas resolutions would be much better than New Year ones because it would be fine if they expired in a week.

What may have started me thinking about all this was my unhappiness with being surrounded by people who jump to conclusions, just like I do. In fact, the only difference may be that I don't see it when I do, which is coincidentally the same thing I notice about being hypocritical. I'm not, but I sometimes think everyone I've ever met is.

The lastest trigger for my exercise in leaping to a conclusion came early this morning when I noticed the outdoor lights no longer worked. The switch was up, which should have bathed the front yard in festive, sparkling icicle light, but wasn't. I flipped the switch a few times, and it felt loose and funny, so I concluded that it had been broken yesterday when people were hauling all the luggage out to the car.

Someone, and that would be someone who wasn't me, must have been sloppy and hit the light switch sideways, breaking it. I would never do that, I'm always careful, or at least aware of what I'm doing, so I made a short list of culprits. I would don my martyr suit tomorrow, ride out and get and replace the light switch, and keep my mouth closed, taking the secret to my grave.

That grave, I realized, might come quickly since I tend to work on electricity without always shutting off the breakers. I've seen pros work on live circuits and have always been impressed by that, so I figure that's the way to do it.

Anyway, later in the day I was taking out the trash cans for collection and noticed that the string of lights was only partially plugged into the extension cord. When I shoved the plug all the way in, the lights blazed forth as only several hundred mini light bulbs can, and I was pleased.

Not pleased that I'd tarnished the name of a family member and had accused her of breaking the switch, but glad that I wouldn't have to ride out and find a replacement light switch. There's little to be gained by fixing something no one knows is broken, and if you know me it's all about getting recognition and milking it for all it's worth.

Shallow, I know, but having labored for years under the delusion that a good deed is negated if someone knows you've done it, trust me, that whole "do a good deed every day and don't get caught" practice is overblown. Sure it makes me feel better, but I'm not sure I want to be swamped with secrets on my way across the Styx.

There are either a lot of people in this world who are unable or uncomfortable showing emotions or else there are a lot of people incapable or unwilling to show emotions who orbit around me.

Maybe I draw them in, and I'm all frigid and businesslike, too.

In my family we open our gifts on Christmas Eve because that's sooner than waiting for Christmas Day. That leaves Christmas Day for the gifts left by Santa and the big feast. The dinner on Christmas Eve is a hastily assembled affair, eaten even quicker.

This year, though, Christmas Eve was at my niece's home down near Riverside and featured both turkey and ham. She dislikes ham, which I find unfathomable, but prepared one for her sister who wisely thinks there's no better food on the planet. Ham, I must say, is the chicken of meat as far as versatility goes, but has the advantage of actually having flavor.

So there were five of us, four adults and one recently teenaged boy, a turkey, a ham, and an entire sideboard full of fixings. Dinner was a leisurely affair with much gossip and passing of plates, and we were all sated and blissful when it was done.

During all this conversation the number of references to any emotions hovered around zero except when I spoke in hopes to urge the others on. They were having none of it, and my family is as reluctant to talk about how they feel as most professional football coaches must be to discuss playbooks. The conversation, then, can vary from drab recounting of facts to the more mind numbing reminiscinces. It kills time, but requires more reading between the lines then is healthy, just to figure out where their coming from.

Then, we distributed and opened the gifts. While my family may not be open and caring, they're downright happy when they get to see the shadows of love as reproduced by presents. It's a distant way of showing and admitting feelings, two or three generations removed from actually saying anything, and the cool, clinical treatment is about all we can handle.

Still, it must be said that we're rarely more happy with each other than we are when trading these symbols of consideration and affection. Yes, it would be better if we could be open with each other, but I'd be nervous in that situation.

I once heard of a study that found that human beings mate with others who are pretty much their equals as far as physical looks go. Sure, sometimes we see wild mismatches, but I blame those on economics. My point was that, in addition to associating ourselves with those our attractiveness equals, we also stick with those who are about as healthy as we are.

This may explain my disappointments, since I frequently try to better myself, but the good news is those who know me should be flattered to know I consider them a more ideal person than I see myself as being.

The holidays can bring out the best in everyone, and I receive much more than I can reasonably expect or return.

There are either a lot of people in this world who are unable or uncomfortable showing emotions or else there are a lot of people incapable or unwilling to show emotions who orbit around me.

Maybe I draw them in, and I'm all frigid and businesslike, too.

In my family we open our gifts on Christmas Eve because that's sooner than waiting for Christmas Day. That leaves Christmas Day for the gifts left by Santa and the big feast. The dinner on Christmas Eve is a hastily assembled affair, eaten even quicker.

This year, though, Christmas Eve was at my niece's home down near Riverside and featured both turkey and ham. She dislikes ham, which I find unfathomable, but prepared one for her sister who wisely thinks there's no better food on the planet. Ham, I must say, is the chicken of meat as far as versatility goes, but has the advantage of actually having flavor.

So there were five of us, four adults and one recently teenaged boy, a turkey, a ham, and an entire sideboard full of fixings. Dinner was a leisurely affair with much gossip and passing of plates, and we were all sated and blissful when it was done.

During all this conversation the number of references to any emotions hovered around zero except when I spoke in hopes to urge the others on. They were having none of it, and my family is as reluctant to talk about how they feel as most professional football coaches must be to discuss playbooks. The conversation, then, can vary from drab recounting of facts to the more mind numbing reminiscinces. It kills time, but requires more reading between the lines then is healthy, just to figure out where their coming from.

Then, we distributed and opened the gifts. While my family may not be open and caring, they're downright happy when they get to see the shadows of love as reproduced by presents. It's a distant way of showing and admitting feelings, two or three generations removed from actually saying anything, and the cool, clinical treatment is about all we can handle.

Still, it must be said that we're rarely more happy with each other than we are when trading these symbols of consideration and affection. Yes, it would be better if we could be open with each other, but I'd be nervous in that situation.

I once heard of a study that found that human beings mate with others who are pretty much their equals as far as physical looks go. Sure, sometimes we see wild mismatches, but I blame those on economics. My point was that, in addition to associating ourselves with those our attractiveness equals, we also stick with those who are about as healthy as we are.

This may explain my disappointments, since I frequently try to better myself, but the good news is those who know me should be flattered to know I consider them a more ideal person than I see myself as being.

The holidays can bring out the best in everyone, and I receive much more than I can reasonably expect or return.

I just finished wrapping my gifts, and the only thing I do better than shop is wrap.

The key to excellent wrapping is to pull everything tight and to take your time. It helps to have a solid surface, too, so this year I used my bed. To wrap a present so that it generates excitement and desire takes practice and, most importantly, luck.

Luck and skill. And a smattering of geometry.

I first assemble what I think I'll need (scissors, tape, wrapping paper) and then proceed to lose each one of them every other minute or so. After each step you need to regroup the supplies, but it's a useless effort since they'll only get lost again or, worse, wrapped up in someone's present. When you're all done you'll find no fewer than three tape dispensers and an assortment of scissors.

The best way to wrap is to give it up entirely and buy some of those festive bags from a Hallmark store and fill them with colorful tissues. This is completely acceptable, but I usually use wrapping paper to show off my mad skillz. When I'm done wrapping a present, it's easy for any child to open them and that's my excuse.

I first make a box since none are ever handy that will fit the present. Leftover floor tiling works fine, as do Sunday newspapers or old coffee cans. After carefully cutting the paper so it will be just short enough to need an ugly patch, I tape the paper to one side of the gift and then roll the gift around until I'm back where I started. Since it's mathematically impossible to end up at a seam that only happens two or three times per wrapping.

If you were smart you put the present near one side of the paper so you won't have to hack off both sides, but that never happens. Since professional wrappers bend over the edges to present a crisp edge you can neglect that step, too.

Try not to have the points on the ends facing different directions, though this is inevitable. It adds character as well as making it damn near impossible to determine which side is up. The more you can confuse and infuriate the recipient, the more hilarity I always say. For that reason alone reinforcing tape, with those strong fibers, is a good choice for securing one or two flaps on a few of the gifts.

When the present's as well wrapped as it will ever be you need to use a sticky to indicate the recipient because someone else in your family will have stolen all the tags. You can add ribbons to make the gift harder to open, or just stick on a bow that will fall off and leave your gift looking naked and tacky. That's the approach I use, and it shows.

With the wide assortment of papers available, you should use the same one for all your gifts. This lets you claim them easier once the tags fall off, and also lets everyone save your gift until they've opened all the good ones and the opening party has descended into chaos and scavenging.

Now I'm off! I hope your Christmas, or other holiday, is all that you'd hoped and more. I wish you all the very best.

I just finished wrapping my gifts, and the only thing I do better than shop is wrap.

The key to excellent wrapping is to pull everything tight and to take your time. It helps to have a solid surface, too, so this year I used my bed. To wrap a present so that it generates excitement and desire takes practice and, most importantly, luck.

Luck and skill. And a smattering of geometry.

I first assemble what I think I'll need (scissors, tape, wrapping paper) and then proceed to lose each one of them every other minute or so. After each step you need to regroup the supplies, but it's a useless effort since they'll only get lost again or, worse, wrapped up in someone's present. When you're all done you'll find no fewer than three tape dispensers and an assortment of scissors.

