Out, Out Damn Spot - Sun Baked

I have a friend that is a scientist and part of her research involves extensive field work. She has been spending extremely long days unsheltered and unprotected. The weather might be cooling off but the sun is merciless and despite her best efforts to stay hydrated and maintain a proper electrolyte balance the heat causes her to end each day with a terrible headache. I asked her about good sunglasses to protect from UV and glare and if there were any benefit from use of a hat. She informed me that the sunglasses impaired her observation of the subject and no matter what sort of hat she has tried they are too tight and too hot.

This troubled me, of course, and since I am a self-proclaimed genius it is only right that I should exhaust all possibilities and propose an elegant solution. Please, I know - I'm wonderful; but this time it really doesn't all have to be about me.

As I have only come to know her through the web I am not certain that I have all of the necessary facts and details so I must postulate I am following a design process that must evolve from the basic requirements to an ultimate solution. When she claims that she has used all types of hats - as much as I would like to give her the benefit of the doubt we must be realistic. She is, after all, only a scientist and they are hardly as exacting and thorough as I.

I will speculate she has tried a baseball-type cap. That would be both tight and hot and afford no real protection from direct sun. I must also allow that she may have tried the legionnaires' approach and draped or attached some sort of fabric to protect her neck. That, too, would be more hot and sticky than comfortable. So what we are really after is a loose fitting but broad-brimmed specimen. It would be preferable that it be lightweight and made of a breathable material and perhaps in a light color that reflects radiated energy away from the head. That criteria automatically leaves out this choice.

Although certainly stylish one may note almost immediately that there is really no shelter from the direct rays of the sun to the brow and field of vision. I am not all that convinced that the gauze is an effective netting for flying insects, either. What is needed is something more encompassing. Now, it would stand to reason that she may also have tried a hat similar to this.

It is extremely surprising to me that a hat of this type proved unsuitable. It is not too snug in fit, the material appears to be of a durable but lightweight cotton and the brim very throughly protects the face, neck and shoulders. I am rather amazed this is not a win/win scenario. I do think we are heading in the right direction, however. Perhaps, if we go with another natural and durable material?

This has promise. The open weave is very breathable. I am somewhat dissatisfied as we appear to be taking a step backwards. By rolling the sides of the brim, the neck and shoulders and even the sides of the face are too exposed.





If this were the proper direction then we might as well pursue this alternative.

The knit portion could be adjusted vertically, like a venetian blind. Unfortunately, the operative word is, "knit," which must be dismissed without further consideration as thermally inappropriate.

No. I am certain there is a design that meets all the rigors of her demands and it must certainly involve a brim of sufficient circumference to shade from the shoulders - up. If it's sufficiently pliable it can be tucked away in a satchel or pack and retrieved whenever required. Those same attributes would allow some options, making it more of a convertible arrangement. None of this is really new. Why, just consider all of the aforementioned specifications and one may realize an enhanced version of this.

We're close, now. I can feel it! I grant you the fabric isn't my first choice but there is a simplicity and purposefulness to the design. Still, I know we can exceed the need. We must push on and do some really inspired work.

We need to focus. So far we have established lightweight, broad, circular brim, not-too-tight fitting, breathable to evacuate heat rather than add heat, which defeats the purpose.

Of course! It's the brilliant and what should have been the obvious choice.

Surely even a peer review would recognize the beauty of this design? Lightweight, loose-fitting and full protection from the sun without loss of any of the visual field. Marvelous! I can't wait to propose this solution to her.

What? Oh, come on?!? You still aren't persuaded? Alright, then. I am up for the challenge. You must be testing me to see just how remarkable are my gifts? Fine. I really don't like to show off like this. Please understand that I am only going along with this for the benefit of my friend and to add something of the scintillating experience I enjoy because of my vast intellectual prowess, every day. Even this design can be enhanced. Brace yourself for the magic.

Behold! Gaze in wide-eyed wonder. I give you the zenith example that meets or exceeds all of the criteria. Now, this is only a prototype. Recognize that the array of color is purely to demonstrate the manufacture of this ultra-modern design. A fabric suitable even to act as camouflage could certainly be employed. The collapsible frame affords easy storage and activation. The adjustable headband provides the minimum contact with the head but still allows for secure positioning. There is ample clearance from the head to ensure a steady flow of cross-ventilating, cooling air while at the same time the broad semi-spherical design creates full shadow to the upper portion of the body regardless of the solar azimuth.

There can not possibly be a more efficient hat design, anywhere. In fact, I can think of only one realistic alternative if my scientist friend finds even this hat intolerable. I have been working with a certain species of mammal that shows real promise in assisting my friend with all of her burdens and cares. They seem relatively naturally adapted to retrieving whatever one points to or at least seem to comprehend simple hand gestures and signals. I have been trying to add the concept of using their bodies as shade devices but am not fully persuaded they understand my intent as these are traditionally nocturnal creatures. I have yet to find a guaranteed method to indicate to them how to stand between the position of the sun in the sky and a person working such as in field research. They are bipedal and have demonstrated dexterity and facility with their opposable thumbs. It has been relatively easy to teach them the use of simple tools. I am not certain if I have crossed any ethical boundaries by using these creatures in such a way but they do not seem to mind and are particularly receptive when encouraged to perform to music.

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Male Bashing – The International Sport

One of the many snappy quips in Oscar Wilde’s, “Lady Windermere's Fan,” was a statement made by an elderly gentlemen in reply to the accusation that it is the behavior of men that causes women to mistrust each other. His remark was, “Women don’t trust women. Men don’t trust women. It is what binds the Catholic and the Hindu, together.”

One of the unexpected pleasures of researching that quote was all of the interpretation it has been given by women who have simply brushed it aside and explained it away as the misogynistic ramblings of a man without perspective. How those women wish that were true. In point of fact women are not trustworthy. Now, during this high season of celebrating every nuance of women without apology or acknowledgment that woman is FLAWED should only be expected when at the same time men are regarded as unnecessary or at best are incorrect in all their imaginations. The least valid source of honest evaluation is found by going to that being sampled and inquiring its opinion of itself. Yet, for women, that is exactly what is being done. Never mind that nearly half of the population is not female and has likely had enough involvement with the creature to have drawn some measurable conclusions. While the world party continues for the celebration and deification of woman it is time to say enough already.

If you want my respect try earning it. I’ve not seen a lot to recommend women anywhere near as highly as they regard themselves. And let’s get a few of your general conclusions out of the way. I am not afraid of you. I am not intimidated by you. I am not made insecure by your success. I am not lost and without a defined place in this world because you have trampled under my precious patriarchal values. Most importantly - I am not fooled. If you want to be treated like a man I will beat you down like any other man that steps out of line. That you want to have your cake and eat it, too, by asserting rights when they accommodate you and cry unfair when they don’t is something you’re going to have to relinquish. Maybe when we were children and were told to “let the girl win” it was different. Few of you have changed your ways – you still cheat and expect it to go unnoticed. You still expect your mistakes forgiven and another free chance. I dare you to reciprocate.

