The Debates I’m Not Moderating

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Department of Let’s Get this Out Of The Way:
Tuesday’s Democratic Debate

Although I didn’t have a stopwatch handy, it seemed to me that Hillary Clinton was given more time than the other candidates for answers and rebuttals. That, combined with her center position on stage and being able to speak last for both the opening and closing remarks, gave her a front runner glow. Was that all just happenstance, or was CNN’s subliminal bias betrayed by those logistics?

Upfront: I am a Bernie Sanders supporter (changed my party registration – I am typically listed as Independent – so I can vote for him in the primary). I thought all of the candidates comported themselves well, including the three no chance in hell lesser-knowns…although not for one moment did I find Clinton’s I-changed-my-mind-due-to-facts-not-polls-I-didn’t-flip-flop Pacific Rim trade pact switcherroo defense convincing.

As for the post-event question everyone seems to pose – Who, in your opinion, won the debate? I’d say, moderator Anderson Cooper.

Really. Cooper was cool, confident, and in control of a situation where all of the participants are looking for any opening to skew things their way.

* He opened by (essentially) challenging each candidate to defend or rebut what is seen as their biggest weak spot;
* He was incredibly well-prepared re the candidate’s backgrounds and political positions;
* He paid attention to the answers and asked relevant follow-up questions;
* He asked no softball or flippant questions;
* He pointed out when candidates dodged questions or answered with non-answers.

Future moderators, take note. All debates should be refereed thusly. Come to think of it, why can’t Cooper do all the debates?  Hell, I’d even watch the next Republican Clown Cavalcade if he’d moderate it.


Oh, stop it. I bet you say that to all the boys.

Oh, stop it. I bet you say that to all the boys.


I was somewhat bemused with the lesser-known candidate my brain labeled Goofy Smiling Guy, aka former RI Governor Lincoln Chafee. This was because Chafee…do I really need to say it?…had this perpetual, goofy smile, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was standing on an actual presidential debate stage, podium and everything, wheee!

Also, in both his opening and closing remarks, Chafee stressed what he apparently thought was a two-for-one bonus (i.e, both a plus for him and a jab at Clinton): that he was the rare political bird with “no scandals” – nope, not one [1] – in his many years of public service.



No scandal here...except for that lame necktie..

No scandal here…except for that lame necktie..

Well, okay. However, related to Cooper’s final question – “Which enemy are you most proud of?” – having acquired “no scandals” in a long political career isn’t necessarily something to brag about, IMHO. Instead of being indicative of your unimpeachable ethical standards, being scandal-free could simply signify that you never took a political risk, or that no one whose positions you opposed found you powerful, effective or threatening enough to try to bribe you, set you up or otherwise tarnish your reputation.

*   *   *

Department of Just Because

Lady Marmalade break. Gitchi gitchi ya ya da da, y'all.

Lady Marmalade break.                      Gitchi gitchi ya ya da da, y’all.


*   *   *

The Book I’m Not Reviewing

“People write on Huffington Post, they write for Goodreads…valuable sites owned by big tech companies that make a lot of money for those companies. Writers choose to write there for nothing and to provide content for nothing. That’s another issue…something that writers are doing deliberately.”
(Roxanna Robinson, President of the Authors Guild, in her article for The Bookseller, “Authors Guild Warns Authors Over Contributing Online Articles For Free.”


I use Goodreads, mostly as a reading log for moiself. That’s about as far as it goes (ahem, along with this blog) for me providing free content. In rating something like 437 books I think I have twice made a one or two sentence comment. I give books a star rating, even as I cringe while doing so at the oversimplification of such a system. [2].  I do not write actual reviews, FAVOR [3], including my refusal to participate in yet-another-way-writers-do-work-without-getting-paid.

However (you didn’t see that coming, right?)….

Here is something resembling a review, for a recent book I rated.

It was a book I wanted to like, because it revolved around stories of certain ruminant of which I am fond.


Coulda had a three star rating, but not enough goat screaming.

Coulda had a three star rating, but not enough goat screaming.


I liked the brief excerpt the book’s author read during one of those local/community arts “literary events” in which I overdosed on Valium and forced myself to attend was invited to participate.

For those of you unfamiliar with such events, they are sometimes called Book readings or Literary fairs, are oftentimes sponsored by a local independent bookstore, and are almost at all times attended by only the local authors themselves, a smattering of the author’s friends and family, plus a few wannabe authors who wannabe picking the brains of Actual Published Authors ®  for free advice as to how they can go from wannabe to Actual Published Authors ® .

