I chanced having my account canceled and called the snow removal place to see if I was "on the schedule." I was very nice, like you have to be.
I hate to say exactly how much I grovelled, but I could only imagine how busy they'd been, etc.
Within an hour they were here with the blade and got it accomplished.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Worked Up In A Constant State Of Agitation
I'm thinking maybe my natural state is a state of agitation. Every little thing agitates me.
It's much like I said about my rage a few months ago. Rage is usually thought of as something to avoid, something be ashamed of, something that's not good for you. But maybe they're all wrong. Maybe it's good just to be who you are.
My current headache is the status of my snow removal. The snow guys showed up and did a halfway job, failing almost entirely to scoop out my driveway. If it weren't for the wind patterns, swirling around behind the house, that part wouldn't be clear. They certainly didn't do it. Then at the end, the city truck came by and left behind about 2 feet of snow, like a snow berm.
So what was I doing after lunch today? Scooping out the driveway with a shovel so I could get the car out. Even then I had to barrel through it. And there were other complications. It's like one of those time travel movies. Anytime anyone does anything or fails to do something, there are ripple effects that no one could predict. That's the kind of noon hour it was.
The day is wearing on and no sign of the truant snow removers. Meaning my ire, my agitation, my rage is simmering, smoldering, and is about to spill over. I feel the creeping crud of anger starting to get the best of me. My rage is stewing, seething, about to bust out in a full scream, then later, surely it will be, I'll succumb to a meltdown like no other.
Where are those guys? Do they not know their business? Do they not know what snow removal entails? Isn't the term explicit enough, clearly obvious? That it at least has some tangential relationship to the actual removal of snow? The snow falls from the sky. It accumulates. It stays there, that is until a snow removal person removes it. That's my understanding of the situation. But of course I could be wrong!
I can picture my snow removal people in my mind's eye, thinking to themselves that they've done a great couple days' work, that their customers are well satisfied with their best efforts.
I'd love to give them a piece of my mind, if such things were allowed.
It's much like I said about my rage a few months ago. Rage is usually thought of as something to avoid, something be ashamed of, something that's not good for you. But maybe they're all wrong. Maybe it's good just to be who you are.
My current headache is the status of my snow removal. The snow guys showed up and did a halfway job, failing almost entirely to scoop out my driveway. If it weren't for the wind patterns, swirling around behind the house, that part wouldn't be clear. They certainly didn't do it. Then at the end, the city truck came by and left behind about 2 feet of snow, like a snow berm.
So what was I doing after lunch today? Scooping out the driveway with a shovel so I could get the car out. Even then I had to barrel through it. And there were other complications. It's like one of those time travel movies. Anytime anyone does anything or fails to do something, there are ripple effects that no one could predict. That's the kind of noon hour it was.
The day is wearing on and no sign of the truant snow removers. Meaning my ire, my agitation, my rage is simmering, smoldering, and is about to spill over. I feel the creeping crud of anger starting to get the best of me. My rage is stewing, seething, about to bust out in a full scream, then later, surely it will be, I'll succumb to a meltdown like no other.
Where are those guys? Do they not know their business? Do they not know what snow removal entails? Isn't the term explicit enough, clearly obvious? That it at least has some tangential relationship to the actual removal of snow? The snow falls from the sky. It accumulates. It stays there, that is until a snow removal person removes it. That's my understanding of the situation. But of course I could be wrong!
I can picture my snow removal people in my mind's eye, thinking to themselves that they've done a great couple days' work, that their customers are well satisfied with their best efforts.
I'd love to give them a piece of my mind, if such things were allowed.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Take Your Sweet Time, Snow Guy
If you see my snow scooping guy, tell him I'm in no hurry.
The one thing I can't afford to do is make him mad.
And nothing makes a snow scooper madder than to ask him when he's going to show up.
They follow their own inner clock, the same way cats find their way home when they're lost.
You'd be mad too if you were expected to scoop out 75 customers the same day.