The best way to wrap is to give it up entirely and buy some of those festive bags from a Hallmark store and fill them with colorful tissues. This is completely acceptable, but I usually use wrapping paper to show off my mad skillz. When I'm done wrapping a present, it's easy for any child to open them and that's my excuse.

I first make a box since none are ever handy that will fit the present. Leftover floor tiling works fine, as do Sunday newspapers or old coffee cans. After carefully cutting the paper so it will be just short enough to need an ugly patch, I tape the paper to one side of the gift and then roll the gift around until I'm back where I started. Since it's mathematically impossible to end up at a seam that only happens two or three times per wrapping.

If you were smart you put the present near one side of the paper so you won't have to hack off both sides, but that never happens. Since professional wrappers bend over the edges to present a crisp edge you can neglect that step, too.

Try not to have the points on the ends facing different directions, though this is inevitable. It adds character as well as making it damn near impossible to determine which side is up. The more you can confuse and infuriate the recipient, the more hilarity I always say. For that reason alone reinforcing tape, with those strong fibers, is a good choice for securing one or two flaps on a few of the gifts.

When the present's as well wrapped as it will ever be you need to use a sticky to indicate the recipient because someone else in your family will have stolen all the tags. You can add ribbons to make the gift harder to open, or just stick on a bow that will fall off and leave your gift looking naked and tacky. That's the approach I use, and it shows.

With the wide assortment of papers available, you should use the same one for all your gifts. This lets you claim them easier once the tags fall off, and also lets everyone save your gift until they've opened all the good ones and the opening party has descended into chaos and scavenging.

Now I'm off! I hope your Christmas, or other holiday, is all that you'd hoped and more. I wish you all the very best.

Today I spent about five hours riding my bike to every point of the compass (including two trips against the wind up that little hill I shun), shopping, standing in line (including a trip to the post office), and barely made it home by dark. I got a late start, but that wasn't the worst part: that would be having to go out again to get better gifts.

I am the world's worst shopper, but it's to the store's advantage.

I typically wait until Christmas Eve to do my shopping because that's when the store's are at their maximum capacity and most everything on display shows the pawing of a million unsatisfied buyers. Everyone's grumbling and in a hurry, and that's when I catch the Christmas spirit. This year, since I'll be spending most of Christmas Eve in a car sitting on a freeway (and burning precious gasoline), I needed to complete my shopping earlier, and I did a piss poor job.

When I first finished I was already upset with many of my gift selections. I tried, for a bit, thinking it would repay some people for the crap they've gotten me in the past, but I couldn't make the arguement stick. I have standards to live up to, love to buy, and as our family's adult male model I feel compelled to give good presents.

I rarely do, but I think I do, and that's what matters.

This year...not so much. So, after getting the two gifts I needed to complete my shopping, I hopped back on the bike, once again tackled that hill I avoid whenever possible, and purchased five more gifts. It wasn't so bad (they're all very similar), but it bothers me that I had to do so. My immediate family may wonder why they're all getting more than one lame present (and none as good as the ones I consider myself famous for), but it's the thought that counts.

If I don't get around to making an entry, I wish everyone who reads this the very best of holidays. May you all be blessed with someone like me who tries to purchase your love, and a special thanks has to go out to Inkomi, Google, Yahoo, and MSN, whose bots keep this blog alive.

I kid. The human visitors are my favorite.

And, I update! I'm doomed.

Today I spent about five hours riding my bike to every point of the compass (including two trips against the wind up that little hill I shun), shopping, standing in line (including a trip to the post office), and barely made it home by dark. I got a late start, but that wasn't the worst part: that would be having to go out again to get better gifts.

I am the world's worst shopper, but it's to the store's advantage.

I typically wait until Christmas Eve to do my shopping because that's when the store's are at their maximum capacity and most everything on display shows the pawing of a million unsatisfied buyers. Everyone's grumbling and in a hurry, and that's when I catch the Christmas spirit. This year, since I'll be spending most of Christmas Eve in a car sitting on a freeway (and burning precious gasoline), I needed to complete my shopping earlier, and I did a piss poor job.

When I first finished I was already upset with many of my gift selections. I tried, for a bit, thinking it would repay some people for the crap they've gotten me in the past, but I couldn't make the arguement stick. I have standards to live up to, love to buy, and as our family's adult male model I feel compelled to give good presents.

I rarely do, but I think I do, and that's what matters.

This year...not so much. So, after getting the two gifts I needed to complete my shopping, I hopped back on the bike, once again tackled that hill I avoid whenever possible, and purchased five more gifts. It wasn't so bad (they're all very similar), but it bothers me that I had to do so. My immediate family may wonder why they're all getting more than one lame present (and none as good as the ones I consider myself famous for), but it's the thought that counts.

If I don't get around to making an entry, I wish everyone who reads this the very best of holidays. May you all be blessed with someone like me who tries to purchase your love, and a special thanks has to go out to Inkomi, Google, Yahoo, and MSN, whose bots keep this blog alive.

I kid. The human visitors are my favorite.

And, I update! I'm doomed.

It's taken me an immense amount of time to get ready for the holidays, and so far I haven't. The most major progress has been receiving a few gifts in the mail, but I can't take much credit for that.

What I have done, however, is retrieve, set up, and decorate the smallest tree seen outside of a Peanuts cartoon and get it ready for moving to a spot of honor.

The first task, and the one I'd neglected the longest time, was getting a tree. There's a lot that shows up each year on the remains of a gas station, and I pedalled over there hoping they'd take plastic since I had no cash. They did, and after a bit of haggling, I got the tree I wanted. They tried to charge extra for it since it was "full and more beautiful," but I instantly pointed out that a bundled tree could very well be sparse and homely.

That didn't work, and they tried to sway me with discussion of tree species or types or something like that, but I was having none of it. As it turned out the tree had a tag attached (with directions, naturally, as well as a notice that it was NOT "harvested from a natural forest," and I'm sure that's a big selling point. I'm glad it isn't, and I guess they're increasing awareness or something, but I thought most of these Christmas Trees were little more than branches, anyway.

I lashed it to the bike and rode home.
!@(xmas1.JPG:L120 popimg: "Tree on bike")
then I found and washed the tree stand and stuck it in. The tree stand is designed to hold a tree, not this slender branch, so the screws barely touch the "trunk," much less hold it firmly in an upright position.
!@(xmas2.JPG:L120 popimg: "Tree on stand")

Undaunted, I filled the base with water (as instructed on both the tree directions as well as the tree stand directions), made careful note of all the all the important guidance, notes, and claims on the tag (the tree comes from Oregon and is a noble fir), and then it was decorated.
!@(xmas3.JPG:L120 popimg: "done tree")

Now all I have to do is haul it from the tree assembly area to a properly festive location and fill its undersides with presents. Tomorrow I should make a point of getting those, I suppose.

It's taken me an immense amount of time to get ready for the holidays, and so far I haven't. The most major progress has been receiving a few gifts in the mail, but I can't take much credit for that.

What I have done, however, is retrieve, set up, and decorate the smallest tree seen outside of a Peanuts cartoon and get it ready for moving to a spot of honor.

The first task, and the one I'd neglected the longest time, was getting a tree. There's a lot that shows up each year on the remains of a gas station, and I pedalled over there hoping they'd take plastic since I had no cash. They did, and after a bit of haggling, I got the tree I wanted. They tried to charge extra for it since it was "full and more beautiful," but I instantly pointed out that a bundled tree could very well be sparse and homely.

That didn't work, and they tried to sway me with discussion of tree species or types or something like that, but I was having none of it. As it turned out the tree had a tag attached (with directions, naturally, as well as a notice that it was NOT "harvested from a natural forest," and I'm sure that's a big selling point. I'm glad it isn't, and I guess they're increasing awareness or something, but I thought most of these Christmas Trees were little more than branches, anyway.

I lashed it to the bike and rode home.
!@(xmas1.JPG:L120 popimg: "Tree on bike")
then I found and washed the tree stand and stuck it in. The tree stand is designed to hold a tree, not this slender branch, so the screws barely touch the "trunk," much less hold it firmly in an upright position.
!@(xmas2.JPG:L120 popimg: "Tree on stand")

Undaunted, I filled the base with water (as instructed on both the tree directions as well as the tree stand directions), made careful note of all the all the important guidance, notes, and claims on the tag (the tree comes from Oregon and is a noble fir), and then it was decorated.
!@(xmas3.JPG:L120 popimg: "done tree")

Now all I have to do is haul it from the tree assembly area to a properly festive location and fill its undersides with presents. Tomorrow I should make a point of getting those, I suppose.

Hardly a day passes without my being asked "What do a whale's eyeball and an embroidery hoop have in common?" or some similar pair. Sometimes the answer is one I can guess at (a banana peel and an earthworm share about 75% of their DNA?), but other times I cower in ignorance.

What motorcycles and guitars have in common is that I can't distinguish individual members of either one without being close enough to cheat and read the name on the side. I can easily point you to people who can tell them apart with scarcely more than a moment's glance, but whenever I see them my brain winces and I feel inadequate. I know many of the members of each set, but can't tell one from the other.