Behind all of the empowerment bravado is a lack of confidence and an unaddressed fear. The cold-hearted, I mean business woman is a sham. I have offered the challenge before and offer it, again, here. If you really have something better and different to offer in place of how men conduct themselves why not show me that instead of the practiced deceit and subterfuge? None of you are honestly trying to prove anything to men. You are trying to convince yourself that whatever you are pursuing with cut-throat ambition will validate you and prove your worth. Meanwhile you trample and haphazardly discard everything in your path leaving a wake of needlessly damaged people and experiences. When that academic, or career, or political goal is reached what else will you have to offer? What are you wildly slashing to ribbons as you try to slay your own demons? So write off what I say and continue to insist that I’m just another man that either doesn’t understand or doesn’t want you to succeed. I would like to give you more credit than your being that shallow and self serving. If you think the world was a bad place, before, you had better consider what would happen if men turn enemy rather than make allowances for your collective behavior.

There are a few of you out there that have a better focus and a firmer grip on reality. I have been made to shut-up by a few extremely reasoned and articulate female voices somehow able to be heard over the din of the chaos otherwise surrounding. I will not give their names but I have asked their permission to share their thoughts. I will try not to take their comments out of context and give you their insights. If I knew more women such as these I would find better ways to spend my time than taking on this insanity. I will offer this: I have shown their comments to other men without introduction or explanation and to the man their response was, “Wow. Where did you find honest women? They really get it.. I would love to know a woman like that who doesn’t play games.”

I will end with the actual words of actual women.

The first thought was in response to me suggesting “[When] women fail to recognize the feminine as strength they are so cheated."

“I'd say that's very true. There is power in femininity but most women fail to recognize it thinking that different automatically means weaker.”

“The Psychology of Gender class was the most obnoxious class I took in my entire college course experiences. Instead of a fair analysis of genders and how they develop it was a slam on men, male bias, abortion promotion, and basically a treatise on how to wipe out the differences in men and women. Why? That's one of the most offensive goals I've encountered. Celebrate the differences. I'm more than happy to teach my hoped-for future children that men are big and strong and women are soft and squishy and that having intelligence and thoughtfulness can be the purview of either. The fact remains that many women think they want to become men and they want to stomp their men into submissiveness. Then they lament the results.”

Other thoughts –

“I am not an emotive person . . . Needless to say it didn't work out. He thought I was cold and distant and loved my work more than him. Sadly enough it might have been true. I was more of a workaholic then than I am now.”

“There are days when I feel like I'd like to be in a relationship, again. I miss knowing that I would have plans on a weekend, if I felt like it, and always knowing where to sit at a table of friends and the little bits of a relationship that are more about belonging and being comfortable than anything else. There is very little outside pressure, besides a mother who wants grandchildren (and I'm' young, I'm not having kids anytime soon, if ever!). I also think that I'm at an age where I'm very selfish, I hate being tied down to anything. I love traveling and I like the idea that I could pack up and go tomorrow if I want to, without worrying about anyone else. People find that attractive in the short term, but in fact I am very difficult to live with!”

“My view on relationships, with all of my vast experience, is that if the right person comes along I'd be very happy, but if not - I'm also happy. I have a lot of personal issues to sort out, and that's a lot easier to do on my own. I'd like to be happy and comfortable with myself and sort the little things out before I complicate matters by bringing other people into everything. I am a firm believer in relationships being a part of life, but not your whole life. You have to be a complete person on your own. A partner should complement you, not complete you. You have to do that yourself first.”

“As much as it is nothing personal from your side I really do hope that I can help you to forgive women a little bit. My reasoning for this is as follows: most women are manipulative and mess with people's heads to get what they want. But a lot of that is not because they hate men. A large part of it is that we (particularly my generation) have been raised to believe that we can do everything we set our minds to, so in essence, No we don't need men. And so we're forced to stand alone and cope with everything life throws our way because we're expected to right all the 'injustices' of the past. Feminism has long since passed equality, and is focused on the superiority of women over men. That is as narrow-minded and prejudiced as all the pre-feminist ideas! So yes, women can be nasty and make men feel as if they aren't needed. But if you look into it you may find that that stems from women battling to cope with everything expected of them - if there comes an occasion when she can make a man feel like he's not needed, it means that she's accomplishing what is expected of her - on some level, anyway!

Humans are totally messed up.”

“I remember a woman who always used the quote, "We should be strong enough on the inside that we can be gentle on the outside." As much as I found it intensely irritating and clichéd, I seem to be thinking about it a lot!”

“I think women know what they really want. In some cases it's independence and a career, but not always, and not only! The problem is that the world still sees things like cooking, housekeeping and childrearing as 'women's work" - I'm not blaming men for it, it's as much as women taking on responsibilities that we've been trained for. A little while ago I went to visit my father, where I automatically shopped, cooked, and generally looked after him, while still having meetings and other business both personal and professional. It's seen as special when a guy cooks a meal, and not a regular occurrence. So basically, women are faced with a huge dilemma - we can be lonely and independent, which is often the easy option, or can we balance a career and a family with all of the responsibilities of both.”

“You also get women who get married and stop working and become devoted housewives and mothers. I've met a lot of them, they put their own pursuits on hold . . . And as much as I don't understand it at all, I can see that they're really happy. But seriously, women aren't as cold-hearted and calculating as we seem - most women, anyway!”

“Women are scared to admit it, but deep down, we all really want a big strong guy to protect us and have deep emotional insight, of course. But primary to all the companionship and repartee and everything else, a girl just wants to feel safe and secure, and wanted.”

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A New Wrinkle - Keeping the Flicker Alive

Belly up to the bar

In my wanderings, today, I had the great fortune to come across the blog of a still hopeful, younger version of myself. I expect to be inspired by his youthful exuberance and heartfelt account of his plunge into the abyss known as the quest for love. Love is not so much elusive as entrusted to the fickle care of women. It doesn't really stand a chance but that's the adventure.
His name is, Duncan Warner, and you may visit his blog here. Man Hints has a refreshing mix of self-awareness, optimism, and futility. What's not intriguing about that? Or, how can you not root for a guy whose About Me description in his profile simply states, "I am fantastic." He has a real gift for self-destruction. It is reassuring to know that I may pass the torch to another generation without fear of anything getting better.

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Things To Do, Today - Forget to Breathe

Being of German descent it is the natural state for me to treasure misery and glory in despair. That being the case I should be the hap –hap –happiest man on the face of the earth. Today has just been another in too much reflection, introspection, and attention to minutia. I had three conversations which afforded me opportunity to try and fit my thoughts into manageable phrases and sound bites. The world is no longer a place interested in delving deeply into any topic other than celebrity gossip so in order to be marketable one must package themselves appropriately. The first intercourse allowed me to realize that the only reason I make any effort is not because of hope but because of despair. I simply refuse to admit defeat and give anyone the satisfaction. It is not that I have any real aspiration that something good awaits me if I persevere because the fixed constant in my Boolean argument is that the Universe wants to crush me; little sub-atomic particle powder, crush me. This is unfortunate for the Universe because in direct opposition to my annihilation is its desire to have me cognizant of the event.

I hate to lose. I don’t mean in some trite, “I’m going to sulk in the corner” hate to lose but as in abject rage and desire to do serious harm – hate. Since my birth it has been so. I was that kid that threw the game board across the room, tore the playing cards to shreds, and melted the tokens with the fire in my eyes. I am still that kid. Only a nod to civility has put that in check but occasionally I excuse myself and go scream obscenities to the Universe or look for something that “deserves” my wrath and pummel the living sh*t out of inanimate objects with my fists. There is satisfaction in destroying that which has the equal potential to destroy me. I am particularly fond of masonry or metal for sparring partners. Some mushy knuckles and an unrecognizable something later and I am at peace.