But that's usually the way it goes with snow. It snows all over town at the same time.
It's not like the garbage service, the east side on one day, the west side the next.
Just because you're paying the snow guy doesn't mean you can say anything.
Because they have plenty of customers and will gladly drop you if you get lippy.
And getting lippy is basically saying anything.
The one thing I can't afford to do is make him mad.
And nothing makes a snow scooper madder than to ask him when he's going to show up.
They follow their own inner clock, the same way cats find their way home when they're lost.
You'd be mad too if you were expected to scoop out 75 customers the same day.
But that's usually the way it goes with snow. It snows all over town at the same time.
It's not like the garbage service, the east side on one day, the west side the next.
Just because you're paying the snow guy doesn't mean you can say anything.
Because they have plenty of customers and will gladly drop you if you get lippy.
And getting lippy is basically saying anything.
You Gotta Be A Diplomat With Servants
If you're too harsh or too demanding with your mechanic, he'll throw a screwdriver across the room, cuss you out, and that's it. Or he'll smolder and wait till you leave, pretending to be cooled down, then gouge your radiator before you get back, or cut your tubes.
Don't ever criticize or question a mechanic, unless of you course you question him like a child, meaning you don't know a thing about a thing. They don't mind that so much. It's good for their ego.
The same thing about guys or companies that mow your yard or scoop your snow. They know they have a million other potential customers, they don't need you. So any little demand, phrased improperly or with insistence or with anger, is going to be your final one. Because they'll be outta here.
I knew of a grass cutting place, and now that I think of it they also did snow. You didn't want to say Boo to them. And a guy I knew said more than that to them -- a guy without a diplomatic streak, who obviously thought he could talk to them frankly and without fear. That was it! They're outta here. Cut your own grass! Scoop your own snow!
Snow guys are especially bad -- let's say they're just snow guys and don't cut your grass too. Because when it comes to snow you're a lot more desperate than you are with grass. Plus, when it comes to grass, everything's staggered as far as schedules. It doesn't matter if they cut your grass today or three days from now. Everyone's grass is growing at different rates, etc. But with snow, everyone needs it done now, because it snows the same time for everyone.
So the snow guy is automatically overwhelmed every time there's snow -- they're snowed in, if you'll forgive a little unsolicited humor. So if the snow guy has the slightest tendency toward having a short fuse, you're going to set him off if you make any kind of demand, like "Hey, where are you? Aren't you going to scoop my snow, you crumb?" They know they've got you, so they can pack up their blade and leave.
The only way to handle a snow guy is with the most delicate and refined diplomacy. Get on his good side by commiserating with him about how busy his day's been. "You've really been working hard! Wow!"
Then, when he invariably does a bad job, just hold your tongue, keep your wits about you. Because it will snow again someday and you'll be at their mercy again. When it comes to snow, a half job is about as good as a full job. As long as you can get through.
Don't ever criticize or question a mechanic, unless of you course you question him like a child, meaning you don't know a thing about a thing. They don't mind that so much. It's good for their ego.
The same thing about guys or companies that mow your yard or scoop your snow. They know they have a million other potential customers, they don't need you. So any little demand, phrased improperly or with insistence or with anger, is going to be your final one. Because they'll be outta here.
I knew of a grass cutting place, and now that I think of it they also did snow. You didn't want to say Boo to them. And a guy I knew said more than that to them -- a guy without a diplomatic streak, who obviously thought he could talk to them frankly and without fear. That was it! They're outta here. Cut your own grass! Scoop your own snow!
Snow guys are especially bad -- let's say they're just snow guys and don't cut your grass too. Because when it comes to snow you're a lot more desperate than you are with grass. Plus, when it comes to grass, everything's staggered as far as schedules. It doesn't matter if they cut your grass today or three days from now. Everyone's grass is growing at different rates, etc. But with snow, everyone needs it done now, because it snows the same time for everyone.