What brings this up is that today I watched a vintage racing show from Goodwood. It thrills me no end to see millionaires caring for and restoring cars that are older than I am and using them for their intended purpose: racing. Not parading them around, not displaying them statically, but racing them, just as God intended, wheel to wheel, nose to tail, at speeds well over one hundred miles per hour and separated from each other by inches.

It makes me cry, nearly as much as I do in shame when I see a guitar and know that unless I get a damn good closeup I won't be able to tell you if it's a Les Paul or not, but these tears don't have any bitterness attached.

It's true that I could never afford to own and race these cars and bikes, but I can't get over how people can spend hundreds of thousands of dollars (or pounds, or Euros) and then risk it. Yes, there were accidents and flips and mechanincal failures, and repairing any of those would force me into bankruptcy, but watching those drivers sawing away at those huge steering wheels, sliding around on skinny tires and barely adequate suspension, reminded me of what it is to be human.

Humans learn and know things. Except me, of course, when it comes to motorcycles and guitars.

Hardly a day passes without my being asked "What do a whale's eyeball and an embroidery hoop have in common?" or some similar pair. Sometimes the answer is one I can guess at (a banana peel and an earthworm share about 75% of their DNA?), but other times I cower in ignorance.

What motorcycles and guitars have in common is that I can't distinguish individual members of either one without being close enough to cheat and read the name on the side. I can easily point you to people who can tell them apart with scarcely more than a moment's glance, but whenever I see them my brain winces and I feel inadequate. I know many of the members of each set, but can't tell one from the other.

What brings this up is that today I watched a vintage racing show from Goodwood. It thrills me no end to see millionaires caring for and restoring cars that are older than I am and using them for their intended purpose: racing. Not parading them around, not displaying them statically, but racing them, just as God intended, wheel to wheel, nose to tail, at speeds well over one hundred miles per hour and separated from each other by inches.

It makes me cry, nearly as much as I do in shame when I see a guitar and know that unless I get a damn good closeup I won't be able to tell you if it's a Les Paul or not, but these tears don't have any bitterness attached.

It's true that I could never afford to own and race these cars and bikes, but I can't get over how people can spend hundreds of thousands of dollars (or pounds, or Euros) and then risk it. Yes, there were accidents and flips and mechanincal failures, and repairing any of those would force me into bankruptcy, but watching those drivers sawing away at those huge steering wheels, sliding around on skinny tires and barely adequate suspension, reminded me of what it is to be human.

Humans learn and know things. Except me, of course, when it comes to motorcycles and guitars.

In what's probably the most difficult test I've seen yet on the Internet, the combined wisdom of the millions of computers says, "You are very tidy person."

Hmmm.

You can see my result by
Click here to view my house

I hope that works out okay.

That, of course, is not a picture of the house I live in, but it does demonstrate fairly well why I restrict my creative, artistic efforts to writing and not, say, painting. If you could see me dance, you'd understand why I've come up with the line "I write because I can't sing or dance," but I may have to add "draw" to the list.

Of special note is that I've pictured myself in the small flower garden. I look not unlike another flower, but what really disturbs me is that I put crosses in the windows to indicate individual panes of glass, and it looks as if that means I want to be alone.

What it actually means is that I was taught to put those in windows, and I follow directions.

In what's probably the most difficult test I've seen yet on the Internet, the combined wisdom of the millions of computers says, "You are very tidy person."

Hmmm.

You can see my result by
Click here to view my house

I hope that works out okay.

That, of course, is not a picture of the house I live in, but it does demonstrate fairly well why I restrict my creative, artistic efforts to writing and not, say, painting. If you could see me dance, you'd understand why I've come up with the line "I write because I can't sing or dance," but I may have to add "draw" to the list.

Of special note is that I've pictured myself in the small flower garden. I look not unlike another flower, but what really disturbs me is that I put crosses in the windows to indicate individual panes of glass, and it looks as if that means I want to be alone.

What it actually means is that I was taught to put those in windows, and I follow directions.

Unlike just about everyone I've ever known or heard of, I think I'm right about just about everything I think. It's tough, sure, but I try to share my wisdom and enlighten nearly everyone I run across, whether they want it or not.

Many of the issues with which I grapple are subjected to the rapist / prostitute test, and few of them survive. The test, which has heretofore been a mystery only available to the enlightened at a hefty fee, runs something like this:

Any parent, when presented with a son, should consider eliminating him because he may become a rapist. Similarly, if the child is a girl, she should be spared the possible shame of turning tricks for a living and be similarly disposed. In each case, you see, the potential is there, waiting to be used, and society has enough ruined lifes already without adding to their numbers.

So much for logic.

Every day I'm confronted with arguments, which quite often arise from political brayings on the issues of the day. I'm continually subjected to the possibilities of terrorist attack, and, I'm sorry, but none of them are any more credible than the rapist / prostitute argument. Yes, someone could sneak across our border with Mexico and poison millions of us, yes, Iraq could be turned into a shining example of democracy and light the way for the rest of the Middle East, and, yes, a pair of four inch scissors could be disassembled on a plane and used to threaten a flight attendant, I agree.

I'd just not like to give up any of my remaining rights to reduce any further the liklihood of any of those occurring, no more than I wish to have been smothered at birth to protect the millions of women I've never raped.

Unlike just about everyone I've ever known or heard of, I think I'm right about just about everything I think. It's tough, sure, but I try to share my wisdom and enlighten nearly everyone I run across, whether they want it or not.

Many of the issues with which I grapple are subjected to the rapist / prostitute test, and few of them survive. The test, which has heretofore been a mystery only available to the enlightened at a hefty fee, runs something like this:

Any parent, when presented with a son, should consider eliminating him because he may become a rapist. Similarly, if the child is a girl, she should be spared the possible shame of turning tricks for a living and be similarly disposed. In each case, you see, the potential is there, waiting to be used, and society has enough ruined lifes already without adding to their numbers.

So much for logic.

Every day I'm confronted with arguments, which quite often arise from political brayings on the issues of the day. I'm continually subjected to the possibilities of terrorist attack, and, I'm sorry, but none of them are any more credible than the rapist / prostitute argument. Yes, someone could sneak across our border with Mexico and poison millions of us, yes, Iraq could be turned into a shining example of democracy and light the way for the rest of the Middle East, and, yes, a pair of four inch scissors could be disassembled on a plane and used to threaten a flight attendant, I agree.

I'd just not like to give up any of my remaining rights to reduce any further the liklihood of any of those occurring, no more than I wish to have been smothered at birth to protect the millions of women I've never raped.

Today was another dentist day and, per the norm, I spent a great deal of time waiting.

The great thing about going to a student dentist (the other great thing, not the contributing to her or his education part) is you get plenty of time between the most amazing treatments to ponder the universe and watch him or her fill out things on her or his computer. He spends a lot of time filling out forms and doing the menial work that I just know every practicing dentist hands off to underlings.

I went in because of a loose tooth (#26) and am getting new bridgework. I have a partial now, which I got with insurance money and maybe two visits. This time the procedure is punctuated by the necessity of the advising doctors to check on my student's progress, and since there must be close to twenty students working in the dental equivalent of a cubicle farm, this can take some time.

Earlier I've had the bottom of my tongue checked, my skin checked, my ears examined, and my nerves tested. My real nerves, not the metaphorical ones. Now that the casts of my mouth are complete, plastic and wax bridgework needs to be tested for fit, comfort, and utility. That's what happened today, but this goes far beyond what I'd expected, which was putting it in, having it looked at, shaved, re-inserted, and the like.

While that did happen, when the advising doctor came around things skyrocketed. I was asked, repeatedly, to count from sixty to seventy by ones, and I learned that pronouncing the letter Es is somehow useful for checking some labial thing or other. Since the key number for the students to pay attention to (sixty-six) contains two Esses, one after the other, I glibly recited the line about the girl at the seashore and her sea shells.

That sparked them to greater tests.
"Say 'sixty-six,'" the doctor said, and I obliged.
"Seventy-seven," and, again, I repeated.
"Sunset Strip" and I said that, too, snapping my fingers twice when I was done.
"Sing the song," he instructed, and I did, the first line.
The doctor then took a moment to explain to the students that they were too young to understand and instructed them to "check with their parent."

When the doctor departed to embarrass other patients and students, my student lined one of those wooden sticks along my nose and began making marks where I think my lips and chin were. Some VDO thing, which I tried for the next hour to decode. When that was over and I began relaxing, I was caught by surprise when my student pulled out and stuck in my ears what can only be described as a huge caliper. This fastened at the front, but I had to hold it in place while a plate was put in my mouth and clenched between my teeth.

The plate had rods which could be attached to the caliper and as my student tightened everything in place I began panicking, though not that he could see. It made me think of iron masks, of iron maidens, of Clockwork Orange, and it hurt more than it should. I learned that it's not fun to have things squeezing in your ears that are fastened to a thing in your mouth that is held rigid by thumbscrews.

When that was done we went over my medical history for the third or fourth time, and I ventured the guess that when my student graduated he would never see that apparatus again. I knew I hadn't, and I've been going to dentists for years.

I did learn, though, the important fact that the distance from one ear canal to the other looks to be 160mm.

Today was another dentist day and, per the norm, I spent a great deal of time waiting.