I hate games of chance. I dislike war only because I can’t control all of the variables. The weather would be certain to always change against me. The Universe has decreed it so. I hate office politics for the same reason. I like to win – I do not like games. Winning has nothing to do with me ceding power or authority away from anyone else. Winning is all about winning. Winning is succeeding. Losing is failing. I hate to lose so a quick look at the statistics is in order. What do you know – the game is rigged. I have NO wins, only a few draws (or, “successful failures”) and all the rest losses. I have achieved a remarkable measure of failure in my life. I know for I have remarked and re-shaped and marked many things over my long, unabated run. That was the focus of my second exchange, today. I have such a string of failures yet I simply have no impetus to give up. Surrender is never an option. While hugging the Universe’s pestle with my feet dangling precariously above the mortise I shout in defiance, “Is *THAT* the best you’ve got???” I really want to go out fighting. As I recently told my friend, Evan, I want to exit this life being vaporized. I want to be hurling through space at such a ferocious velocity that it shreds me into fibers. That would make my having lived all somehow worthwhile. I will not go down no matter how badly beaten. Kill me or I will never let you rest. All of those moronic stickers of “No Fear” and other childish nonsense are for pretenders. The truly fearless don’t have any need to call attention to the fight in which they are actively engaged. Fight to live. Fight for your life; then and only then come talk to me. I don’t know why but I’m still here. Is there a purpose in it? Will I achieve some heroic status? Not likely. I’ll be among the hundreds of thousands that have lived and fought and died that never got the attention of anyone in this world but the Universe had one hell of a time taking them down.

All of which brings us to the third of today’s conversations. I am no sage. I am no wizened authority. Whatever I am is still standing long after having a reason to stand so I must take stock of that uncrushable thing that is not clearly obvious or defined and stop trying to be pliable and compliant. The Universe knows I was never meant to conform but to reform and possibly transform. I am; in direct opposition to the forces of this world. For better or worse I am a force of some other invention and I must recon with myself and let others recon with the consequences. I am through trying to be less than myself to be seen as more by others. I will not stop being even if I stop breathing. What am I going to do about that? I must set my course and follow only one path. Hopefully there will be those walking in the same direction during the journey. I can’t sit by and expect them to wait for me and I can’t wait for anyone else.

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A New Wrinkle - Carhenge!!!

Carhenge - Alliance, Nebraska



Look closely at the picture above. Look familiar? It 's a Stonehenge homage in Alliance, Nebraska made entirely from cars. It is the work of Jim Reinders, who assembled his creation in 1987. I find this brilliant and totally quirky all at the same time. You may find out more at the official site, www.carhenge.com This photograph is a greatly reduced image of a photo by Sam Kaler, one of several entered in the 2007 photo contest.

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A New Wrinkle - The Single (Poor) Guy's Survival Kit

Tools For Living
As a public service I will endeavor to pass on the vital skills I have acquired in recent years to cope and adapt to life after the thrill is gone. When one is down and bailing out it is important to not let the urgency of the moment or the cresting waves of doubt and uncertainty cause you to make reflexive and costly decisions. Do not throw out everything not tied down simply in anticipation of adding buoyancy to your ship of hope. Do not expect to recover anything that might float after it has been discarded during your irrational panic and compulsion to try or do anything. You must catch your breath, assess your options, and methodically navigate a reasoned course.

If you find yourself needing to reduce, recycle, re-use or refuse the weathered remnants of your previous life it is best to allow as much time to pass as possible before making permanent choices. In my own situation I held onto everything left behind for a period of two years. When I prepared to move across country I used a few simple criteria to select what could be preserved and what should be discarded. I then further reduced my two categories to what would most benefit someone else by giving away the better items and ultimately what would fit in my car for the one-time trip between states. My kept items were chosen by what had practical regular use, what had been a fond memory or favorite past-time, and what had sentimental or keep-sake value. This included a few items that were the property of the ex but had been left behind symbolically to underscore the emphasis of wanting me out of her life. Spiteful actions sometimes turn to regrets and I made space to be gracious in offering small gestures of tolerance and understanding. The final category helped determine what to write-off as lost by asking the personally challenging question, “Have you used this at all in two years or even thought about it?”

All of that worked reasonably well but I have since become acquainted with other criteria as circumstances took a second spiral down the giant commode of life. I had begun to miss tools and other material objects that had been disposed of without my consent or involvement at the time of the wife’s exodus. I am particularly mourning the loss of some very expensive and specialized luthier tools – fret files and saws, nut files, scrapers, clamps, jeweler’s saw – those sorts of items. When I recently acquired an apartment it then became glaringly obvious how little I had on-hand to establish my new residence. With no furniture, kitchen appliances, utensils, cookware or place settings it was obvious I’d not be inviting anyone over anytime soon. By “anyone” I of course mean, friends. By “friends” I of course mean, women. By “women” I of course mean one woman. By “woman” I of course mean satisfied depletion of all of my pent up emotions and energy.

I’m a realist – satisfied depletion will remain an elusive dream; so from my stark assessment of my stark apartment I have assembled a survival kit. I have realized that by prioritizing the acquisition of goods with the order of multi-purpose and functional considerations as the priority I can most quickly and efficiently establish a home for myself. Think in terms of “Bang for the buck;” “Killing two birds with one stone;” or any other colloquial terminology that maximizes your efficiency for this exercise. Pragmatically speaking, the hierarchy of needs for a residence seems to be food, tools, personal hygiene, conveniences, entertainment, and decoration. My suggested approach addresses elements of at least the first four categories with a possibility of impacting the last two indirectly. By focusing on basic tools as funds allow I may positively impact the majority of my needs. The practical experience gained from this pursuit has been enlightening. It was not a discernibly direct correlation that being able to fix my car or a wall socket would also fix my life.

Here are my suggestions:

[1] A deep, molded plastic combination Toolbox/Step Stool. This is the thinking man’s ottoman. First, it houses all of the other tools for your survival kit neatly and safely and keeps them out of the way and in a known location. The stool height is more efficient and practical than a ladder for an apartment. The portability is another plus. The hidden benefit is that now you also have a chair. Instead of only having the floor for your repose you may now actually sit. Fold a blanket (also known as a bed roll) into a rectangle of several layers thick and you have a seat cushion for the rather rigid bench of the toolbox.

[2] Knives and other bladed, sharp, edged tools are obvious in function. Whether whittling a piece of wood or peeling a carrot; slicing vinyl tubing or cutting meat you’ve just saved the expense of redundant equipment.

Public Health Notice: Some may read this and be alarmed that the possibility for ingesting hazardous stuff from indiscriminately used tools is too great a risk. I argue that anyone familiar with the use of hand tools and performing their own maintenance and repairs has the foresight to clean things reasonably well and already has made a practice of regularly renewing their Tetanus booster, anyway. Risk, managed.

[3] Hacksaws are flexible devices. Every toolbox should have one. A hacksaw also makes a terrific bread knife.