So the snow guy is automatically overwhelmed every time there's snow -- they're snowed in, if you'll forgive a little unsolicited humor. So if the snow guy has the slightest tendency toward having a short fuse, you're going to set him off if you make any kind of demand, like "Hey, where are you? Aren't you going to scoop my snow, you crumb?" They know they've got you, so they can pack up their blade and leave.
The only way to handle a snow guy is with the most delicate and refined diplomacy. Get on his good side by commiserating with him about how busy his day's been. "You've really been working hard! Wow!"
Then, when he invariably does a bad job, just hold your tongue, keep your wits about you. Because it will snow again someday and you'll be at their mercy again. When it comes to snow, a half job is about as good as a full job. As long as you can get through.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
It's Blizzard Conditions, Folks
I don't have to go to Dairy Queen for a Blizzard. There's one outside all over the place.
This storm is a secretary's dream, since it's a White Out.
It's just the kind of night that I would throw another log on the fire. But we don't have a fireplace.
Too bad I can't toilet train the dog. It's tough going out.
This storm is a secretary's dream, since it's a White Out.
It's just the kind of night that I would throw another log on the fire. But we don't have a fireplace.
Too bad I can't toilet train the dog. It's tough going out.
Monday, December 7, 2009
I'll Be In A Hobo Jungle With My Hard Drives
I'm lugging so much computer stuff around now, it's funny. I need a tutorial just to figure out what all the cords I have go to. Then there's all the power strips, with such a confused tangle even the electric company doesn't know what's going on.
This keyboard is behind this computer, and one of these mice goes to it. I just came home with another power strip and a 4 port USB hub. The hard drives have to go somewhere, along with the wireless mouse, which actually does have a wire, sticking on its little transmitter.
As for my hard drives, I baby them, and protect them, from all physical harm and from thieves. It's my daily paranoid obsession that someone is going to steal them. If they went, the dollar value would be negligible, of course, but it's the information and the hundreds of thousands of files on them that would be tough to lose.
I have email files from the '90s on there, and practically everything I've ever done since early 1996. And some of it there are several copies of, because at one time keeping files safe was a lot harder than now. With floppy discs, that never were perfected as far as I can tell. They failed so often, they're still failing in a parallel universe.
People see me walking along. There's the guy with that box of hard drives. Wonder what he has on them that he's so protective of. I'll never tell. They go where I go. And if they don't go where I go, which they usually do, they're so well hidden they'd have to X-ray the house just to get a clue. But spare yourself the trouble, because they go where I go. Not to the health club or the grocery store, of course.
I can picture myself being homeless or being an outcast, out on my own, living by my wits. I'll be walking along the railroad track, looking for a place to stay under a trestle. And there I'll be, warming up a can of mulligan stew in a hobo jungle, me and my box of hard drives.
This keyboard is behind this computer, and one of these mice goes to it. I just came home with another power strip and a 4 port USB hub. The hard drives have to go somewhere, along with the wireless mouse, which actually does have a wire, sticking on its little transmitter.
As for my hard drives, I baby them, and protect them, from all physical harm and from thieves. It's my daily paranoid obsession that someone is going to steal them. If they went, the dollar value would be negligible, of course, but it's the information and the hundreds of thousands of files on them that would be tough to lose.
I have email files from the '90s on there, and practically everything I've ever done since early 1996. And some of it there are several copies of, because at one time keeping files safe was a lot harder than now. With floppy discs, that never were perfected as far as I can tell. They failed so often, they're still failing in a parallel universe.
People see me walking along. There's the guy with that box of hard drives. Wonder what he has on them that he's so protective of. I'll never tell. They go where I go. And if they don't go where I go, which they usually do, they're so well hidden they'd have to X-ray the house just to get a clue. But spare yourself the trouble, because they go where I go. Not to the health club or the grocery store, of course.