The great thing about going to a student dentist (the other great thing, not the contributing to her or his education part) is you get plenty of time between the most amazing treatments to ponder the universe and watch him or her fill out things on her or his computer. He spends a lot of time filling out forms and doing the menial work that I just know every practicing dentist hands off to underlings.

I went in because of a loose tooth (#26) and am getting new bridgework. I have a partial now, which I got with insurance money and maybe two visits. This time the procedure is punctuated by the necessity of the advising doctors to check on my student's progress, and since there must be close to twenty students working in the dental equivalent of a cubicle farm, this can take some time.

Earlier I've had the bottom of my tongue checked, my skin checked, my ears examined, and my nerves tested. My real nerves, not the metaphorical ones. Now that the casts of my mouth are complete, plastic and wax bridgework needs to be tested for fit, comfort, and utility. That's what happened today, but this goes far beyond what I'd expected, which was putting it in, having it looked at, shaved, re-inserted, and the like.

While that did happen, when the advising doctor came around things skyrocketed. I was asked, repeatedly, to count from sixty to seventy by ones, and I learned that pronouncing the letter Es is somehow useful for checking some labial thing or other. Since the key number for the students to pay attention to (sixty-six) contains two Esses, one after the other, I glibly recited the line about the girl at the seashore and her sea shells.

That sparked them to greater tests.
"Say 'sixty-six,'" the doctor said, and I obliged.
"Seventy-seven," and, again, I repeated.
"Sunset Strip" and I said that, too, snapping my fingers twice when I was done.
"Sing the song," he instructed, and I did, the first line.
The doctor then took a moment to explain to the students that they were too young to understand and instructed them to "check with their parent."

When the doctor departed to embarrass other patients and students, my student lined one of those wooden sticks along my nose and began making marks where I think my lips and chin were. Some VDO thing, which I tried for the next hour to decode. When that was over and I began relaxing, I was caught by surprise when my student pulled out and stuck in my ears what can only be described as a huge caliper. This fastened at the front, but I had to hold it in place while a plate was put in my mouth and clenched between my teeth.

The plate had rods which could be attached to the caliper and as my student tightened everything in place I began panicking, though not that he could see. It made me think of iron masks, of iron maidens, of Clockwork Orange, and it hurt more than it should. I learned that it's not fun to have things squeezing in your ears that are fastened to a thing in your mouth that is held rigid by thumbscrews.

When that was done we went over my medical history for the third or fourth time, and I ventured the guess that when my student graduated he would never see that apparatus again. I knew I hadn't, and I've been going to dentists for years.

I did learn, though, the important fact that the distance from one ear canal to the other looks to be 160mm.

My dog, as much as I love and care for him, is utterly useless.

The other night, during the light sprinkling they call a "storm" on the news, I was deeply involved in doing some PCR sequencing analysis or watching some dumb show on TV (I forget which) when an opossum (or 'possum) the size of a large cat was spotted on the floor. Inside the house. Not five feet from me.

Minardi had been running in and out the dog door, but never with any sound or evidence of a struggle, and was now sitting quietly on the couch taking one of his many naps. In the end the opossum (or 'possum) was pushed outside using an upended table and later carried on a shovel out by the trash cans, and that activity got some interest from him, but he failed utterly to protect me.

One of two things happened, the way I see it. He found the critter on one of his journeys outside and brought it in, or it made its own way in through the dog door, saw a room bristling with animals and humans and fainted. If it's the first, I find in incredible that Minardi would capture such a great prize and then leave it alone, but I've never known the joy of licking myself so that may be hard to resist.

If it's the latter, well, the damn thing somehow got into the house and settled near me and my dog, my loyal and true protector, didn't even notice. Now, this is a dog who cannot tolerate any cat sitting on a roof across the street and barely visible to the naked eye from existing. He barks at phantoms constantly, protects me from every dog on a leash, and still gets excited by the UPS guy (even though he brings neat stuff).

Here there was the first bona-fide intrusion into our living quarters, a definite assault on our pack, and the dog ... did ... nothing.

The next day the opossum (or 'possum) was not on the shovel. Curiously, later that day I receive one of those e-mails listing "unbelievable" facts (the ones listing duck quacks and the like) and one of the entries was that opossums (or 'possums) do not "play possum," they faint when faced with a threat.

That matters little to me. I may have to put Minardi on half-rations to sharpen up his responses. If I'd built a doghouse, he'd be in it.

My dog, as much as I love and care for him, is utterly useless.

The other night, during the light sprinkling they call a "storm" on the news, I was deeply involved in doing some PCR sequencing analysis or watching some dumb show on TV (I forget which) when an opossum (or 'possum) the size of a large cat was spotted on the floor. Inside the house. Not five feet from me.

Minardi had been running in and out the dog door, but never with any sound or evidence of a struggle, and was now sitting quietly on the couch taking one of his many naps. In the end the opossum (or 'possum) was pushed outside using an upended table and later carried on a shovel out by the trash cans, and that activity got some interest from him, but he failed utterly to protect me.

One of two things happened, the way I see it. He found the critter on one of his journeys outside and brought it in, or it made its own way in through the dog door, saw a room bristling with animals and humans and fainted. If it's the first, I find in incredible that Minardi would capture such a great prize and then leave it alone, but I've never known the joy of licking myself so that may be hard to resist.

If it's the latter, well, the damn thing somehow got into the house and settled near me and my dog, my loyal and true protector, didn't even notice. Now, this is a dog who cannot tolerate any cat sitting on a roof across the street and barely visible to the naked eye from existing. He barks at phantoms constantly, protects me from every dog on a leash, and still gets excited by the UPS guy (even though he brings neat stuff).

Here there was the first bona-fide intrusion into our living quarters, a definite assault on our pack, and the dog ... did ... nothing.

The next day the opossum (or 'possum) was not on the shovel. Curiously, later that day I receive one of those e-mails listing "unbelievable" facts (the ones listing duck quacks and the like) and one of the entries was that opossums (or 'possums) do not "play possum," they faint when faced with a threat.

That matters little to me. I may have to put Minardi on half-rations to sharpen up his responses. If I'd built a doghouse, he'd be in it.

Yesterday it rained some so, of course, in addition to wanting to make chili and corn bread, my Internet connection crashed. The good news is that rain is infrequent in this semi-arrid part of the world, and the bad news is didn't start raining until I was riding home from the market.

As I'm sure I've mentioned, several years ago I won a chili making contest between a small group of friends. I've been living on that success for years now, but I'm unconvinced that my chili would beat, say, anything in a can. My secret ingredient (that time) was hot Italian sausage, and I was astonished that one of the tasters noticed and recognized it. I don't pay close attention to individual ingredients when I eat but take a larger view, that of the medly. Because I can't do it, I consider those who can identify such things as overly anal and missing the point.

Instead, I had grilled cheese sandwiches. It's embarrassing to admit this, but it was only this year that I learned that what I'd been enjoying and calling grilled cheese sandwiches all my life are not, in fact, deserving of the name. I guess I never thought about it, but I make them in a cast iron skillet which would mean that they're fried cheese sandwiches and not grilled at all. It helps my defense not at all to claim that every time I've seen someone make them that's how they've done it, the point is they're not grilled. What's worse is I think it's unlikely I've ever really had a grilled cheese sandwich, not off a grill which I admit is required.

Grilled cheese sandwiches, like scrambled eggs, are something I never tire of. I know they're not much, and I often eat them furtively, hoping not to be caught, but sometimes I crave them, and they don't like as many ingredients as my chili.

Yesterday it rained some so, of course, in addition to wanting to make chili and corn bread, my Internet connection crashed. The good news is that rain is infrequent in this semi-arrid part of the world, and the bad news is didn't start raining until I was riding home from the market.

As I'm sure I've mentioned, several years ago I won a chili making contest between a small group of friends. I've been living on that success for years now, but I'm unconvinced that my chili would beat, say, anything in a can. My secret ingredient (that time) was hot Italian sausage, and I was astonished that one of the tasters noticed and recognized it. I don't pay close attention to individual ingredients when I eat but take a larger view, that of the medly. Because I can't do it, I consider those who can identify such things as overly anal and missing the point.

Instead, I had grilled cheese sandwiches. It's embarrassing to admit this, but it was only this year that I learned that what I'd been enjoying and calling grilled cheese sandwiches all my life are not, in fact, deserving of the name. I guess I never thought about it, but I make them in a cast iron skillet which would mean that they're fried cheese sandwiches and not grilled at all. It helps my defense not at all to claim that every time I've seen someone make them that's how they've done it, the point is they're not grilled. What's worse is I think it's unlikely I've ever really had a grilled cheese sandwich, not off a grill which I admit is required.

Grilled cheese sandwiches, like scrambled eggs, are something I never tire of. I know they're not much, and I often eat them furtively, hoping not to be caught, but sometimes I crave them, and they don't like as many ingredients as my chili.

Like others, my blog has been fairly sparse of late, but that's because I was trying to write a novel. Now that I got the home page for that novel cemented into place, my work with that sad puppy has come to an end.

Now I should return to ignoring the things I've been ignoring all along, all except my blogging, of course.