[4] Files and Rasps have a straightforward application. Fingernail files are nothing more than miniaturized, cross-cut files that have been packaged to appear significant. Save the money and invest in the larger, multi-purpose variety. Your nails may actually look better due to improved leverage and control with the larger versions. They also are excellent for callous removal – or warts, for that matter. Of particular distinction in this group is the surform rasping plane. These tools make light work of body filler contouring or roughing surfaces to shape but an excellent alternative use is as a food grater.

[5] Pliers are indispensable. A slotted channel plier is adjustable to accommodate and grip large or small objects. This makes it very suitable for opening bottle caps and jar lids. This type of pliers, as well as locking pliers also make an excellent fire-proof hand for use as tongs or to hold a hot pan or pot. Since metal conducts heat you are advised to insulate the handle with shop rags or, if luxury permits, a pot holder or kitchen towel. Reaching into small diameter containers calls for the supremacy of the long-nosed pliers. If you have been careful not to splay the ends of this type it also makes a very robust tweezer.

[6] Screwdrivers should include the flat blade, Phillips and Torq style drive heads. Allen (or, Hex) Keys are also recommended but the flat blade and Phillips will not only keep the fasteners of scissors and kitchen utensils taught but may also be used to pry off lids or puncture obstinate containers when can openers are not available.

[7] A preferred but more difficult to locate tool is the Oil Can Spout. This is a tool that has become more difficult to procure due to the industry-wide replacement of cans with plastic bottles and screw caps. The steel spout has a double-edged dagger that pierces the can when pushed into the lid and then creates a very nice pouring spout, This is of sufficient diameter to allow the entire contents of thick soup stock to easily pass by.



[8] Although considered a luxury item the Hand-held Power Drill is a vital work tool. It also makes light work of other duties. In combination with either a bunched-up wire clothes hanger or a paint mixing attachment the power drill makes a wonderful kitchen mixer.






Honorable mention should be made of the Hammer, wood screw, and the Spring Clamp. The hammer is self-explanatory but it can be the persuader for vacuum-sealed lids, clumped ice, and tenderizing meat. The wood screw in combination with first a screwdriver and then locking pliers makes a suitable cork screw. Clamps answer the often frustrating quest for a third hand. Although clamps are excellent as temporary solutions they tend to become permanent repairs. Try to avoid this.


The spring clamp is the Big Daddy to the clothespin. This was readily proven only days ago when I noticed a ring had torn out of my shower curtain. Usually I would simply pierce a hole through the curtain as near as practicable to the offending flaw but I found that the accommodating spring clamp held the curtain securely against the edge of the wall and sealed off a troublesome, leaky area. The spring clamp then went on to impress me with its dexterity as a chip clip.


There you have it. I’m sure there will be other tools that will make useful additions but I am confident that with the suggested equipment listed above you will be well on your way to a return to civilized society and enjoying all of the comforts of home.

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Laundry Day - No. 2, Anticipation Is Making Me Wait

It’s time for another post of odds and ends. I’ve been distracted – having all of my energies diverted to the decorating of another blog. I’d tell you about it but then I would betray my secret identity. Besides, Blogger’s robots decided I was generating a spam blog and locked me out until at least the end of the business week. Many objectionable remarks spewed from my lips when I found that I could not even edit the layout. That almost formed the basis of my next post but then the angry/whiny thing has been done way too much in the short life of this little internet wall of graffiti.

So good citizens of Earth, I am back. I do have my loyal tribe of regular readers to consider. (I think I may have all of four regularly reading and even commenting.) Today I will simply get a few things out into space.

I am still without work. That’s now been four months.

At least I’m losing weight.

I have all the time in the world to exercise and otherwise tweak and improve me – Nope. Against my religious beliefs, apparently.

Like Jerry Lewis has France, I have my most loyal following in South Africa. I win twice, because:

1 - France sucks which South Africa well knows, and,
2 - I’m not Jerry Lewis.

I win three times because the people I’m hearing from and reading about on their own blogs from South Africa are either sadistic axe murderers disguising their true personalities through fictitious blog posts or really nice people. (I have my suspicions about Luke . . .) A truly wizened man would direct the authorities to keep closer tabs on Helen. Women can’t be that nice; can they?

A related bone of contention – there have been several more visitors than have bothered to comment on anything. I believe that proper blog etiquette includes making even the most gratuitous of comments upon visiting someone’s blog so that they know there are real live people checking them out. Also, scroll down a page when you visit and see if there may have been something placed there with just you in mind. I think people skim too much. Now, on my site that is understandable because I write way too much.

Continuing to write way too much and too much information . . .

I have had a protruding callous develop on my right index finger that became a bunker to hide a small plantar wart from my fastidious personal hygiene regimen. I have attacked it with acid again and again. Finally, today I had enough and declared open season. After a refreshing and seldom performed ritual of a soak in a hot tub (Hey! I shower usually, just so you know) I attacked the weakened structure of that callous with a good coarse metal file. Yes I did. I took that sucker down and hopefully out for good. No underlying bone or soft tissue was harmed in the rasp attack. Why would I do that? Because I am left-handed I have always felt more comfortable playing stringed instruments opposite the norm. Imagine that . . . just another way in which I go against the grain. So the reason I am not a monster guitarist was because that callous/wart was adversely impacting my barre chords. Or it could be I’m not a monster guitarist because I don’t practice. Or, never bothered to memorize the major and minor scales. Or, because every one of my guitars is right-handed or in pieces at the moment. Or, it could be I’m just lazy and undisciplined . . ? Naaah. I’m going to have to go with the wart.

Which brings us to today’s theme of anticipation making me wait. There are so many areas of my life where if the ball had bounced another way the difference would be phenomenal. Now I am not one to subscribe to being a victim of Fate. I used to date her younger sister, Circumstance. I have resigned myself to less in everything. All of my own doing. Nobody’s fault but mine. No big, bad woman broke my heart and left me this way and neither can a big, bad woman rescue me. I had a few small-time pricks trip me or kick me while I was down but none of that has any bearing on right now. I’m just not enthused about the living thing anymore. That’s what it comes down to at this point. I am not in anticipation of any new adventure, experience, relationship or discovery to get me all energized to get up and get busy. I’m waiting on the anticipation without any anticipation.

Pick up the guitar – nothing. Go out and see a movie? Maybe later. Exercise and get myself healthy and happy in preparation for something new? Naah. Dream up some new plan for my future? Why?

Where’s the stimulus? Where are the signs of life? I need to stumble onto something fresh because anything I manufacture seems stale. Maybe I’ll coin a new term for this. How about “postmature” ejaculation?

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Out, Out Damn Spot - Breasts, Legs and Thighs

Editor’s Note: This is another article in a continuing series to assist women in understanding the elements that attract or repel men. The previous post covered the considerations for properly wearing a pony tail. This post will continue to address visual elements, as well. It is not intended to be the final word on the subject but it does meet the need of providing a man’s perspective on issues which women’s magazines often fail to consult. Other aspects of the feminine archetype will be discussed at later dates.

Realizing that body issue has tremendous influence on a woman’s well-being it will not be the intent of this commentary to suggest one female body as better or worse than any other. Although this post is meant in good humor it is not at all funny how women hurt themselves emotionally, spiritually and physically because of false perceptions of what validates them as human beings.

The author wishes women would look at clothing as they should makeup – something that may be applied or removed while leaving the person underneath intact.

We would like to thank Henrietta Galinha for modeling our swimwear.