I can picture myself being homeless or being an outcast, out on my own, living by my wits. I'll be walking along the railroad track, looking for a place to stay under a trestle. And there I'll be, warming up a can of mulligan stew in a hobo jungle, me and my box of hard drives.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Take A Jolt From My Electrode
I watched "Frankenstein" the other day, the old one with Boris Karloff. For some reason, I guess so he can be shocked into life, he has those electrodes in his neck. You'd almost thing the doctor would make them detachable, so that he didn't have to walk around with them after he was living. But it'd come in handy, like a port that people have, in case he ever needed another jolt.
The movie's simple and short. Man makes monster, man loses monster, monster presumably dies in a burning windmill. Obviously he died, but who knows, we didn't see the body. There may have been a back way or an underground passage. That's what they could've done, then had him back for "Frankenstein II."
I keep forgetting the name of the monster isn't meant to be Frankenstein. That's just the name of the guy who made him. But I've had that habit ever since I was a kid, and it's hard to break now.
Like I said, it's a simple movie. The creator of the monster, Henry, I believe his name was, doesn't forsake his beloved and go running back, obsessive about working on the monster. You'd almost think he'd be so compelled that he'd have a relapse.
I like the part where the old doctor, the scientist, the brain specialist, is working with the monster. And he doesn't take the precaution of tying down the monster's hands. So, la la la, oops, he's got me by the throat! Bye bye, doctor!
And I'd forgotten the part about the monster throwing the little girl in the water and having her drown. Totally forgotten. Maybe I haven't ever seen this movie before. I wouldn't have forgotten that. Strange.
The movie's simple and short. Man makes monster, man loses monster, monster presumably dies in a burning windmill. Obviously he died, but who knows, we didn't see the body. There may have been a back way or an underground passage. That's what they could've done, then had him back for "Frankenstein II."
I keep forgetting the name of the monster isn't meant to be Frankenstein. That's just the name of the guy who made him. But I've had that habit ever since I was a kid, and it's hard to break now.
Like I said, it's a simple movie. The creator of the monster, Henry, I believe his name was, doesn't forsake his beloved and go running back, obsessive about working on the monster. You'd almost think he'd be so compelled that he'd have a relapse.
I like the part where the old doctor, the scientist, the brain specialist, is working with the monster. And he doesn't take the precaution of tying down the monster's hands. So, la la la, oops, he's got me by the throat! Bye bye, doctor!
And I'd forgotten the part about the monster throwing the little girl in the water and having her drown. Totally forgotten. Maybe I haven't ever seen this movie before. I wouldn't have forgotten that. Strange.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Here We Are As In Olden Days
It's only Dec. 5, too early to get overly sentimental about Christmas yet. But the big day's coming! And since it is only one day -- 24 hours like any other -- we have to stretch it out by observing it way early, just so we can do it justice.
So Christmas is on my mind. The gifts. The stockings. The cherry chocolates. It's the time Baby Jesus got mad at the Wise Men: "Gold, frankincense, myrrh? What, no cherry chocolates?!" There's certain things you gotta have! And come to think of it, I haven't had a cherry chocolate yet.
The olden days traditions will soon be upon us, like in the song, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas": "Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore." We see it on the old world Santas, which we have a few of. The Coca Cola style Santa is OK, good, and nice, but I prefer the ones who look like they just creeped in from an all night toy-building bash at a monastery. The old Santas look like the all-knowing, little-saying wise man, who is a wise man indeed, who eats cherry chocolates kids leave him.
I'll be hanging up my little sock. And hoping the olden days Santa doesn't leave me any sticks. I can get all the sticks I need out of the yard. And of course I don't need any. That's why they're still in the yard.
And I'm sure a few people will be stopping by, for some eggnog, coffee, and other goodies. I'll probably have to slice up a summer sausage before the season's over.
And I'm sure I have a bunch more Christmas music to listen to. Including the song mentioned. It's a forlorn thing, but optimistic, in a sort of "Forget it till New Year's" kind of way.
So Christmas is on my mind. The gifts. The stockings. The cherry chocolates. It's the time Baby Jesus got mad at the Wise Men: "Gold, frankincense, myrrh? What, no cherry chocolates?!" There's certain things you gotta have! And come to think of it, I haven't had a cherry chocolate yet.