This entry will be a short one since I'm easing back into confusing everyone with random blog entries the way some people ease into bathtubs or bodies of water. I've been thinking of entries, haven't forgotten my feet, and am still considering adding politics and food to the list of categories. Those two would be perfect since they're two of the subjects I know less about than I do nearly everything else.

We had a spell of cold weather, or for what passes for it here in Southern California. It was nearly down to single digits over freezing, and I could tell it was cold by my dog, who'd curled up tighter than a burned pubic hair.

I'm still bitter, so nothing at all's changed.

Like others, my blog has been fairly sparse of late, but that's because I was trying to write a novel. Now that I got the home page for that novel cemented into place, my work with that sad puppy has come to an end.

Now I should return to ignoring the things I've been ignoring all along, all except my blogging, of course.

This entry will be a short one since I'm easing back into confusing everyone with random blog entries the way some people ease into bathtubs or bodies of water. I've been thinking of entries, haven't forgotten my feet, and am still considering adding politics and food to the list of categories. Those two would be perfect since they're two of the subjects I know less about than I do nearly everything else.

We had a spell of cold weather, or for what passes for it here in Southern California. It was nearly down to single digits over freezing, and I could tell it was cold by my dog, who'd curled up tighter than a burned pubic hair.

I'm still bitter, so nothing at all's changed.

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!

This may be it.

I was going to write about something interesting today (my feet), but that no longer seems very important. In fact, nothing does. If I've learned anything in life, it's that it's all relative and it's not comfortable to walk around in any other man's mocassins, even for a short distance.

You see, I'm doomed.

Earlier today I was minding my own business, typing away and munching on some M&Ms, when I looked out the window. I do that, often, as a source of inspiration or to rest my eyes, but what I saw out there made me slam my eyes shut and search all around me for a broch with which to gouge them out.

There, far off to the East (but definitely heading my way) was one of those Chemtrail things.
!@(DCP2141.jpg:L120 popimg: "East")
I'm sure you can imagine the fear I experienced.

After trying to calm myself with yet more M&Ms, a ham sandwich, and a quick look around the Internet to see if any more women were talked into taking their clothes off, I looked again. You can only get a shadow of my horror as I noticed the trail ran right over my house and far off to the West.
!@(DCP2145.JPG:L120 popimg: "West")
A crow even settled in the top of the cypress tree, and that's never a welcome sight.

I've spent the ensuing hour, carefully taking an inventory of myself. If these chemical attacks cause a tingling in the extremities, I've got that. If it's naseau, I think I have that, too, and ringing in my ears, fuzzy vision, and overall ennui. I think the chemicals may produce confusion since I've got that in spades and, come to think of it, I think both my gall bladder and spleen may be a bit sensitive.

I'd lie down, but I'm worried about bed sores, ulcers they're sometimes called, which reminds me that my stomach may be digesting itself, a trick its learned from the flesh-eating virus that I'm certain is burrowing its way through my lungs even as I type.

It's been swell, y'all, but I'm sure you'll understand if you don't see any further updates.

This may be it.

I was going to write about something interesting today (my feet), but that no longer seems very important. In fact, nothing does. If I've learned anything in life, it's that it's all relative and it's not comfortable to walk around in any other man's mocassins, even for a short distance.

You see, I'm doomed.

Earlier today I was minding my own business, typing away and munching on some M&Ms, when I looked out the window. I do that, often, as a source of inspiration or to rest my eyes, but what I saw out there made me slam my eyes shut and search all around me for a broch with which to gouge them out.

There, far off to the East (but definitely heading my way) was one of those Chemtrail things.
!@(DCP2141.jpg:L120 popimg: "East")
I'm sure you can imagine the fear I experienced.

After trying to calm myself with yet more M&Ms, a ham sandwich, and a quick look around the Internet to see if any more women were talked into taking their clothes off, I looked again. You can only get a shadow of my horror as I noticed the trail ran right over my house and far off to the West.
!@(DCP2145.JPG:L120 popimg: "West")
A crow even settled in the top of the cypress tree, and that's never a welcome sight.

I've spent the ensuing hour, carefully taking an inventory of myself. If these chemical attacks cause a tingling in the extremities, I've got that. If it's naseau, I think I have that, too, and ringing in my ears, fuzzy vision, and overall ennui. I think the chemicals may produce confusion since I've got that in spades and, come to think of it, I think both my gall bladder and spleen may be a bit sensitive.

I'd lie down, but I'm worried about bed sores, ulcers they're sometimes called, which reminds me that my stomach may be digesting itself, a trick its learned from the flesh-eating virus that I'm certain is burrowing its way through my lungs even as I type.

It's been swell, y'all, but I'm sure you'll understand if you don't see any further updates.

Sometimes I surprise myself, though not with unexpected gifts or anything that thoughtful or touching.

One of my more successful ways of fixing things is to leave them alone and see if they repair themselves. To my constant amazement, they often do, but not as often or consistently as I'd like.

About a week ago I swore it was all over for my main desktop computer. After surviving the intermittant ISP issues, I thought it was all better only to hear a nasty and heart-stopping clicking sound issuing from the hard drive. I've heard that before, more times than I care to recall, and it's always been followed by complete and total failure of the drive.

Then, a few times, the computer locked up, and I was sure that it had, at most, a half an hour of life left in it. I panicked. The old me, the one I'm used to, would have thought nothing of buying a new drive, moving everything over, and missing at most a couple hours. The old me, also, had money to burn and never thought twice about such things.

I'm sure the drive is still liable to fail at any time, but it's stopped clicking. Also, I was able to prevent it from locking up by the simple expedient of reseating the batteries in the mouse. Okay, I'm dumb. Never claimed otherwise.

This particular computer, by the way, is interesting mostly because it was the second new computer I've bought in my life. All the others have been incremental upgrades and I've got shoeboxes full of drives I've outgrown or otherwise outlasted, no fewer than seven cases (after throwing an equal number away last year), and entire shelving units filled with spare parts that are now woefully obsolete.

This entry has produced no clicking, but I'm scared to try e-mail.

Sometimes I surprise myself, though not with unexpected gifts or anything that thoughtful or touching.

One of my more successful ways of fixing things is to leave them alone and see if they repair themselves. To my constant amazement, they often do, but not as often or consistently as I'd like.

About a week ago I swore it was all over for my main desktop computer. After surviving the intermittant ISP issues, I thought it was all better only to hear a nasty and heart-stopping clicking sound issuing from the hard drive. I've heard that before, more times than I care to recall, and it's always been followed by complete and total failure of the drive.

Then, a few times, the computer locked up, and I was sure that it had, at most, a half an hour of life left in it. I panicked. The old me, the one I'm used to, would have thought nothing of buying a new drive, moving everything over, and missing at most a couple hours. The old me, also, had money to burn and never thought twice about such things.

I'm sure the drive is still liable to fail at any time, but it's stopped clicking. Also, I was able to prevent it from locking up by the simple expedient of reseating the batteries in the mouse. Okay, I'm dumb. Never claimed otherwise.

This particular computer, by the way, is interesting mostly because it was the second new computer I've bought in my life. All the others have been incremental upgrades and I've got shoeboxes full of drives I've outgrown or otherwise outlasted, no fewer than seven cases (after throwing an equal number away last year), and entire shelving units filled with spare parts that are now woefully obsolete.

This entry has produced no clicking, but I'm scared to try e-mail.

I've seen a number of memes floating around lately, some having to do with lofty lists of goals and others with quizzes, such as what type of onion dip are you. As it turns out, you won't find any of those here, not today, but I'm thinking of making a list of things I'm avoiding.

Blogging might be somewhere on there.

One thing I've avoided doing anything about is cleaning my desk. Oh, sure, I've thought about it and even admitted it needs to be done so I have a place to write, but that's nothing like actually doing it. The thing is, my desk is an excellent place to pile clean laundry, although it does wrinkle when left there for over a hour.

Since I was bound and determined to type at my desk this weekend I gritted my remaining teeth and sorted the laundry Saturday morning. Ah, the joys of fall underwear, which is indistinguishable from my summer fare. Once, when I was spent some time in Portland, I bought some flannel boxers up there, but like many things they've not withstood the onslaught of time.

Still, even removing the laundry left me with an extremely cluttered desk. It would take hours to sift through the paperwork and neatly arrange it in other piles to be filed later, so I made a rather unsteady tower, instead, and reclaimed enough surface area for my laptop, lamp, and coffee cup.

The sad thing is, after looking at the desk for over a month, it took me less than a minute to make it functional.

With that onerous task complete, I settled in to write, only to realize that my story had no better chance of success there than anywhere else I've been writing it.

I've seen a number of memes floating around lately, some having to do with lofty lists of goals and others with quizzes, such as what type of onion dip are you. As it turns out, you won't find any of those here, not today, but I'm thinking of making a list of things I'm avoiding.

Blogging might be somewhere on there.

One thing I've avoided doing anything about is cleaning my desk. Oh, sure, I've thought about it and even admitted it needs to be done so I have a place to write, but that's nothing like actually doing it. The thing is, my desk is an excellent place to pile clean laundry, although it does wrinkle when left there for over a hour.

Since I was bound and determined to type at my desk this weekend I gritted my remaining teeth and sorted the laundry Saturday morning. Ah, the joys of fall underwear, which is indistinguishable from my summer fare. Once, when I was spent some time in Portland, I bought some flannel boxers up there, but like many things they've not withstood the onslaught of time.