(Translation: few or no books are actually sold. [4] )

The wannabes hang around afterward to tell you how much they enjoyed your reading, and gosh golly they really want to get a copy of your book (which is usually right in front of them, or twenty steps away, at the booksellers’ table), and will try to find a used copy online or check out a copy at the library. They say this as they flash their wide-eyed, isn’t that great? grin, ostensibly expecting you to be overjoyed at their “interest” in your work, despite the fact that none of the book acquiring venues they mention provide any remuneration to either the book’s author or the event’s sponsor. [5]

My favorite comments from book fair attendee/writer wannabees – comments I have heard too-much-more-than-once – come from those who’ve wonder in awe to me about how I managed to have more than one book published by “real publishers” –

I think I should start by self-publishing. It’s easier, right?



About my few or no books are actually sold observation: sometimes the event authors buy each other’s books…which in my book doesn’t count…and which is how I came to obtain a copy about the Book That Shall Be Reviewed But Not Named.

Once again, I digress – this time, in getting on with my non-review.

Due to hearing the afore-mentioned enjoyable excerpt, I violated my oft-mentioned, principle-from-experience (which is: in general, I do not buy self-published books).  I bought the book, which has been in my enough-to-read-until-the-nuclear-holocaust pile for almost a year. I hadn’t gotten to cracking the covers, but as per the Sad Events mentioned in an earlier post, I was looking for “light” bedtime reading. But, by light I was referring to emotional impact, not basic, compositional competency.

Yep, the book was self-published, but not exactly in the Literary Lone Wolf manner. Many euphemisms have arisen to disguise self-publishing ventures. This book, as per a blurb in the book’s back pages, was the product of a “too tiny to be considered a micro-press.”

Micro press. In my petty imagination – aided by anecdotes participants in such ventures have shared – I picture the micro press members gathering coffee-klatch style to trade woe-is-me-bitches stories about the nasty mainstream publishers who reject their work [6]….




I’m trying not to be mean. Really. But no matter now micro or macro your press may be, please oh please, if you have a book in print, make it print-worthy.

Of course, with CreateSpace and Kobo and the ever-increasing number of self-publishing platforms (the term, before the e-book debacle revolution, was subsidy or Vanity Press), everyone from the pontificating drunk at the corner bar to my late Aunt Erva’s Rottadoodle can now have a book in print. [7]

So: you no longer have to go down to the copy shop to construct your spiral bound “book” for friends and family – you can have something that looks like a real book. And maybe you don’t care to be taken seriously as an Actual Published Author.  But whether you consider yourself a “real writer” or hobby publisher, for FFS, structure, plotting, grammar and punctuation matter.

And if perchance you want to be taken seriously as an author, don’t have your spouse (or any member of your family, or someone who owes you money) write your author bio/intro. Also, have your copy professionally edited, and by professionally I mean someone who knows what they’re doing, not your best buddy in your sewing circle/Tupperware party/retired fisherman’s club  micro-mini-press group. Find a truth teller, not a cheerleader/ego massager. Find someone outside your circle, someone who isn’t afraid of hurting your feelings, someone whom you will reimburse for their work. Isn’t the point to improve, to learn to be a better writer?

Here’s a bit of advice, for which I am once again violating my High Professional Standards ® (i.e., giving it away for free): a clever descriptive phrase used once is…well…clever. Used repeatedly, it becomes annoying and embarrassing – the literary equivalent of a sitcom character’s catchphrase (Dy-no-mite, anyone?).



Instead of writing we couldn’t afford a certain purchase the author used something ala my bank account groaned.  Yep, that’s a nice variant, and a chuckle-worthy image comes to mind. Now, be honest with yourself: that phrase isn’t destined to become a classic, no matter how many times you repeat it. Don’t use it a second time (and certainly not a third) in the same chapter.  As per my earlier advice, a good editor would have fixed that.

*   *   *

It’s Good to Dream

Earlier this week, during one of my morning walks, I was thinking about how I’d like to hear musical genre variants of classic TV show theme songs. [8] Disclosure:  you could inscribe the sum total of my musical talent on the tip of my index finger and still have room for the Declaration of independence; thus, this is not a project I moiself can undertake.  But for all you musical geniuses who follow this blog [9], I would be eternally grateful if you could come up with the following:


* a mariachi version of the Star Trek (original series, or Next Gen) theme
* The Ramones telling me how to get to Sesame Street
* A hard rock version – I’m thinking AC/DC – of the theme to The Love Boat
* a polka-flavored rendition of  that bad-ass, eight note riff from Mission: Impossible
* The Mary Tyler Moore Show theme as interpreted by Run DMC
* Weird Al Yankovic’s take on the ticking stopwatch intro to Sixty Minutes
* an all-tuba performance of the theme to Bonanza


And of course, Luciano Pavarotti singing the theme to The Brady Bunch. The gripping story of “the lovely lady/who was bringing up three very lovely girls” is one that lends itself to operatic treatment, Nest-ce-pas?