The olden days traditions will soon be upon us, like in the song, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas": "Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore." We see it on the old world Santas, which we have a few of. The Coca Cola style Santa is OK, good, and nice, but I prefer the ones who look like they just creeped in from an all night toy-building bash at a monastery. The old Santas look like the all-knowing, little-saying wise man, who is a wise man indeed, who eats cherry chocolates kids leave him.
I'll be hanging up my little sock. And hoping the olden days Santa doesn't leave me any sticks. I can get all the sticks I need out of the yard. And of course I don't need any. That's why they're still in the yard.
And I'm sure a few people will be stopping by, for some eggnog, coffee, and other goodies. I'll probably have to slice up a summer sausage before the season's over.
And I'm sure I have a bunch more Christmas music to listen to. Including the song mentioned. It's a forlorn thing, but optimistic, in a sort of "Forget it till New Year's" kind of way.
Friday, December 4, 2009
"The Trail of Life Leads Home" (Our Sacred Number)
There are roads and there are many we must travel,
To get to where we going on our way.
But there's just one road not paved and that's not gravel,
That will take us up to God on that bright day.
I am here to tell the truth to you my brother
Of the trail of which I speak that we must trod.
You will find there's only one and there's no other,
That's the trail of life that leads our way to God.
Now of all of the trails that man might go or wander,
And in all of his long journeys he might roam,
There's no road or trail to take him way up yonder,
But the trail of life that leads to God's dear home.
Oh the trail of life, it leads home,
Oh the trail of life, the only one,
Oh the trail of life, let's be goin'
On the trail of life, no more to roam.
To get to where we going on our way.
But there's just one road not paved and that's not gravel,
That will take us up to God on that bright day.
I am here to tell the truth to you my brother
Of the trail of which I speak that we must trod.
You will find there's only one and there's no other,
That's the trail of life that leads our way to God.
Now of all of the trails that man might go or wander,
And in all of his long journeys he might roam,
There's no road or trail to take him way up yonder,
But the trail of life that leads to God's dear home.
Oh the trail of life, it leads home,
Oh the trail of life, the only one,
Oh the trail of life, let's be goin'
On the trail of life, no more to roam.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Have I Still Got It?
Yesterday I was crowing loud and hardy about my online writing abilities, essentially claiming they are second to none. I've been giving that a lot of thought, thinking now maybe I came off a little too boastful, a little too cocky.
And they may be a downside to that, psychically, because today I don't feel like I can think of much to say. I'm sure it's some kind of balance problem. What was going on yesterday was some kind of shadow irruption. Now today I'm paying the price.
So I'm here to tinker around and see if I still have it, if I still got it.
I got up today thinking about some strange stuff. I was thinking about priests going to their church in the early morning hours, looking up at the crucifix. I wondered if they genuflected when no one was around. They probably do, just in case.
Also, since I've been tracking a package from China, I was thinking about airplane security and packages. Someone could sabotage one, of course, but if they don't, everything's going to be OK. They don't strip search packages, in other words. No one is suspicious of a box, again, unless it's been tampered with.
Neither one of those things is much to go on. The thing about priests is more interesting. It must be amazing to get up and do the Mass the first thing every morning. That's quite a schedule. I also was wondering if they did some kind of personal devotions beforehand, or if it's all just done cold.
Today, I haven't got it. Tomorrow, I might.
And they may be a downside to that, psychically, because today I don't feel like I can think of much to say. I'm sure it's some kind of balance problem. What was going on yesterday was some kind of shadow irruption. Now today I'm paying the price.
So I'm here to tinker around and see if I still have it, if I still got it.
I got up today thinking about some strange stuff. I was thinking about priests going to their church in the early morning hours, looking up at the crucifix. I wondered if they genuflected when no one was around. They probably do, just in case.