Still, even removing the laundry left me with an extremely cluttered desk. It would take hours to sift through the paperwork and neatly arrange it in other piles to be filed later, so I made a rather unsteady tower, instead, and reclaimed enough surface area for my laptop, lamp, and coffee cup.

The sad thing is, after looking at the desk for over a month, it took me less than a minute to make it functional.

With that onerous task complete, I settled in to write, only to realize that my story had no better chance of success there than anywhere else I've been writing it.

It's been long enough since Hallowe'en that I can safely report on it.

To begin with, here's what I had ready for the kids who had the courage to wade through the front yard. If they were the right height the weeds would brush their waists.
!@(DCP02136.JPG popimg: "Before")
I would have mowed the lawn, but I was hoping to make my house appear scary in spite of the lack of decorations. You know, natural stuff. Cobwebs, mouse trails, peeling paint on the trim.

The evening started slowly and by seven o'clock I'd seen a good number of Spidermen, witches, princesses, and pirates. For those interested, pirates are just kicking ninja's asses, but I did see a couple of them.

What I saw more of than anything else were parents. Honestly, there were more adults standing on the sidewalk than kids coming to the door, though a few grown-ups did choose to trail the trick-or-treaters nearly all the way inside. I did my best, smiling and appearing pleasant, but I'm not sure anyone was fooled.

Later on, around eight or so, teenagers began appearing pushing the limits and showing up in T-shirts and short skirts. One went to the extreme of penciling in a soul patch, but it may have been a smudge or leftover chocolate. No one this year rivaled my all-time favorite kid who showed up a couple years ago wearing, naturally, a T-shirt. That intrepid halloweener couldn't even be bothered with a bag and just ate the candy after I handed it to him and walked off to go the next house.

As usual I met my neighbors who seemed please to see me actually doing anything.
!@(DCP02139.JPG popimg: "After")
Around quarter to nine the cute kids stopped coming by and I shut the door, released the dogs (whom I'd shut off in a distant room), and called it a night.

By my unofficial tally, over seven thousand kids visited.

It's been long enough since Hallowe'en that I can safely report on it.

To begin with, here's what I had ready for the kids who had the courage to wade through the front yard. If they were the right height the weeds would brush their waists.
!@(DCP02136.JPG popimg: "Before")
I would have mowed the lawn, but I was hoping to make my house appear scary in spite of the lack of decorations. You know, natural stuff. Cobwebs, mouse trails, peeling paint on the trim.

The evening started slowly and by seven o'clock I'd seen a good number of Spidermen, witches, princesses, and pirates. For those interested, pirates are just kicking ninja's asses, but I did see a couple of them.

What I saw more of than anything else were parents. Honestly, there were more adults standing on the sidewalk than kids coming to the door, though a few grown-ups did choose to trail the trick-or-treaters nearly all the way inside. I did my best, smiling and appearing pleasant, but I'm not sure anyone was fooled.

Later on, around eight or so, teenagers began appearing pushing the limits and showing up in T-shirts and short skirts. One went to the extreme of penciling in a soul patch, but it may have been a smudge or leftover chocolate. No one this year rivaled my all-time favorite kid who showed up a couple years ago wearing, naturally, a T-shirt. That intrepid halloweener couldn't even be bothered with a bag and just ate the candy after I handed it to him and walked off to go the next house.

As usual I met my neighbors who seemed please to see me actually doing anything.
!@(DCP02139.JPG popimg: "After")
Around quarter to nine the cute kids stopped coming by and I shut the door, released the dogs (whom I'd shut off in a distant room), and called it a night.

By my unofficial tally, over seven thousand kids visited.

About fifteen years ago I received some excellent advice about how to live my life. It's not so much an answer as a question I should ask, but invariably forget. I'm usually too quick in reacting to remember to ask myself "What would a normal person do in this situation?"

It's no surprise that I'm not a picket fence, salt of the earth, square, at least not to me. The thing is, no matter how I feel about those people, simply put they're right, and always have been. Those are the people who are happiest, who succeed in achieving their goals, and who instinctively know how to act in situations that I fumble. Part of it, sure, is having a strong sense of self-worth, but another part is not having all the flawed baggage I carry.

If I act the way a "normal" person would, the results are invariably better than what first comes to my mind. I don't mind that, I accept it, but it's rare that I remember to rein in my reactions and to question my motives.

I'm in a situation now where every fiber (fibre?) of my being is telling to respond in a certain way, but I'm equally certain that no normal person would do what I want to. No, I'm never sure how someone normal would react, but I can ask or sometimes think it through or out. Usually it requires a course of action diametrically opposed to my gut instinct.

I don't know how to act, but I think the best thing to do is nothing at all. Just accept reality and not try to change or manipulate it.

About fifteen years ago I received some excellent advice about how to live my life. It's not so much an answer as a question I should ask, but invariably forget. I'm usually too quick in reacting to remember to ask myself "What would a normal person do in this situation?"

It's no surprise that I'm not a picket fence, salt of the earth, square, at least not to me. The thing is, no matter how I feel about those people, simply put they're right, and always have been. Those are the people who are happiest, who succeed in achieving their goals, and who instinctively know how to act in situations that I fumble. Part of it, sure, is having a strong sense of self-worth, but another part is not having all the flawed baggage I carry.

If I act the way a "normal" person would, the results are invariably better than what first comes to my mind. I don't mind that, I accept it, but it's rare that I remember to rein in my reactions and to question my motives.

I'm in a situation now where every fiber (fibre?) of my being is telling to respond in a certain way, but I'm equally certain that no normal person would do what I want to. No, I'm never sure how someone normal would react, but I can ask or sometimes think it through or out. Usually it requires a course of action diametrically opposed to my gut instinct.

I don't know how to act, but I think the best thing to do is nothing at all. Just accept reality and not try to change or manipulate it.

Today was much longer than any day this year, by about an hour. I made full use of that extra hour by doing even more relaxing than normal.

For Halloween I left the front yard unmowed and unraked. It looks frightening. I sampled bits of the candies the kids will be getting, and I can see they have no reason to complain. Everyone loves Butterfingers, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and Milky Ways. I sampled some candy corn, too, but the kids won't be getting that.

I need to spend some more time with my dog, who's forgotten all about me, and with my upcoming novel, which I've neglected to the point of negligence. I can do that tomorrow, when I should be busy at UCLA.

I've also managed to make up some lemonade, so it's not like I've wasted the day.

Today was much longer than any day this year, by about an hour. I made full use of that extra hour by doing even more relaxing than normal.

For Halloween I left the front yard unmowed and unraked. It looks frightening. I sampled bits of the candies the kids will be getting, and I can see they have no reason to complain. Everyone loves Butterfingers, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and Milky Ways. I sampled some candy corn, too, but the kids won't be getting that.

I need to spend some more time with my dog, who's forgotten all about me, and with my upcoming novel, which I've neglected to the point of negligence. I can do that tomorrow, when I should be busy at UCLA.

I've also managed to make up some lemonade, so it's not like I've wasted the day.

I'm all set for Thanksgiving as long as I'm only called on to hand out candy and respond appropriately to the cute little kids who show up at my doorstep. I'm very good at acting frightened and even better at glowering at teenagers in T-shirts.

In spite of the many lessons I've received by faithfully reading CandyBlog every day, I'm not giving out any candies that are excellent or particularly tasty. As a child (and, even, as an adult) I never savored candies and my most-common reaction after taking a bite of something I liked was to follow that bite with a second and third. For me the object was to get as much candy in my mouth and system as quickly as possible.

So I apologize to candy lovers everywhere. Small treats, like candy corn, are for gobbling.

Also, I turned my back on my non-corporate nature. The kids who visit won't get anything they're not already familiar with, though I don't know if it's something they like. They'll be getting Tootsie Rolls, Three Musketeers, Milky Ways, that kind of thing. I expect they'll be no more aware of waxy chocolate than I've ever been, will never have heard the term enrobing, and will have absolutely no interest in health issues or cavaties. Those important issues flatten candy enjoyment like a cast iron piano.

When I was going out many of our neighbors made up cute little bags of treats. They used to sell those tiny envelopes, all decorated with witches and things, and people could fill them with caramels, candy corn, and all sorts of bulk treats. I looked for those, but I guess they're far to fraught with potential danger for any parent to accept them any longer. And, forget about giving out candy or caramel apples!

Which reminds me...not only will I be faced with a bunch of kids I don't know wearing Sponge Bob costumes, I'll have to remember to wave at the adults who stand on the sidewalk and try to look away.

I'm all set for Thanksgiving as long as I'm only called on to hand out candy and respond appropriately to the cute little kids who show up at my doorstep. I'm very good at acting frightened and even better at glowering at teenagers in T-shirts.

In spite of the many lessons I've received by faithfully reading CandyBlog every day, I'm not giving out any candies that are excellent or particularly tasty. As a child (and, even, as an adult) I never savored candies and my most-common reaction after taking a bite of something I liked was to follow that bite with a second and third. For me the object was to get as much candy in my mouth and system as quickly as possible.

So I apologize to candy lovers everywhere. Small treats, like candy corn, are for gobbling.