*   *   *

May your dreams be good and filled with melodic variety,
May you be proud of your enemies and patient with your literary critics,
and may the hijinks ensue.



Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!



[1] And if that isn’t a call for people to try to dig up some dirt on him, I don’t know what is. Anyone remember Gary Hart?

[2] Yo, Goodreads, how’s about at least a half and quarter star options?

[3] All together now, ye acronym amnesiacs:  FAVOR = For A Variety Of Reasons.

[4] Your friends and family already have your books, right?

[5] Really. They fucking say this to your fucking face.

[6] Heartless bastards who insist on basic grammatical proficiency, coherent narratives and other nit-picking shit.

[7] My late Aunt Erva – who was in fact quite punctual – never owned a Rottadoodle (a breed which to my knowledge doesn’t actually exist, but should).  But if Erva were alive today and had a dog, I’m sure her pooch would have a self-published memoir in print.

[8] Because, why not?

[9] Not to get all zen on y’all, but what is the sound of one mouth chortling?

The Trigger I’m Not Warning

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Trigger warning: image of child abuse:


From NY Times article re the Gucci Spring 2016 collection.

From NY Times article re the Gucci Spring 2016 collection.


Could someone please alert UNICEF?

*   *   *

A Book of Oh, Barf

“It’s tough to handle this fortune and fame,
 Everybody’s so different I haven’t changed.”
(Life’s Been Good, Joe Walsh)

Trigger warning: this post contains strong opinions, vulgarities and strong language.


 “I have a love/hate relationship with ____________. “

That’s what I would say; that’s the standard (read: worn out) phrase I might employ, were I to describe something about which I am ambivalent. Except that when it comes to the topic of literary fame and publicity, my feelings are definitely one-sided.

My loathing for such was rekindled Monday morning, as I thumbed through The Arts section of The NY Times, looking for the crossword and KenKen puzzles. [1] A full page ad opposite the puzzles trumpeted an upcoming reception celebrating the release of a new book by what I refer to as one of those TWAB POTS (scrambled acronym for Authors Who Have Started To Believe Their Own Publicity).  Here is the ad’s description for the book of what is likely to be a slim volume, given the subject matter: [2]

“______ (TWAB POTS’ name) has inspired millions with her wisdom, courage and honesty. Now she has selected 100 of her most popular and inspirational quotes for ______ ( pretentiously terse book title), a new volume she calls a “book of yes.”


I keep a barf bag close at hand, because you never know.

I keep a barf bag close at hand, because you never know.


“A book of yes.”



Really – and, dang! Yet another of my working titles stolen. So now I have to call my collection of 100 of my most obscure and disheartening quotes, A Book of, Fuck No, What The Hell Were You Thinking?!”

Yet again, I digress.




The ad further informed me that I may “hear the NY Times best-selling author discuss the twists and trials of her remarkable life” – an offer I shall decline, given my suspicions that author’s twists and trials have been somewhat calculated so as to procure book contracts.

Okay; I could be off-base about that previous opinion. But one thing I know for sure is that it is not good for one’s sense of self to voluntarily or otherwise [3] be subject to fawning adulation – no matter what the reason and no matter what your profession.

Honestly, how truly wise and courageous is it to allow yourself to be hyped for your wisdom, courage and honesty?

Our society revels in gleefully harping on the pomposity and egomania of celebrities. I am no exception, and oft mourned in this space what I see as the celebritization of authors.  Surrounded by such public relations horse manure hyperbole, how does or can you maintain a sense of perspective and modesty re your place in the larger world?

Fortunately (and, obviously), in my case, that question has never been put to the test. Still, were I to show up at a reading of one of my books and see a larger-than-life head-shot of me [4] on a banner, accompanied by a description of how my remarkable life and writing has inspired millions, no Sharpie ®  would go uncapped in my efforts to bring the proceedings down to earth.


Something like this, only even less mature.

Something like this, only even less mature.

*   *   *

The Return of the Asshat

Trigger warning: this post contains opinions, language and pictures that may be offensive to people who watch reruns of Hee Haw and sigh, Now, that’s entertainment!


Let’s say you are a corporate CEO who employs a stable of intelligent and accomplished engineers. Do you utilize their technical experience and skills to find and/or create sources of renewable energy, or upgrade devices to remove pollutants from the air we all breathe…or maybe just design a more energy efficient window defroster?