Also, since I've been tracking a package from China, I was thinking about airplane security and packages. Someone could sabotage one, of course, but if they don't, everything's going to be OK. They don't strip search packages, in other words. No one is suspicious of a box, again, unless it's been tampered with.
Neither one of those things is much to go on. The thing about priests is more interesting. It must be amazing to get up and do the Mass the first thing every morning. That's quite a schedule. I also was wondering if they did some kind of personal devotions beforehand, or if it's all just done cold.
Today, I haven't got it. Tomorrow, I might.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Writing Online Comes Very Easy To Me
Writing online seems to come very easy to me.There's just something about the immediateness of it, I guess. And the cleanness of it as well. It's very clean. You're looking at a screen, you type, the letters and words line up in a beautiful way. If you make a mistake you just backspace. It even flags your errors. It used to be such a mess trying to write stuff on a typewriter. Or scribbling it out by hand with a pen or pencil.
That's what I can't believe about the great writers of old. That they could sit there day in, day out, with a fountain pen or a big feather and write out their manuscripts in long hand. I prefer pushing buttons. I like keyboards.
I remember one of the first computer keyboards I ever saw, maybe the first. The guy didn't have a computer or any prospects of getting one, but he had a keyboard. This was way back. He might've had the keyboard as part of a synthesizer or something, but it looked like a computer keyboard.* I was fascinated by that thing, thinking, If only... You know? I went into a dream.
I see the whole online experience as a mind freeing thing. The cleanness, as mentioned. And the immediacy. It's right there. You push a button and it's on, it's gone, it's there.
I definitely recommend it to other up and coming writers. Take it from me -- I can't string together five spoken words in polite company. But when it comes to writing online, there are very few who can beat me. I'm still always right up there, at the top of the game. And that's the way it's going to stay!
*UPDATE - I've been thinking about this guy's keyboard. And now that I'm getting it all recalled -- this was back in the '70s -- it was indeed a synthesizer, piano-type keyboard, not a computer/typing keyboard. He had no prospects, very little hope of actually getting a synthesizer made, but he did have a bare keyboard that was of no actual use. But this was back before these things were a dime a dozen, so it was fascinating to me at the time to see it. It sparked many fantasies of the brave new world out there on the horizon. Knowing now how "the future" worked out, I wonder now why it seemed so great.
This Writer Writes Online
Thank you for all your kind remarks about my online writing. I agree, it does seem like it comes easy to me.There's just something enervating (invigorating? what's the right word?) about the instant feedback you get, even from multiple countries.
It's made me start thinking about signing up for Rosetta Stone just so I can read my fan mail.
It's all very foreign stuff ... some of you know a smattering of English. For those who don't, I appreciate the little smiley faces.
But most of my feedback is definitely in a form I can understand. And that's what gives me, and other writers, probably, such a rush.
So, as it is, I can definitively say, yes, it's true, and there's no doubt -- not any longer -- that I indeed do my best writing ... online.
Online... Just to say the word is to conjure up all kinds of futuristic imaginings!
Who knew? I didn't know. I wasn't predicting it when I was a young writer in fourth grade. I never imagined it. It still boggles my mind.
At that time I was doing what every other creative kid was doing, buying Big Chief tablets at the Feed Store (they had tablets for sale.)
I'd sketch out my little wisdom. Do the "Dear Diary" thing. Make lists of my possessions. Write secret codes and wish I had invisible ink.
I'd make up little poems or jokes, like "JOHNNY---" then something he says, then "TEACHER----", and finally the punchline from "JOHNNY---."
It was all funny at the time. Grandma liked whatever I made up. Plus fantasies about giants, complete with artwork. One Big Eye in his head.
Then came the awkward years. When I didn't want anyone to see my musings. It was a lot of weird "confessions" teen boys might make.
Then I dropped out of sight. I myself didn't even keep track of my comings and goings. It was all very secretive, looking away.
Then they invented the whole online universe. And I felt my shell getting softer from the inside, and finally it fell off my back.