Also, I turned my back on my non-corporate nature. The kids who visit won't get anything they're not already familiar with, though I don't know if it's something they like. They'll be getting Tootsie Rolls, Three Musketeers, Milky Ways, that kind of thing. I expect they'll be no more aware of waxy chocolate than I've ever been, will never have heard the term enrobing, and will have absolutely no interest in health issues or cavaties. Those important issues flatten candy enjoyment like a cast iron piano.

When I was going out many of our neighbors made up cute little bags of treats. They used to sell those tiny envelopes, all decorated with witches and things, and people could fill them with caramels, candy corn, and all sorts of bulk treats. I looked for those, but I guess they're far to fraught with potential danger for any parent to accept them any longer. And, forget about giving out candy or caramel apples!

Which reminds me...not only will I be faced with a bunch of kids I don't know wearing Sponge Bob costumes, I'll have to remember to wave at the adults who stand on the sidewalk and try to look away.

It's not often I'm surprised, only ten or twenty times a day, and it may be more, but I don't keept count.

Some surprises, such as the mouse running near my feet and behind the power switch, make me catch my breath and stop my heart, but only for an instant. After that one, I recovered nicely and moved a trap from where it was only collecting dust to one where it may more profitably collect vermin.

Other surprises are more pleasant, though not on the order of a woman indicating delight at my presence nor welcoming my awkward advances. That may come in time, but its lack must still be categorized as a disappointment. No, most of my pleasant surprises now are mundane ones, delighting only me.

A frequent source of pleasurable surprises is food. I'm a fussy eater, as much by habit as anything reasonable, but I do experiment. A distinct advantage I have, over more liberal eaters, is that about half the time I find myself mistaken. I try something new with a prejudicial and unwarranted dislike, but find out it's pretty damn good. People approaching a new dish with a neutral attitude may find it as enjoyable as I do, but they get there from a higher starting point.

Some foods I refuse to eat just on principal. For example, I've never in my life eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not once. As a youngster something about peanut butter bugged me, and I thought it appropriate only for celery, and that only when salt wasn't handy. I loved jelly sandwiches (grape, predominately), but just couldn't imagine a PB&J sandwich.

So, I've never had one. By the time I got old enough to think it would be good, I realized I was in a nearly unique position by never having had one. That rare status isn't something to discard without a good reason, so I've stuck by it ever since.

Is it a life of deprivation? Sure, but it's also something I can bring up at cocktail parties. And, with any luck, that may lead me again to the more delightful surprise of unwrapping a warm and delightful woman.

It's not often I'm surprised, only ten or twenty times a day, and it may be more, but I don't keept count.

Some surprises, such as the mouse running near my feet and behind the power switch, make me catch my breath and stop my heart, but only for an instant. After that one, I recovered nicely and moved a trap from where it was only collecting dust to one where it may more profitably collect vermin.

Other surprises are more pleasant, though not on the order of a woman indicating delight at my presence nor welcoming my awkward advances. That may come in time, but its lack must still be categorized as a disappointment. No, most of my pleasant surprises now are mundane ones, delighting only me.

A frequent source of pleasurable surprises is food. I'm a fussy eater, as much by habit as anything reasonable, but I do experiment. A distinct advantage I have, over more liberal eaters, is that about half the time I find myself mistaken. I try something new with a prejudicial and unwarranted dislike, but find out it's pretty damn good. People approaching a new dish with a neutral attitude may find it as enjoyable as I do, but they get there from a higher starting point.

Some foods I refuse to eat just on principal. For example, I've never in my life eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not once. As a youngster something about peanut butter bugged me, and I thought it appropriate only for celery, and that only when salt wasn't handy. I loved jelly sandwiches (grape, predominately), but just couldn't imagine a PB&J sandwich.

So, I've never had one. By the time I got old enough to think it would be good, I realized I was in a nearly unique position by never having had one. That rare status isn't something to discard without a good reason, so I've stuck by it ever since.

Is it a life of deprivation? Sure, but it's also something I can bring up at cocktail parties. And, with any luck, that may lead me again to the more delightful surprise of unwrapping a warm and delightful woman.

My life might be imitating art again, only I'm not so sure. For one thing, the art that may be being copied is my next "novel," which hasn't even been written yet, and the liklihood of its being "art" is less than that of me winning the lottery. Still, I may be acting like one of my (future) characters.

Either that, or I'm incredibly brave or smart.

With winter coming on it's likely to get colder (that's not the smart part). What that means is that the old gas heater will be called into action again and will rattle and complain its way through another few months, this time burning up fuel that's going to be quite a bit pricier than last year.

This cannot be good for me.

As much as I enjoy hot weather, I'm comfortable when it's cold. I love slipping into cold sheets and warming them up, I love being in a cocoon of warmth in an otherwise cold room, and I like the feel of crisp breezes across my naked face. What I don't like so much is being colder than I like.

I've shunned little electrical heaters all my life because they smell funny. Also, it just seems wasteful to pay for perfectly good electricity just to create resist it to enjoy the side-benefit of the heat let off. This year, however, electricity will probably be cheaper than natural gas, so I'm planning on buying a few little heaters to supplement the labors of the laboring beast in the scary closet.

And here's what I did: I bought one heater and, without even glancing at the sixteen pages of detailed and multi-lingual instructions, plugged it in to see how it worked! Such hubris!

It turns out only seven of the pages are in English, but I amazed myself by figuring out the complex knobs. One had "off, fan" and two power settings (1300 or 1500W) and the other twisted from low to high.

It took some doing, sure, but I was able to get the little bastard to emit heat. I am just that good.

I'm sure there's some important information in all those pages of instructions, so if you don't hear back from me, I've died.

My life might be imitating art again, only I'm not so sure. For one thing, the art that may be being copied is my next "novel," which hasn't even been written yet, and the liklihood of its being "art" is less than that of me winning the lottery. Still, I may be acting like one of my (future) characters.

Either that, or I'm incredibly brave or smart.

With winter coming on it's likely to get colder (that's not the smart part). What that means is that the old gas heater will be called into action again and will rattle and complain its way through another few months, this time burning up fuel that's going to be quite a bit pricier than last year.

This cannot be good for me.

As much as I enjoy hot weather, I'm comfortable when it's cold. I love slipping into cold sheets and warming them up, I love being in a cocoon of warmth in an otherwise cold room, and I like the feel of crisp breezes across my naked face. What I don't like so much is being colder than I like.

I've shunned little electrical heaters all my life because they smell funny. Also, it just seems wasteful to pay for perfectly good electricity just to create resist it to enjoy the side-benefit of the heat let off. This year, however, electricity will probably be cheaper than natural gas, so I'm planning on buying a few little heaters to supplement the labors of the laboring beast in the scary closet.

And here's what I did: I bought one heater and, without even glancing at the sixteen pages of detailed and multi-lingual instructions, plugged it in to see how it worked! Such hubris!

It turns out only seven of the pages are in English, but I amazed myself by figuring out the complex knobs. One had "off, fan" and two power settings (1300 or 1500W) and the other twisted from low to high.

It took some doing, sure, but I was able to get the little bastard to emit heat. I am just that good.

I'm sure there's some important information in all those pages of instructions, so if you don't hear back from me, I've died.

It's official. By my reckoning the holiday season has begun, and ultra-violet may be the new orange.

A couple houses around mine have gone that extra step in the Halloween decorating business. Not content with static displays of ghosts, witches, headstones, and spider webs, they're stringing up lights. Just like Christmas, only not so pretty.

The colors used for the lights are predominately orange, with tiny orange jack-o-lanterns serving as accents every five feet or so (call it 1.5 meters). Very festive. It reminds me of accident sites set up by the police.

But, something new's been added: strings of purple lights. Dark purple, bordering on ultra-violet, which may be an intentional allusion to ultra-violence, a term made popular in Clockwork Orange. Violence -- Bodies -- Graves -- Halloween, I can make the connection.

The other indication that the holidays are on us is underwear sales. I think that's the first thing to go when pounds are added. People are much more willing to squeeze and cram themselves into snug outerwear, but comfort cannot be compromised. "I may still be able to wear the same clothes people saw me in during the summer to reinforce the 'I haven't gained weight idea,' but I'll be damned if I'm going to wedge myself into ill-fitting underwear," they say.

Also, not to be ignored is that self-described "not nice" people are buying me lunch. Currying favors or getting the holiday spirit? You decide.

It's official. By my reckoning the holiday season has begun, and ultra-violet may be the new orange.

A couple houses around mine have gone that extra step in the Halloween decorating business. Not content with static displays of ghosts, witches, headstones, and spider webs, they're stringing up lights. Just like Christmas, only not so pretty.

The colors used for the lights are predominately orange, with tiny orange jack-o-lanterns serving as accents every five feet or so (call it 1.5 meters). Very festive. It reminds me of accident sites set up by the police.

But, something new's been added: strings of purple lights. Dark purple, bordering on ultra-violet, which may be an intentional allusion to ultra-violence, a term made popular in Clockwork Orange. Violence -- Bodies -- Graves -- Halloween, I can make the connection.