It is my observation that women go for the sales pitch and men go for the packaging. The consumer may be entirely fooled by either one. The adage: Buyer Beware has unfortunately become a part of the negatives associated with dating. Women expect men to lie and men accept that the person underneath all of the camouflage is not the woman he expected. Oscar Wilde observed that women are like sausages. If one is to thoroughly enjoy the experience it is better not to watch their preparation.

I endeavor not to lie or exaggerate in the things I try to convey with this blog. But, the rules are different for women because men want eye candy. I must therefore encourage some small deceits for women because that is what it unfortunately takes to get a man to pay attention long enough to want to know the real woman underneath. So, I will help you make the most of the packaging but I ask a very large favor in return – let that be the extent of your lies. That alone would be a refreshing change that would garnish you more attention than any cup size in the long run. Gravity wreaks havoc on the exterior but it can’t touch a beautiful soul. Enough preaching.

Here in the United States the weather is just approaching warm enough for bathing suits and skimpy traces of clothing for the female population. I am going to emphasize that less is not more. A micro bikini or thong leaves nothing to the imagination. If all you want to be is a one-time porn fantasy for a man then go for as little clothing as possible when he sees you for the first time. That sort of visual works only well for the initial stimulation. After that he’s got nothing left to imagine and he’s moving on to someone where it’s going to take effort to sneak a peek. A hint of bra poking out from under a blouse will make a man look a hundred times whereas an exposed chest will get his attention but he’ll inadvertently be looking for what he can’t see. If everything is on display that look is going to go elsewhere. When a man thinks he’s only going to be able to look but not touch he loses interest when the mystery is gone.

As briefly mentioned in the discussion of pony tails there is a need to direct the eye of a man and to present as smooth and uninterrupted a curve as possible for maximum effect. Compound curves are a woman’s natural asset. Don’t get hung up on the stick figure models and the show girl chest sizes. Sure, there are limits to how much weight is too much but if you are dieting for the well-being of your health the rest really does fall into place. Typically men store fat above the waist and women below. It wouldn’t matter if that were reversed the results would be no more attractive. But what does matter is to understand the places each gender dislikes fat the most will be the last places a diet or exercise will remove it. Where the body stores fat first will be the last place the body burns. For men, that’s going to mean that “love handles” will hang on until there’s nothing but lean everywhere else. For women, “saddle bags” and “junk in the trunk” will be her deep seated problem. Therefore the last thing anyone should do is call attention to these areas. You want to think in terms of smoothing out the bumps.

Think about it, ladies – doesn’t a bathrobe cinched at the waist present a much more attractive figure than a skin-tight T-shirt tucked into a pair of shorts? That’s because the fabric smooths out the curves and doesn’t call attention to bits and pieces but makes everything one piece. A beach cover-up does exactly the same thing. Sometimes a shirt hanging down to the top of a woman’s thighs is the sexiest look on the beach. Why? - For every reason which has been mentioned up to this point: every curve is blended together and the mystery has yet to be revealed. This is the same thinking that causes a well fitted blazer to complete the figure in a woman’s suit and skirt. Take advantage of this.

So it’s time to elaborate on bathing suit style. If you look in the mirror do you zoom in with horror to any parts of yourself? If so then why would you want to single your parts out by the choice of swimwear?

I am not going to claim that a bikini isn’t incredibly attractive. It just isn’t attractive for that large a portion of the population. In these photographs, Henrietta, is wearing a cute little tropical print bikini. She may not be the best figure for the look. For a bikini to work well it has to call attention to what IS NOT being covered by the top and bottom. The legs need to be long in appearance with a bikini. Thighs can’t be “puffy” or thick. The waist needs to be very well defined so that the hips and breasts connect the dots of an hourglass shaped curve. The tummy needs to be taught, the back needs to be sculpted and the cheeks of the buttocks can not droop. That’s an incredible amount of variables to go wrong and fail to present you as the true person you are - more beautiful than just your bits and pieces.

And don’t imagine this only applies to heavier women. A skinny Minnie that looks like a bag of bones will not show any better. You do not have to have obvious breasts to be a desirable woman. You do need reasonably full breasts to make the bikini work. See the difference? The same consideration goes for the behind.

More appropriate for most women would be the one piece suit. I am not talking about those with little skirts designed to hide pear-shaped bottoms. If anything those actually call too much attention to the “problem areas.” One piece suits do not automatically equate to “matronly.” What they often do equate to is a look that blends and harmonizes your features and allows you to be comfortable in showing a reasonable amount of your own skin. You don’t have to spend the entire time you’re in the suit tugging at threads of fabric and trying to stretch them to modest lengths.

That is the whole point. You want to wear something that doesn’t torment you physically and psychologically the entire time you have it on. Please don’t subscribe to someone else’s ideal. Confidence is sexy. One piece suits are all about the cut – whether the leg is cut high or low and how much bikini and cheek area is revealed. Some suits have a nice low neckline that shows a hint of cleavage and may run all the way to the navel. That can be extremely sexy because it’s just like the blouse with the “accidental” button left undone. Likewise, a low cut back accomplishes everything a bikini does but the additional fabric under the arms blends your curves together from top to bottom.

If that doesn’t seem sexy enough then I am going to recommend the investment in a cover-up that allows you to cinch in the waist as high or low as you need to define that hourglass shaped curve with a length that is barely enough to extend to your crotch when you are standing. Any man that fails to notice you then is dead.

The last consideration for appropriate swimwear is complexion. Henrietta has discoloration from blemishes, scars, birthmarks and possibly other conditions. If these bother her then concealment with a one piece suit is another advantage. If they don’t bother her everyone else can get over it. You may also have noticed that while trying for a golden brown tan she has suffered some burns. Never sacrifice your health in the pursuit of beauty. If the men you are accustomed to are only concerned with skin deep, please spend more time being critical of your taste in men instead of your body. If you are only concerned with skin deep then it's time to become comfortable in your own skin.

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Friends Don't Let Friends Perform Sailor Dives Into 4 Feet of Water

Alright . . . Since yesterday’s Evan story was so popular I am going to treat you to another. Evan loves boats. He is particularly fond of kayaks, squirt boats, and C1’s. For those unfamiliar with a C1: picture kneeling like the Land O’ Lakes Butter, Native American squaw brand icon and then picture someone compressing your thighs until your heels disappear into the back of your lower legs. Got it so far? Now, paddle around like that with a goofy smile on your face through jagged rocks, white water rapids and near freezing air and water temperatures while the circulation completely ceases to your lower extremities and that’s Evan’s idea of heaven.

He is a master craftsman, especially in wood. He once bought me a set of traditional Japanese, hollow ground wood chisels. I have lost my marriage, my immediate contact with my children, my home, my career and what passed for self respect but I still have those chisels. I build guitars among other amusements. Evan builds wooden boats and occasionally prostitutes himself and repairs fiberglass hulls. He can hand plane a board over twenty feet long which will perfectly sit along the line of the bucks he has intended for it. He marvels at my skills. I have none in contrast to his. Both of us are fanatical in our devotion to the “old ways.” The shipwright is all but gone but there is still my friend Evan to prevent its demise. I love the sea but he would live on it if he could. Where I have a passing interest he has a devotion that borders on unrequited love.