I poked my head out of my shirt, looked around, got used to the light, and started writing. And that's how I came to be here today.
Now I'm ruined for tablets. I can't write on a tablet.
I can only write online. That is to say, I do my best writing online.
Thank you one and all for your constant encouragement. And to those of you in foreign countries, smiley faces back at you!
I Do My Best Writing Online
It's official. I've made the determination. I do my best writing ... online.I've been all over the place the last few weeks, mostly down and out. It looks like I've dropped out. And I probably have.
But there's one thing that is my saving grace, the great ability I have to write and share my most profound thoughts with folks online. Thank you for your wonderful encouragement. You don't know what it means to me.
I've tried to write other places. And some of it's good. I won't say it's not. But it just doesn't resonate with the same vibrancy that I always get when I'm writing online.
I took a tablet and pencil over by the well and sat there, with my back actually against the tree. I looked down at a blank sheet of paper. The paper looked back. I wondered who was going to make the first move. Because it wasn't going to be me. And it didn't look like the paper had any plans. So we just sat there.
I thought, if I just sit here and pretend I'm writing online, something will surely come to me. I sat there so long and started getting so uncomfortable I had to get up and reboot my legs. You notice every twig, every seed, every pebble under your hind end when you're sitting outside. Nature doesn't keep good house.
I thought I could write about that, but it seemed like too much process and not enough content. It's like writing on the tablet what the tablet looks like. Boring.
So I got up, dusted off my fanny, and went over by where we used to have the outhouses. It's been years ago, and we had a few different outhouses (one at a time of course), and we would have it in one place till that hole filled up, in like a year or so, then Grandpa would dig a new hole and we'd move it over it. Those outhouses moved around so much sometimes it was hard to find the toilet at night!
Now we don't have them, of course, but I was thinking maybe there'd be some good vibes in that vicinity. Some of my family's best thinking over generations took place in that roughly 20 yards x 20 yards space. So I took a lawn chair over and sat there with my tablet, but the only thing I could think of was how fertile the ground around there probably is. In distinction to my mind, which wasn't the slightest bit active and alive. It wasn't online.
Instead of being inspired I kept thinking how the Internet ruined me for tablets. Plus, what am I going to do with a filled in tablet? Read it over myself at night? What kind of sharing is that? I think I really get off on the idea of other people reading my musings. I believe I have fans in more than one country. Places I haven't been, since I've never been anywhere except America.
Anyway, if I fill in a tablet, at some point I will feel like transcribing it online -- to help keep my readers occupied -- and if I'm going to do that, I may as well cut out the middleman and simply write it online in the first place.
So that's what I'm doing. I'm doing it even now, as I type. Isn't that wonderful? And it's quite a flow. You're getting the first draft of history. The rough draft from my suddenly fertile little mind.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Burr, It's December
I got burrs on me today for the first time in ages. And my dog got, not burrs, but some of those weird stickers that stick up and other crap that sticks to fur and makes dogs unhappy.
It was the Last Nice Day (until The Next One), so I decided to take Underbrush, my dog, to the park. It's kind of a park, where people camp in the summer but it's abandoned the rest of the year. There's a bunch of brush and a tiny creek on one side. I've seen deer back there before. One day I thought maybe it was a big dog, so we didn't go back there. But since then I noticed it was deer.
We got back there, crossed the creek over some rocks, then I discovered the ground was kind of muddy and soft. I was sinking an inch or so, so I stood on some sticks, then moved quicker whenever I needed to move. The dog wasn't sinking, but was busy checking out the wild stuff.
I didn't notice we had burrs till probably 20 minutes later. We came up out of that and continued our walk. I was taking pictures. Then I noticed the dog's feet looked dirty. Suddenly she started running about 30 mph at random and I thought, Wow, even the dog knows this is the Last Nice Day and is sowing her oats in One Last Frisky Reverie. It turns out maybe she was just trying to outrun the stickers on her feet. I don't know.