VW = Veracity-Free Weasels

VW = Veracity-Free Weasels


Nah. You use them to cheat : Volkswagen Emissions Scandal Widens

You pay them to find a way to break the law and thus facilitate even more spewage of toxins into the atmosphere. [5]

Volkswagen, this Asshat of the Week award is for you.



*   *   *

Department of Non Sequitur Segue to a Smoky Wee-wee Anecdote

Trigger warning: smoky wee-wee anecdote.


Dateline: First Day of Fall, out for my morning walk. Passing through a certain neighborhood, I noticed the air smells like what I can only imagine a bucket of piss would smell like if you put in under the lid of one of those BBQ smoker contraptions.

Not the autumnal aroma I was hoping for.


BBQ lovers, pull up a seat, urine for a treat.

BBQ lovers, pull up a seat, urine for a treat.


*   *   *

Trigger warning: If you think phrases like “trigger warning” should be posted before strongly worded or controversial opinions, you shouldn’t be reading any blogs and definitely should not be browsing the internet.


Son K is (re) taking up fencing (he and his sister, Belle, took a fencing class many, many years ago). He has signed up for a couple of trial session with a local fencing academy, wherein one can drop in on ongoing classes. He returned home Tuesday night, after the first session, and said that although the class he attended is listed as for adults, at age twenty-two he seemed to be one of the elder class members.

When I asked if that bothered him, K smiled wryly and replied that it didn’t.  At  6 ‘3″+ he was one of the taller students in the class; thus, his reach far exceeded that of his kiddie opponents, most of whom were longtime students, obviously more experienced and skilled than he. K confessed to taking petty pleasure from sparring with the younger, shorter fencers, because at some point he’s just reach his blade over the top of their heads and, to use his sound effect, bop.


Here come de bop.

Here come de bop.

*   *   *

Trigger warning: I really like saying bop.

I wonder if Little Bunny Foo Foo can be adapted for the scenarioI have going through my head?

You’re singing it now, admit it.


Little bunny foo foo, fencing through the forest....

Little bunny foo foo, fencing through the forest….


*   *   *

Trigger warning: Giddyap, boy, head for the hills while you can – that crazy ass cowboy plans to stuff you and put you in his museum!



*   *   *

May you enjoy more than your share of petty pleasures,
may your life be trigger-warning free,
and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!



[1] Which the NYT oh-so-conveniently prints side-by-side on the same page, for us puzzle lovers.

[2] Insert hissing sound effects.

[3] I assume an author of her ilk has some input if not total approval of her own PR.

[4] For which you will never find me posing.

[5] Is this the fifth footnote? What a letdown.

The Classic I’m Not (totally) Commending

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One of the few advantages of having your birthday in proximity to Christmas [1] is getting multiple gift checks – which is what we aging children get from our parents – in the same proximity. I used last year’s gift $$ to purchase a new kayak earlier this year. An Oru “origami” kayak. Origami – no lie. It folds up, with all of its parts, into its own carrying bag. So simple, or so the promo shot would have you believe, a headless woman wearing vastly impractical water sport footwear can do it blindfolded. [2]




It’s been fun [3] learning to unfold and fold it, practicing in the living room. I hadn’t found the time to take it out on the water, until Monday, a day my son K had off from his summer job, and (finally) a day which promised not to be the kind of swelter-crap summer days we’ve been having that make you not want to leave the house for any reason. K & I schlepped Flicka and the Oru kayak into the van and drove to Brown’s Ferry Park, which has a public access boat launch for the Tualatin River.

Flicka [4] is the name of my other/first kayak, a Perception recreational model (the Swifty line, which I don’t think they make anymore). Flicka has served me well for many years. Now she has a stablemate, of sorts.


Flicka, in her garage loft bed.

Flicka, in her garage loft bed.


I’ve yet to name the Oru kayak. Something will come to me.

Here is what it an Oru kayak looks like, unfolded and put together:




Here’s what mine looks like, drying out upside down in the garage, after its first river outing:




I’d been wondering about the viability of accessible local kayaking venues. What with the drought, I was fairly confident that Smith & Bybee Lakes, never deep waters in even the most wet of winters, would effectively be Smith & Bybee Mud Marshes. And Haag Lake…well, no matter what its water level, it attracts too much of the jet ski/Coors Lite crowd for my taste. [5] Most of all, I find it boring, paddling-wise.

The Tualatin River has several access points within decent driving distance, but, due to the lack of rainfall and those pesky high temps I wasn’t sure how enjoyably navigable it might be. Would it be deep enough to have portions that could be said to run, smoothly or otherwise? Fortunately, you can check the river’s flow level and current conditions online. Which I did. And so we went.