As a consequence of our tireless longings to do beautiful work with our hands we had worked on many projects, together. We still spend a lot of our conversations detailing our latest wish lists for projects. I have a tendency to not suffer such distractions as concerns for my safety which makes the project ever so much more interesting. For Evan, it makes the projects ever so much messier when he’s preparing bandages and tourniquets for me. There was a particular incident when he rolled up in front of my house in a 1965 Mustang Coupe. We were in our mid-twenties and so although the Mustang was just fine as it came from the factory, obviously we could improve it. Work began. I sketched out and then completed the casting dies for the new aluminum valve covers. We got the green sand for the casting molds and Evan finished those after I rechecked my draft angle calculations, checked wind speeds, etc. etc. . . . over-analyzed everything as usual. Those valve covers were so good we just couldn’t wait to start tearing down the engine and rebuild it.

Well, I couldn’t wait.

I started wrenching on all of the fasteners and got down to a few head bolts that were a little stubborn after roughly twenty years of high engine heat. “Wait,” said Evan., “Rather than do something stupid why don’t I just go get something like WD-40 to free those seized studs.” “Eh?. Something stupid? Nonsense,” said I with my usual pluck and assurance, “I’ll just slide this length of pipe over the end of the ratchet to increase the fulcrum and my leverage [grunt, strain, minor internal bleeding . . .] and . . .” CRACK!!!

As I write this, I’m looking at the scar on my left thumb. I had both hands clenched around that pipe and put everything I had behind it. In a demonstration of Newton’s Second Law of Motion, when that bolt loosened, there was barely any resistance to the force I had exerted. Not only had the length of pipe increased my leverage but it also increased the mass. Mass multiplied times acceleration equals force (F=ma). It certainly does . . . Picture the position a thumb is in when making a fist and then picture that bent knuckle making contact with a sharp corner on a cast iron chunk of engine. I split that puppy wide and deep. There was some concern the wound might never actually close, since it could not be stitched and I had to rely on butterfly bandages as my only recourse.

This all occurred during Evan’s search for the solvent so imagine the look on his face when he returned to find spurting blood and me trying to stem the tide with an oily rag. In jubilation I proclaimed, “Got that bolt loose . . . “

But that story was just the setup for the real story. Because each of us was so convinced that our personal interests were superior sources of enjoyment over the other one’s hobbies and ambitions we were always trying to provide opportunities for each to experience the real deal. Evan’s turn came at the community college swimming pool. I am an excellent swimmer. I had been trained as a life guard at only twelve years of age. I know pool safety. No. Really – why are you smirking like that? I do! But, Evan is the water baby. He was teaching me some techniques used by sailors and among those was the Sailor Dive. The Sailor Dive, as successfully demonstrated to me by Evan, looks like a normal dive except that instead of extending your arms over your head and pointing your hands to form a sort of spear with your entire body you instead dive with your arms at attention against your sides. (As in the T-Shirt graphic for this post). “I can do that,’ I said, and off I went.

The Reason I Grew a Beard
The guy famous for calculating the volume of a gnat’s anus didn’t even consider that he was six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Evan. Springing gleefully into oblivion and only four feet of water when you are six feet, two inches tall presents difficulties. It also presents a brilliant display of intense red flashes across your entire field of vision. My chin, nose and forehead all made contact with the bottom of the pool at the same time. As my face detached from the grout and tile I paused to assess, “Hmmm. Not good.” I had recently learned of the means to kill a human being by shoving their nose into their brain. I figured I had just succeeded in testing that knowledge. The expiration was supposed to take no more than thirty seconds so I stood up in the pool and counted to thirty-six and determined it was likely I would live. It was also good that I had not forgotten any numbers along the way; two good signs. I turned to face Evan who was ghostly pale. “That was a sickening thud.” I asked him what was wrong. “You’re bleeding.” “Oh, Yeah . . . I know” I said calmly. Evan wasn’t so calm, “NO. Y-O-U A-R-E Bleeeee-DING!?!” Now, you medically inclined know that there are so many willing capillaries and such in the skin of the face that love to bleed. Mix that with a lot of water and it looks like hemorrhaging. So, I trotted off to the showers to rinse off and then get a look-see in the mirror for myself.

In the shower I could not figure out why as I ran the jet of water across the bridge of my nose that blood poured from my nostrils. When I got to the mirror I understood. The reason I had not died was because the cartilage in my nose had come out rather than gone in. It was sticking out of the top of my nose just below my eyebrows. The gouge in the flesh of the nose around the protruding, white, rubbery stuff was purple, and blue, and red. I spread and pulled up on the wound, the guy standing nearby watching me fainted, and the cartilage popped back inside my nose. All better.

The tile used to cover the swimming pool had left a reverse imprint in my face. My chin and forehead had what I was later told is called “Swimmer’s Cross” by competitive swimmers that dive too deep and scrape bottom. I headed out to locate Evan and then went to file an accident report. (I told you I was a trained life guard) I was the picture of loveliness with my red, criss-crossed gouges, punctured nose, and purple bruises under my eyes as I assured Evan that I was just fine. The staff turned out to be two women the same ages as Evan and myself. I do not think that “life guardettes” is the technical term but this was pre-Baywatch. The Blonde took immediate compassion on me and her nurturing, Florence Nightingale, genes kicked into overdrive. The Brunette must have been interrupted from her snack of lemons and persimmons and did not care for me - at all. As the rescuing angel began to ask me questions from the report form and apply bandages to my wounds the other stood rigidly with arms crossed and her weight cocked to one hip tracing the inside of her lips with her tongue. This was a marriage made in heaven for both of us. Guardette Sweet asked what happened and as I attempted to answer, Evan interjected, “Dummy hurt himself while performing stupid tricks at pool.” I laughed as did Evan and even Guardette Sour but Guardette Sweet shot Evan a look of death such as I have never seen. Several outer layers of his skin melted away . . . maybe I’m exaggerating . . . but, not by much. Evan continued to make insulting pokes at me to the delight of Guardette Sour and the glares of Guaredette Sweet and a good time was had by all. If Evan and I hadn’t been such morons we would have asked those two lovely ladies out. Ce la vie.

What did I learn from that experience?

1. Friends will be there to put the proper spin on your death.
2. Absolutely nothing about proper conduct around a swimming pool.
3. Practically nothing about my own mortality.
4. A woman’s attention makes everything all better.
   

A sidebar would be that when I went back to work I wanted to make the cuts and gouges less hideous for my co-workers. I found that by going for the humorous angle I learned something about the people around me. I used Snoopy and Woodstock comic strip bandages on my face. I thought that it would get a chuckle and the girls would find it cute. Nope. I found out the hidden feelings of the women I worked with by wearing those stupid things. The ones that secretly liked me were furious when they saw me wearing those! Who knew that something so simple could flush them out of hiding??! That was the event that defined my forever screwing with people’s heads. So, I guess you could say that dive knocked some sense into me.

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It's Not Easy Being Me - But I'm the best man for the job!

Each of us has gifts. John Lennon had, and I have the gifts of misery and sarcasm. Misery indeed loves company. John had Ringo. I have Evan.

What in the world am I talking about? A great deal of the inspiration for John’s songs was a result of spending time with Ringo. In ordinary conversation, Ringo, would say extraordinary things. Expressions such as “hard day’s night,” and, “eight days a week” were pure Ringo. These things just flowed from his lips in the middle of the monotony of a day in the life because “tomorrow never knows.”