The other indication that the holidays are on us is underwear sales. I think that's the first thing to go when pounds are added. People are much more willing to squeeze and cram themselves into snug outerwear, but comfort cannot be compromised. "I may still be able to wear the same clothes people saw me in during the summer to reinforce the 'I haven't gained weight idea,' but I'll be damned if I'm going to wedge myself into ill-fitting underwear," they say.

Also, not to be ignored is that self-described "not nice" people are buying me lunch. Currying favors or getting the holiday spirit? You decide.

Years ago when Saturday Night Live was funny they had a skit about a guy with a computer. It was an early one, maybe before the IBM PC, and the character was quite the nerd. In the skit he'd been laboring away on his computer, creating a wonderful program. When it was done it displayed a cheesy line drawing of a bowler and announced, in big letters, "You have six hats."

Then, below the picture, it listed his six hats.

That cracked me up as it showed just exactly how useless computers can be and may have been the genesis of my belief that just because you can do something, that doesn't make it a good idea.

Computers, as we've come to know them are very good at record keeping. By that I mean filing. They're also quick at arithmetic, and can add very quickly. Oh, and less we forget, subtract, too, but that's about it.

I'm reminded of how quickly computers can make errors today when I glanced at my stats and saw that today, for the first time ever, I received over 1,000 hits on this blog.

I counter-predict.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, also years ago the LA Times had a columnist Jack Smith, who was funny, witty, poignant, and popular. Each year he'd list some of the more famous (but no more accurate) psychics and relay their predictions for the coming year. It was the typical crap, who would be getting married, giant meteors hitting the earth, floods, deaths, and for nearly every one Jack would proclaim "I counter-predict."

He created that phrase as a shorthand of predicting the opposite, and it's stuck with me for years. Whenever Jack totalled up the tally at the end of the year, it should be no surprise that he was far more successful in his counter-predictions than any psychic was with their predictions, and I now use the term to reflect my disbelief.

The only way Crenellated Flotsam could draw 1,000 visitors is if I were giving away $20 bills. I suspect a new horde of robots have been unleashed, but I may add a PayPal (tm) link and see if I can con everyone into sending me a buck.

Years ago when Saturday Night Live was funny they had a skit about a guy with a computer. It was an early one, maybe before the IBM PC, and the character was quite the nerd. In the skit he'd been laboring away on his computer, creating a wonderful program. When it was done it displayed a cheesy line drawing of a bowler and announced, in big letters, "You have six hats."

Then, below the picture, it listed his six hats.

That cracked me up as it showed just exactly how useless computers can be and may have been the genesis of my belief that just because you can do something, that doesn't make it a good idea.

Computers, as we've come to know them are very good at record keeping. By that I mean filing. They're also quick at arithmetic, and can add very quickly. Oh, and less we forget, subtract, too, but that's about it.

I'm reminded of how quickly computers can make errors today when I glanced at my stats and saw that today, for the first time ever, I received over 1,000 hits on this blog.

I counter-predict.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, also years ago the LA Times had a columnist Jack Smith, who was funny, witty, poignant, and popular. Each year he'd list some of the more famous (but no more accurate) psychics and relay their predictions for the coming year. It was the typical crap, who would be getting married, giant meteors hitting the earth, floods, deaths, and for nearly every one Jack would proclaim "I counter-predict."

He created that phrase as a shorthand of predicting the opposite, and it's stuck with me for years. Whenever Jack totalled up the tally at the end of the year, it should be no surprise that he was far more successful in his counter-predictions than any psychic was with their predictions, and I now use the term to reflect my disbelief.

The only way Crenellated Flotsam could draw 1,000 visitors is if I were giving away $20 bills. I suspect a new horde of robots have been unleashed, but I may add a PayPal (tm) link and see if I can con everyone into sending me a buck.

We recently had some rain here, thereby cementing our "semi-arrid" status. Nothing anyone anywhere else in the US would notice, but as I've remarked, it brings interesting things.

In this case, mice. And not the cute ones wearing glasses and carrying canes, either. Dumb ones, or, maybe they're just arrogant. At the time I'm writing this, I'm multi-tasking, which is all the rage now. Not only am I composing an insightful, timely blog entry, I'm hunting.

Perhaps I need a pith helmet.

This mouse -- or more likely, mice -- disturbs me, but not in the standing on chairs and screaming like a teenager way. It's the audacity of the damn thing. I had a car stolen once and I'll never forget how violated I felt. Someone else was going through, or able to go through, my personal stuff, see the pens I'd collected, the receipts I'd stuffed in the glove box, the cans and bottles wedged under the seat. That disturbed me as much as the loss of the car, and I feel a lot the same way with this mouse.

Dammit. This is *my* house, not his. I don't like him running around in it. He should be in a field of flowers, joining hands with the other mice and singing ring around the rosey. If he were in a forest eating nuts, I'd be a happy camper.

But he's inside. Walking all over my shelves, looking under the couch, resting on top of the couch, and walking right down the middle of the floor. I see him, make a noise, and he scurries off, but now I've more in store.

Traps. Victor traps. The springy ones, baited with actual cheese. When I hear that *snap* I expect I'll jump, but he'll never know what hits him. I hope he learned about them in mouse school and will see them and go pester the neighbors.

They have better food, anyway.

We recently had some rain here, thereby cementing our "semi-arrid" status. Nothing anyone anywhere else in the US would notice, but as I've remarked, it brings interesting things.

In this case, mice. And not the cute ones wearing glasses and carrying canes, either. Dumb ones, or, maybe they're just arrogant. At the time I'm writing this, I'm multi-tasking, which is all the rage now. Not only am I composing an insightful, timely blog entry, I'm hunting.

Perhaps I need a pith helmet.

This mouse -- or more likely, mice -- disturbs me, but not in the standing on chairs and screaming like a teenager way. It's the audacity of the damn thing. I had a car stolen once and I'll never forget how violated I felt. Someone else was going through, or able to go through, my personal stuff, see the pens I'd collected, the receipts I'd stuffed in the glove box, the cans and bottles wedged under the seat. That disturbed me as much as the loss of the car, and I feel a lot the same way with this mouse.

Dammit. This is *my* house, not his. I don't like him running around in it. He should be in a field of flowers, joining hands with the other mice and singing ring around the rosey. If he were in a forest eating nuts, I'd be a happy camper.

But he's inside. Walking all over my shelves, looking under the couch, resting on top of the couch, and walking right down the middle of the floor. I see him, make a noise, and he scurries off, but now I've more in store.

Traps. Victor traps. The springy ones, baited with actual cheese. When I hear that *snap* I expect I'll jump, but he'll never know what hits him. I hope he learned about them in mouse school and will see them and go pester the neighbors.

They have better food, anyway.

No, I don't subscribe to those ideas that if you dream of a fish that means you'll be traveling, or that if you see a circus clown you'll be getting money. I think that's all hooey.

But I'm well-practiced in dreaming or, more honestly, in having nightmares, and I've stumbled on a way of remembering them better. Some people have told me it's good to do that, and that, combined with what I learned on a TV show, has given me a habit.

The TV program explained a few things, not the least of which is that before we go into REM (rapid eye movement) sleep and start a dream, our brain issues a couple commands. One releases a paralyzing agent that prevents us from acting out our dreams and the other shuts off our near-term memory.

I know the first is true because my dog can't run when he dreams. His legs move, but it's more a twitch than anything frutiful. The short-term memory thing, I think, is a defense against confusing dreams with reality, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, it's the reason so few of us can remember our dreams. We aren't supposed to. In that sense, it works, but it can be overcome. What I've learned to do is wake up with my mind running and right off the bat try to recall parts of the dream. Then, I focus on those and, usually, more and more comes back. I have to do this quite a bit if I want to remember the dream very well, to force it into long-term memory, but I think it works.

What's deadly is waking up and having to go to the bathroom or make coffee. By the time those activities are done, the dream has evaporated. You have to be quick to catch a dream, and not many people will tell you that.

Oh, unsolicited advice is worth as much as free advice, but has the added benefit of being uncalled for.

No, I don't subscribe to those ideas that if you dream of a fish that means you'll be traveling, or that if you see a circus clown you'll be getting money. I think that's all hooey.

But I'm well-practiced in dreaming or, more honestly, in having nightmares, and I've stumbled on a way of remembering them better. Some people have told me it's good to do that, and that, combined with what I learned on a TV show, has given me a habit.

The TV program explained a few things, not the least of which is that before we go into REM (rapid eye movement) sleep and start a dream, our brain issues a couple commands. One releases a paralyzing agent that prevents us from acting out our dreams and the other shuts off our near-term memory.

I know the first is true because my dog can't run when he dreams. His legs move, but it's more a twitch than anything frutiful. The short-term memory thing, I think, is a defense against confusing dreams with reality, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, it's the reason so few of us can remember our dreams. We aren't supposed to. In that sense, it works, but it can be overcome. What I've learned to do is wake up with my mind running and right off the bat try to recall parts of the dream. Then, I focus on those and, usually, more and more comes back. I have to do this quite a bit if I want to remember the dream very well, to force it into long-term memory, but I think it works.

What's deadly is waking up and having to go to the bathroom or make coffee. By the time those activities are done, the dream has evaporated. You have to be quick to catch a dream, and not many people will tell you that.

Oh, unsolicited advice is worth as much as free advice, but has the added benefit of being uncalled for.