It turned out to be quite a pleasant outing. We impressed an older kayaking gent walking his dog near the boat launch with our wacky folding kayak. We surprised several great blue herons, one of which was quite protective of its riverbank hunting grounds, and K was “buzzed” by a red tail hawk crossing the river. I got one picture of K approaching a spot on the riverbank where geese and ducks were hanging out on some rocks, a spot where there was also, K called out to me, a “big ass frog.”  I got one lousy picture, before my phone’s camera fritzed out on me.

There's a big ass frog ahead on a rock the riverbank, trust me.

There’s a big ass frog ahead on a rock the riverbank, trust me.

*   *   *

The Salad I Keep Making

Despite what you may have heard on NPR about the downgrading of the American seafood supply, here in Oregon we’ve great access to locally caught seafood in our local farmer’s markets. Which is why I keep making this crab salad, which is IMHO the perfect use for our West Coast summer bounty (lettuce, fresh white corn, tomatoes, avocadoes, red onion, crab, cilantro-lime-crumbled ancho chili-dressing). This week, I augmented the last of the Dungeness crab we had in the freezer (wrangled by MH earlier this summer during a trip to Manzanita) with Oregon coast halibut.



*   *   *

Department of Crab Segues

A bit o’ crabbiness for you now, relating to the blog’s title, in the form of Cinematic Criticism of an Acclaimed Classic ® . Which was prompted by my recent bookstore purchases: The Princess Bride, and As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride

The latter book is actor Cary Elwes’ memoir of …well, of just what the title says. I enjoyed As You Wish…., despite the prevalence of a certain, how you say, narrative tone noted by both moiself and my friend SCM, a tone which I charitably chose to think of as the author’s younger, star-struck, fanboy-like awe and respect for the movie’s cast and director. [6]

Like many of the book’s and movie’s aficionadas, I can quote TPB’s memorable lines at appropriate situations (never mind about the inappropriate ones).  I loved the book, and I love the movie, fervently…but also wistfully. I wish I could say I love the movie unreservedly. [7] But I can’t, because I don’t.

I love the fact that the book’s author, William Goldman, claims he wrote the book for his daughters. I hate the fact that the movie of the book is populated by so few daughters.


TPB cast


I love that the book is filled with fanciful and witty dialogue and action scenes, and I hate that the movie’s fanciful and witty dialogue and action scenes are, with few exceptions, the exclusive province of its male characters. The movie’s main female character – the title role, Princess Buttercup – is essentially, to quote Cary Elwes (who plays Westley, Buttercup’s true love, aka the Dread Pirate Roberts), “the straight man.”

“Buttercup falls in love, loses her love, gets kidnapped, is forced into an arrange marriage, reconnects with her one true love, and then lets him go in order to save his life. It really requires a great deal of emotional range. What it doesn’t require – or at least doesn’t display – is the comedic talent for which The Princess Bride is so well know. Goldman wrote a screenplay that we now know is filled with great, classic funny lines. Unfortunately, few, if any, of those lines are given to Buttercup.”
(Cary Elwes, As You Wish)

The male characters run the gamut from a cowardly manipulative royal, a gentle giant with a pea-sized brain and a heart to match his height, a blustering, ego-maniacal assassin, a vengeance-seeking alcoholic (yet expert) swordsman; a dashing and confidently self-effacing pirate…. The female characters are a beautiful princess, a few crowd scene peasants, and a crone.


Ok, so she does get one great line, but she has to share it with Billy Crystal.

Ok, so she does get one great line, but she has to share it with Billy Crystal.


‘Tis likely my critique would provoke the movie’s champions to muster the tried but true, TBIABTTM [8] defense. And, as is often the case, I suspect any criticism with the translation of a story from novel to movie would be cast upon the screenwriter. The trouble with that is, the book’s author [9] also wrote the movie’s screenplay. Who better to know the essentials of the story, right? His distillation of book-to-movie is indicative of his mindset, that the vital-to-the-story characters he wrote were in a 11-2 male-to-female ratio.

This male-female protagonist discrepancy is,[10] sadly, par for the course in Hollywood. I won’t be getting’ all Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media on you right now – I’m just feeling a bit wistful, wishing that one of my favorite movies was even favorite-er.



*   *   *

Department of More Stupid Things That Bother Me

Have you seen Hollywood Game Night, a summer replacement nighttime game show on network TV? You should. It airs Tuesday eves on NBC, and is hosted by the Witty Tall Person I’d Most Like to Play Charades With © , actor/comedian Jane Lynch.




I find the show quite entertaining. It appeals to my affinity for silly parlor games…even though I would probably and massively suck at this particular show’s games, what with the emphasis on knowledge of contemporary celebrity names and trivia.