My relationship with my friend Evan has all of the same attributes. Simply amazing things come out of his mouth without any strain or forced effort. We are members of the mutual admiration society but the difference is like comparing the design of German and Japanese automobiles. I am like the German engineers. I set out to design an ashtray and although the result will be a magnificent achievement in precision it will require twenty-six pieces and seven screws to assemble. Meanwhile, the Japanese designer assembles most of the interior with eight fewer pieces and only four screws. That is my relationship with Evan. I will sweat the details and set the tolerances to plus or minus 0.00003 of a millimeter, and include a complete ISO 9000 compliant CAD drawing package and a finite element analysis model before I even present my idea to him and he will glance at it and ask, ”Why don’t you just use a stick and a rubber band?”

My reply is of course, “Because that would be simple and work and wouldn’t be any fun, Damn it, Evan!!!”

[*sigh*]

Anyway, having Evan around simplifies a whole bunch of my convoluted approach to thinking and living. Today’s T-Shirt message is pure Evan. That is an original Evan quote, “It’s not easy being ME but I’m the best man for the job.” It’s so deep yet so simple. That’s his eloquent solution to my complex problems. When we first met he described me to others as a simple-minded genius. That sounds more like an insult than a compliment but he meant that I tunneled right down to the core of things, identified the problem, and suggested the optimum solution. What happened to that guy? Well, I think a big part of it is that I am no longer among those like Evan that just by being around – turn things around. I am not forgetting my friends locally, Randy and Steve, in particular, by any means. They have literally fed me and housed me and kept me sane the past five years. But there is a symbiotic relationship with Evan that just happened. Where Randy and Steve are real friends that tell me when I’m being stupid I think only Evan comprehends my stupidity. Every work day on his drive home I get a phone call and forty-five minutes of pure Evan. He lives 1900 miles away but makes it a point to check up on me. When he has no answers listening is enough. When he speaks there is always an answer worth my listening. I swear he has cameras and microphones inside my head.

Now, I look back quite a lot in these posts. I do so because I believe that when you’ve lost your way it is better to retrace your steps until you get your bearings rather than fumble around. Evan always points true East, where I grew up. Randy and Steve point true Southwest, where I live, now. When you are searching for something lost you should start where you are certain that you saw it last, right? The things I’m not finding inside myself any longer are back East.

Friendship, just as other marks of character, is forged and tested through adversity. My recent season of testing has been continuous and intense for five years. That produces a different temper than a cycle of heating and cooling as I experienced growing up. Evan shared those cycles with me and we were forever fused together as an alloy of allies. We met in high school . . . in detention. What better crucible to fire a friendship?! Our being found there reflected our personalities. I was being punished for defiance. He was being detained for ingenuity. Our common bond was the recognition of the other’s achievement.

I had been summoned to the head of the English department and informed that I demonstrated a real talent for writing. However, she decided that the proper way to inspire and motivate my efforts was to show me the work of a (wait for it) female student whose work was nearly as unique as mine but not as developed. Her challenge to me was that the other student would receive a higher grade than mine so that I would apply myself with even more fervor to raise the bar. I informed her that negative reinforcement would yield negative results and that if I were not given the grade I deserved I would not write another assignment the remainder of the year. She balked at what she considered an idol threat and informed me such an action would land me in detention and that I would fail the class. She did not raise the grade and I did not write. I languished in detention for the remainder of the school year without submitting another work. She awarded me an “A” for the class and I chastised her that both of us were cheated out of my developing skill under her tutelage due to her ridiculous posturing. Yes. I am still resentful.

Evan made far more noise than I. It so happened that one day as classes began a deep, thunderous BOOM reverberated through the halls of our school. The experience had all of the earmarks of an explosion. The floors shook and the assembled mass held its collective breath until all seemed good. As fate would have it that was the same day I defied my English teacher. On the third floor of our well equipped and very new school was a fantastic art studio. The tables in that room were oak with two inch thick, solid slab slate tops. Each table sat ten students; very large tables, indeed. Evan’s home room was assigned to that art room. Three days earlier while fidgeting with one of the table legs he had noticed that whoever had assembled the furniture did not tighten the fasteners. He was able to completely remove the bolts. By the fourth morning he had managed to work from leg to leg until all four corners were free of fixed hardware. The table remained together by delicate balance and its own undisturbed weight. When the first period teacher huffed in and tossed her stack of bookwork on the empty table it collapsed and the several hundred pound table top dropped like . . . well, like a rock, oddly enough. Now you know the source of the explosive boom.

Rather than learn any valuable lessons from our experiences we instead praised each other for our noble feats and became fast friends. With so many interesting adventures after that it is best to stop the account. What is remarkable is that having been Best Man for each other’s weddings and after thirty years the bond has never weakened and seems that it never will. To have experienced that once is a gift but to have experienced as many times as I have is a miracle. So, in tribute to Evan and to Randy and Steve I would like to complicate the T-Shirt slogan as only I can and claim that,” It’s Not Easy Being Me But My Friends Make Be The Best Man For The Job.”

Treasure your true friends and make sure they know that you do.

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Out, Out Damn Spot - Hello Kitty Wanted For Questioning

Kimono-clad Hello Kitty holds her certificate received from Japan's Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism Minister Tetsuzo Fuyushiba, left, at his office in Tokyo, Monday, May 19, 2008. Fuyushiba appointed the popular cartoon character as ambassador to welcome tourists from China and Hong Kong. Photo Credit: Koji Sasahara / AP

On the heels of yesterday’s announcement that Hello Kitty had been named Japan’s tourism ambassador to Hong Kong and China, allegations of involvement in an ongoing police investigation surfaced, but were quickly retracted. A source from Japan’s office of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism agreed to speak on condition of anonymity.

The source alleged that a crackdown on illegal labor practices involving sweatshops manufacturing the many products of the Hello Kitty empire had raised suspicions that, “Ms. Kitty was in this thing up to her whiskers.” However, further investigation put such speculation into doubt. After demonstrating remarkable poise in the face of such allegations, Hello Kitty, remained characteristically silent while freely cooperating with authorities and providing corroborating evidence for her attorney’s claims that she was not involved in such atrocities.

An attempt to verify the source’s information with police was rebuffed as the police will not comment on current investigations. A subsequent purse of incriminating documents was covertly left at this reporter’s desk, and although not as yet authenticated, further implicates Hello Kitty on corruption and racketeering charges. “That’s one felonious feline,” purred a high ranking official in the court, “but if you’re waiting for her to blink it’s never going to happen.”




[L-R] Hello Kitty's gal pal, Fifi;
purported missing friends, Cathy & Tiny Chum.

Rumor and conjecture are a seemingly daily bone of contention for international celebrities of Kitty’s and jet setting gal pal Fifi’s caliber. But the fur may start flying if any evidence links her to the mysterious disappearance of her close friends, Tiny Chum and Cathy. Although the close confidants and constant public companions of Hello Kitty have not been seen in nearly a week, authorities are reluctant to declare them officially missing persons. Grumblings among Kitty’s closest companions are the most provocative accusations being cast in her direction.