We got back to the car, I sat on my seat and immediately noticed a clump of big burrs digging into my butt. Then I felt down and there were more on my leg, like those burrs that are about ¾ an inch in diameter. I felt on Underbrush and there weren't any of those on her. But now I'm checking her feet and there's lots of this little crap all over her.
So we got out, I pulled off a bunch of the burrs off myself, then I rolled her on her back and was checking for burrs. I was trying to pull off the little sticks and stickers that were tangled in her feet, etc., but it was a mess.
She's chewing her feet on the way home and I'm apologizing for not sticking to our normal course, which would be the civilized world. No more wildlife for us!
At home, I tried to brush it out. But that's no good, she hates it and it must feel terrible. So I was trying to pick it out. Then I put her in the sink and was washing the mud off her feet and hoping the water would loosen up the stickers. It didn't really, but a few of them came off as I was using the towel to semi-dry her feet.
What a mess. I know that over time all this will somehow be worked out. But until there, there's still a few stickers.
This happened to me -- a similar incident -- around 20 years ago.
I had a beautiful collie and took him off in a beautiful field. It was like a calendar picture. We were frolicking, laying down, rolling around, like something out of a nature film. But the part they don't show in nature films is the part when you get up and you have enough stickers to make your own porcupine. I had them, the dog had them, and it was miserable.
I believe I swore off going into nature that time too. But I must've forgotten. Now I'm reminded why nature sucks. So I won't be going into it for at least another 20 years, or however long it takes me to forget this time.
It was the Last Nice Day (until The Next One), so I decided to take Underbrush, my dog, to the park. It's kind of a park, where people camp in the summer but it's abandoned the rest of the year. There's a bunch of brush and a tiny creek on one side. I've seen deer back there before. One day I thought maybe it was a big dog, so we didn't go back there. But since then I noticed it was deer.
We got back there, crossed the creek over some rocks, then I discovered the ground was kind of muddy and soft. I was sinking an inch or so, so I stood on some sticks, then moved quicker whenever I needed to move. The dog wasn't sinking, but was busy checking out the wild stuff.
I didn't notice we had burrs till probably 20 minutes later. We came up out of that and continued our walk. I was taking pictures. Then I noticed the dog's feet looked dirty. Suddenly she started running about 30 mph at random and I thought, Wow, even the dog knows this is the Last Nice Day and is sowing her oats in One Last Frisky Reverie. It turns out maybe she was just trying to outrun the stickers on her feet. I don't know.
We got back to the car, I sat on my seat and immediately noticed a clump of big burrs digging into my butt. Then I felt down and there were more on my leg, like those burrs that are about ¾ an inch in diameter. I felt on Underbrush and there weren't any of those on her. But now I'm checking her feet and there's lots of this little crap all over her.
So we got out, I pulled off a bunch of the burrs off myself, then I rolled her on her back and was checking for burrs. I was trying to pull off the little sticks and stickers that were tangled in her feet, etc., but it was a mess.
She's chewing her feet on the way home and I'm apologizing for not sticking to our normal course, which would be the civilized world. No more wildlife for us!
At home, I tried to brush it out. But that's no good, she hates it and it must feel terrible. So I was trying to pick it out. Then I put her in the sink and was washing the mud off her feet and hoping the water would loosen up the stickers. It didn't really, but a few of them came off as I was using the towel to semi-dry her feet.
What a mess. I know that over time all this will somehow be worked out. But until there, there's still a few stickers.
This happened to me -- a similar incident -- around 20 years ago.
I had a beautiful collie and took him off in a beautiful field. It was like a calendar picture. We were frolicking, laying down, rolling around, like something out of a nature film. But the part they don't show in nature films is the part when you get up and you have enough stickers to make your own porcupine. I had them, the dog had them, and it was miserable.
I believe I swore off going into nature that time too. But I must've forgotten. Now I'm reminded why nature sucks. So I won't be going into it for at least another 20 years, or however long it takes me to forget this time.
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