So. Last week we were watching HGN, and one of the contestants, Ms. Ditsy TV Starlet Who Shall Not Be Named, [11] blew what should have been, IMHO, an easy question that had to do with the mere existence of the Mars Rover.  After the answer was revealed, instead of a red-faced, I-can’t-believe-I-missed that! reaction, Ms. Ditsy unabashedly announced that she’d had no idea there was a thing called “a rover on Mars.”

And I just lost my shit.




I was watching a TV game show, populated by (I assume) celebrities chosen not for their SAT scores, IQ tests or knowledge of current events but most likely due to their availability to promo some project they’ve got going on the host network. And yeah, I was already a bit piqued at the sight of a Pretty Young Thing (Ms. Ditsy) who, at her tender age, was already/obviously botoxed…and it’s not like she’s ever going to be in any sort of political and/or scientific policy making position…but she’s a citizen, dadgummit, and she had no idea the Mars Rover project even exists, and worst of all, she displayed no shame at her lack of awareness.  THIS IS YOUR FUCKING COUNTRY WHICH IS  SPENDING BILLIONS OF DOLLARS ON THIS PROJECT, AND EVEN IF IT HAD COST NO MORE THAN YOUR LATEST MANICURE THIS IS ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT SCIENTIFIC VENTURES OF THE CENTURY.

Don’t you hate it when the caps lock gets stuck?

Yep, I’m pissin’ in the wind, here. But it got me to ruminating on one of my pet peeves: the downside of democracy. Specifically, the fact that, in This Wonderful Country of Ours, ® our votes are not weighted on criteria having to do with civic engagement or grasp of reality.

Thus, PYT Ms. Ditzy Starlet can be totally ignorant of the New Horizons flyby of Pluto; she and others like her can believe that global warming is caused by polar bear farts and/or that the U.S. Civil War was the result of “Northern aggression” against the gallant Southern states and had little or no connection to slavery, and/or that gay marriage makes the baby Jesus cry…and her vote counts the same as mine. Grrrrrr. [12]


So like, Horizons airlines flew that Disney Dog? Ya sure, I knew that.

So like, Horizons airlines flew that Disney Dog? Ya sure, I knew that.


*   *   *

May your rivers run deep,
may you find movies to love without reservation and game shows to watch without consternation,
may your vote always count,
and may the hijinks ensue.


Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!



[1] If I haven’t already, I’ll get around to complaining about the disadvantages in a future post.

[2] Without a head, you don’t really need a blindfold, do you?

[3] If you enjoy judicious use of profanity, as regular readers know I do.

[4] Because, she’s my friend.

[5] Yep, I’m a snob.

[6] And which SCM described as, “Can he (Elwes, the book’s author) get his head any further up Rob Reiner’s ass?”

[7] You know where this is going, don’t you?

[8] The Book is Always Better Than The Movie.

[9] Goldman is also an award-winning screenwriter, whose credits include Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and All the President’s Men.

[10] Protagonists? Hell, the effect even extends to crowd scenes. If you were an alien anthropologist learning about Earth culture from the movies, you’d have no idea that the world’s human population gender balance is essentially equal.

[11] And whose name I cannot recall now, nor was I familiar with her when she was introduced. See what I mean about pop culture trivia?

[12] Shall we make it an even dozen?

The Embryos I’m Not Thawing

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Department of Archery Haiku


I’ve taken up a
new sport, game, activity –

whatever it is 

Zen and the art of…”
Yep; archery. Just for fun.

(I don’t hunt Bambi). 

Blownup balloons pinned
on target – they’re better than

hitting the bulls-eye. 

I think it’s the sound:
A sharp, satisfying “pop”

and the balloon sags. 

I’ve learned what improves
my aim: mean faces, drawn on

balloons, with Sharpies

It only takes me
one or two arrows to burst

Vladimir Putin.


I do not have a picture of one of my Putin balloons (I popped ’em all), but I can share something even better: a video of Vladimir Putin making a balloon animal.


Is this a great world, or what?

*   *   *

Department of No Comment Necessary

From psychologist and author Valerie Tarico’s  interview with Sarah Morehead, executive [1] director of Recovering From Religion, a support group for people reconsidering the role of religion in their life and who have negatively affected by religion.

VT:Your commitment to supporting people in religious transitions comes from your own transition, which started with you as a life-long member of the Southern Baptist Convention and ended with you as an atheist.