Surprisingly the most vocal has been Tippy, long-time hanger-on with a well publicized romantic interest in Ms. Hello. His own history of stalker-like behavior and substance abuse issues (two DUI in the past six months) has all but discredited his alarm but it is the shy avoidance of Hello’s other friends to come to her defense which has allowed the accusations to have some merit. Our anonymous source also indicated that the time of the sudden disappearances coincided too conveniently with the government’s decision to close the books on the working condition scandal and select Hello Kitty – a major financial contributor to the election coffers of many officials – to her role as ambassador to the very country in which the alleged misdeeds occurred.

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A New Wrinkle - Point Taken

Chest in - Stomach Out

PROVO, Utah (AP) - A newspaper photographer got a little too close to the action at the state high school track championships — and was speared through the leg by a javelin.

Ryan McGeeney of the Standard-Examiner was spared serious injury Saturday, and even managed to snap a photo of his speared leg while others tended to him.

"If I didn't, it would probably be my editor's first question when I got back," McGeeney said.





A photo of Ryan McGeeney's leg, as shot by McGeeney himself, after a javelin went through his leg at a track meet. (Ryan McGeeney / Associated Press)







The 33-year-old McGeeney, an ex-Marine who spent six months in Afghanistan, was taking pictures of the discus event and apparently wandered into off-limits area set aside for the javelin.

Striking just below the knee, the javelin tip went through the skin and emerged on the other side of his leg.

"It wasn't real painful. ... I was very lucky in that it didn't hit any blood vessels, nerves, ligaments or tendons," McGeeney said.


Much of the javelin was cut off at the scene. The piece in McGeeney's leg was removed at a hospital, and he received 13 stitches.

The javelin was thrown by Anthony Miles, a Provo High School student who said his "heart just stopped" when he saw what happened.

"One of the first things that came to my mind was, 'Good thing we brought a second javelin,"' Miles' coach, Richard Vance, said Monday. He said Miles was "in a little bit of shock," but he assured the athlete it was not his fault.

With a subsequent throw, Miles went on to win the state title in javelin for teams in Provo High's size classification, 4-A.

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A New Wrinkle - Season Finales for BONES and House M.D.

First things, first. No, that is NOT my belly . . .

For those that have not seen one or both of these finales I am not going to play the spoiler. (I'm rude, not insensitive.) I am going to say that I found both of them disturbing in appropriate ways. Whoever the sadistic forces were behind these productions got it just right. I am saddened and extremely curious where each goes from here. I am also going to ruminate on the myriad subtle details of each for several days and then I will be bored out of my mind until the seasons begin again in the Fall.

I have yet to find a suitable outlet for expressing what goes on in the House universe but I have come across a very good (which, coming from me is an 11 on a scale of 10) blog site for BONES. Its host does a thorough job of turning over every rock to unearth the faintest whisper of news about the show, its cast, crew, producers, catering service - the works. Visit Obsessed with Bones and check it out for yourself.

Due to the duplicity of my nature I find it curious that I can embrace both of these shows and somehow identify with a character in each. I am not alone, there are people that especially concur that I am the real life persona of Dr. Gregory House. Based on the last scene in the finale when he is betwixt and between I'd have to say it's definitely true.

In BONES, I totally "get" what Agent Seeley Booth is all about. I don't have his distinguished service record but I live by the same creed.

So, somehow I can be a self-serving, manipulative - direct, brilliant, ass like House but I am also the all feeling, morally-centered defender of the wronged. Go figure.

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Give My Creation Life

I have never been one to shy away from pain nor have I ever been a masochist. Physical pain is easiest to handle in my purview. Bodily threats and risk of injury are taken in stride. There’s a certain acceptable risk factor and beyond that it comes down to whether one has demonstrated through skill and sometimes blind luck the management of the threat and avoided serious consequences; or, through inept and foolish effort, endures wounds or trauma as a consequence to their folly.

Emotional pain lingers far longer and can not have any real remedy directly applied. This causes most to avoid matters of the heart over what matters to the head. Emotional issues are more like a toxin spread throughout the organs of the body. The smallest prick of the soul and the complications can become unmanageable in a moment of time. The symptoms mimic so many possible causes and obfuscate any honest diagnosis. A physical scar is often able to be accepted or forgotten but the emotional scar may never actually heal. One forgets the intensity of physical pain and reflexively avoids experiencing any unnecessarily but emotional pain can be remembered in full and actually hobbles the sufferer ever after. The rational mind wants to find patterns, hazards, and dangerous behaviors to identify and avoid in order not to make the same mistake, twice. Unfortunately, the heart tries to provide the mind with the same sort of list of the intangible issues of living and the results are the avoidance of a singular event as if it were indicative of a predictable cause and effect. Subsequently, the desire to avoid hurt generates a list of occurrences that overwhelm the ever shrinking expectation of desirable experiences. People shrink back and become afraid to touch or be touched. Memory no longer serves but enslaves.

There was a time when I was undaunted by challenge or threat. The possible risks held no sway over the urgency of my passions to obtain whatever I purposed. Any opposition was faced down with defiance and blood in my eye. I took what I wanted, who I wanted, when I wanted. A shift of perspective corrected some of that inordinate self focus and I was not afraid to explore feelings or experience the rough handling that exposing them would guarantee. It was deemed an acceptable level of risk. Those experiences did not adversely affect me because I had put myself in the line of fire deliberately and anticipated the consequences with a fair approximation of the causality and cumulative disruption to my comfort.

I was smug and I was arrogant and I was defining the rules of the game so there was really little chance of me suffering all that greatly. I put that entirely aside and left myself completely open and vulnerable . . . and I was torn to pieces. I wasn’t betrayed by an enemy. I wasn’t deceived by a friend. I wasn’t left to rot by a stranger. I was wounded to the same extent that I had wounded her. For neither was it out of conscious effort or vengeance or self- protection but out of simply living and getting burned by singular events that had nothing to associate them but that they were grouped together because the pain was the same. That pain overwhelmed our senses and left us numb and shattered. Rational escape from the wounds was warped by the struggle to get free of the pain. Once pulled apart there were no remaining threads left whole to affect a proper mend but the pain remained intact.

She moved out and moved on. I dug in and went under. I have spent too much time sifting through the dirt for traces and shards of the life we had together. The pieces I discover are ugly and mangled. The slivers pierce and cut me but no matter how many I gather the restoration is incomplete. Too much of us and too much time has been lost. It doesn’t matter that I continue to bravely face the pain; there is no substance behind it. I am not afraid of a broken heart. I am afraid of our broken promises. She may have been the one to leave but that does not mean that I was wholly there before her decision. Promises were broken; I failed and she failed and we failed. I am not afraid of failure. I am afraid of our surrender. Where was my defiance against our common enemy? Why did I shrink back from the challenge? Why did we believe the journey to be so daunting? I am not afraid of the journey. I am afraid of stopping to rest and never starting up, again. I mustn’t be afraid of the pain. I mustn’t rest to try and escape it. I can not allow what I mustn’t to prevent me from doing what I should.

I am starting with something that is emptier than starting with nothing. I keep insisting upon reviving that which is dead. How do I put aside the emptiness and the hollow echoes of that which once fulfilled me? Let go. Get up. There’s nothing left alive there anymore. I have sewn together a figure of straw and stuffed it with my memories. My tears won’t give it eyes or my cries a voice. My wasted breath won’t give it life or my blood a beating heart. I stand in this place, alone.

The journey is not over. I’ve rested long enough.

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