SM: Yes. It was a long journey. Twelve years ago, I separated from my Promise Keeper husband. He had been violent toward me, but when he turned that on our kids, it was over for me. I found myself strapped financially, and in desperation I went to the benevolence committee at my church and asked for $600 to help pay the bills. This was a huge, successful mega-church, and the benevolence committee was their mechanism for helping members in need. The committee—all men—said they needed to pray about my request, and that regardless I needed to go to counseling about how to be a more godly wife so that I could lead my husband back to Christ through my submissiveness. They said this even though they knew he was physically abusive. Then, after praying, they let me know that Jesus wasn’t keen on them giving me the money.


*   *   *

Favorite crossword puzzle clue I’ve encountered this year:

Clue: They are taken to go. [2]


*   *   *

Department of Paying Attention

Frozen Embryos Have A Right To Live was the absurdly provocative title of an op-ed in last Thursday’s New York Times. The byline belonged to someone described as Sofía Vergara’s Ex-Fiancé, aka, Nick Loeb.  (SVEF/Mr. Loeb admitted up front that the issue at hand would likely not be newsworthy save for the Famous Person © involved.)

Ms. Vergara is one of the stars of (yet-another-popular-series-I-don’t-watch) Modern Family, a show in which the fiery, heavily-accented Latina plays the stereotypical heavily-accented Sexy/Fiery Latina ®, a pandering stereotype breakthrough performance for a Latina actor as a regular sitcom cast member.

I am familiar with Ms. Vergara in the vaguest celebrity knowledge way; i.e., twice or thrice I’ve seen her on late night talk shows, where I found her manners and mannerisms at once irritating and charmingly reminiscent of…someone….  Oh, yes – Charo. [3]

We now we pause in our deliberation of Serious Events ® for a moment of cuchi-cuchi to celebrate the first – and hopefully not last – mention of Charo in this blog.



Once again, I digress.

The subject of SVEF/Mr. Loeb’s op-ed is the lawsuit he has filed against his ex-fiancé, re control of the frozen embryos the two of them created, back when they were on embryo-creating terms. Ms. Vergara does not want these frozen embryos implanted in a surrogate now that she and Mr. Loeb are no longer a couple.

In his opening paragraphs SVEF briefly outlines questions he would like readers to consider, re the rights of parenthood, the idea of embryos as property vs. the “sacredness” of life/religious beliefs. SVEF uses the bulk of the article to establish his I am a sensitive man and have always wanted to be a father credentials…which are superfluous after the first two sentences of paragraph 3 of his article (below, my emphases):  

In 2013 Sofia and I agreed to try to use in vitro fertilization and a surrogate to have children.  We signed a form stating that any embryos created through the process could be brought to term only with both parties’ consent.

Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude? Really?


Not to be insensitive, but holy frozen ballsack, [4] buddy, do you have even a remedial understanding of reading comprehension?

Both parties have not consented. You changed your mind — a cognitive alteration which may be a major bummer for you but which in no way nullifies the legal document you signed which stated the terms to which you agreed.

We signed a form stating that any embryos created through the process could be brought to term only with both parties’ consent.

I wanted to stop reading the article after that one simple-yet-explicit, concise sentence.  How elegantly clear can an agreement be? Game over.

*   *   *

Department of Yes, I Do Have a Heart

Lest you think me unsympathetic to SVEF, after reading the article I did pause to consider his emotional well-being, and that of others in his situation. I think he would be well-served by channeling his (what he feels to be) thwarted parental energy into acting on behalf of even one of the millions of orphaned/neglected/needy,  real live, non-frozen children currently residing on this planet.

Also, I think he should meditate upon pictures of a star-pajama clothed baby sloth.

As should we all.


*   *  *

May hitting your favorite target provide you with a bulls-eye experience…and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!



[1] A word like executive deserves its own footnote, n’est ce-pas?

[2] Answer: Laxatives.

[3] You know and/or remember who Charo is?  Dang, you must be old.

[4] Have you checked out the frozen ballsack section of your natural foods store? What are you waiting for?

The Pizza I’m Not Delivering

Comments Off on The Pizza I’m Not Delivering

 Happy Maytag Day!


Dang – I mean, Happy Mayfly Day!


Or rather, Happy Maypole Day! 


Make that, Happy Mayflower Day!


Or is it, Happy Mayday?


Er…maybe…Happy Mother May I Day?

You most certainly may not!

You most certainly may not!

*   *   *

Department of Chick Lit vs. Dick Lit 

I’ve groused about this before.


Yes, really.

This being the overt and covert sexism in the literary world, particularly when it comes to book reviews and categorization.

You’ve probably heard the term chick lit, whether or not you fully understand the literary insinuations behind the label. Nutshell: if a female novelist writes about herself, or her fiction’s  protagonists share similar characteristics (ethnicity, age, social and economic circumstances) with herself or her peers, or if Female Novelist tackles subjects related to family, feelings or relationships, she’s a neurotic narcissist and/or what she writes is labeled chick lit. [1]  When a (usually white) male author does the same; naturally, his works are consigned to the label…what would that be: dick lit?


Noooooooo.   He gets no such label. He’s illustrating and critiquing the human condition; he’s doing some serious Lit-ra-chure.

The reason for a grousing reprise was the snippet of an artsy radio program I caught while I was driving to some miscellaneous errand. A male voice emanating from my car radio, using the reverent, NPR poetry voice ©  intonation, [2]  was praising the works and themes of the esteemed Russian short story author and playwright, Anton Chekov. And that less-than-reverent yeah, right voice popped into my head.

Anton Chekov is the second most produced playwright in history (the first, of course, is Billybob Shakespeare). Chekov’s stories and plays address themes of the clash between social progress and the maintenance of compassionate human relationships; the frailty of human physical, mental and emotional health; the lack of communication between people of goodwill – even and especially between family members; the lure of aspirations and ideals and the seeming impossibility of realizing them, especially within one’s social and family structure….

Duuuuude.  If Chekov’s works were somehow re-introduced today and Anton was changed to Antonia, there’d be lavender and pink cover art…and he’d never have been awarded the Pushkin Prize.

*   *   *

Speaking of dicks….

Three weeks ago I mentioned my dream in which I had to deliver pizza to former president Ronald Reagan.

In Real Life ® , if I had to deliver pizza to anyone with that particular surname, I would be most happy if it were Uncle Ronnie’s wonderful and witty son, Ron Reagan.


I’ve been a fan of Ron Reagan’s even before I heard him speak at the Freedom From Religion Foundation‘s annual convention. RR the younger is proof that not only can the apple fall far from the tree, it is capable of rolling uphill.

Ron Reagan is currently a commentator and program contributor for MSNBC cable news network. His career in media includes jobs as a talk radio host and political analyst for KIRO radio, and he hosted his own daily show on Air America Radio.  RR is known for his progressive and liberal political and social views, and is also an active, out-of-the-closet atheist. His activism on behalf of atheist and Freethought causes includes the pithy PSA he recorded for the Freedom From Religion Foundation…a PSA you may have heard on CNN or Comedy Central’s The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, but which was banned from the three major networks (ABC, CBS and NBC).

ABC and NBC rejected the PSA – although when first approached by the FFRF, NBC offered to accept the paid advertising if FFRF would delete the spot’s concluding line– it’s punch line, for crissake! – which RR delivers with an adorable, wry smile:

“Ron Reagan, lifelong atheist, not afraid of burning in hell.” [3]

FFRF also wanted to buy time for the ad on Sixty Minutes. After months of delays in their response, CBS rejected that placement AND banned the ad from any national CBS show.

Here’s what some network execs found so scary:



I’ve watched a lot of CBS’ Sixty Minutes over the years, and have lost track of the number of commercials the network has run that are considered offensive or dodgy by some folk (myself included). Apparently the craven asswipes wise content programmers at CBS have no problem running ads for products that talk directly or obliquely about ED (and the dangers of erections lasting longer than 4 hours!), or commercials which feature people gyrating and clutching their abdomens and buttocks to illustrate the discomfort of diarrhea, flatulence and other intestinal disorders…but an atheist who calmlys jibe about H – E- Double hockey sticks?  Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.


*   *   *

I have no respect for any human being who believes in it [Hell]. I have no respect for any man who preaches it. I have no respect for the man who will pollute the imagination of childhood with that infamous lie. I have no respect for the man who will add to the sorrows of this world with the frightful dogma. I have no respect for any man who endeavours to put that infinite cloud, that infinite shadow, over the heart of humanity.
 — Robert G. Ingersoll

*   *   *

Department of Getting The Kids Up To Speed

Last Saturday’s book fair. To survive such events, I close my eyes and think of England grit my teeth and think of castor oil, and other things that (as a writer) are supposed to be good for you.

Friend and fellow writer SCM mused about the incongruity of having a book fair at library, where people can read books for free. [4] She also kept me sane through the event via a series of texts that distracted me from smacking people who attempted to walk off with copies of The Mighty Quinn without paying for them, [5] along with the par-for-the-course Book Fair atmosphere that several newbie authors noticed and commented on.

Higher sales (and dignity) than those of book fairs.

Higher sales (and dignity) than those of book fairs.

One Nice Young Man, © an editor and author of children’s picture books who was participating in his first book fair, mentioned in an email to me that he was disappointed in both the turnout and the number of copies of his books sold…but that he (altogether now, authors) had a good time and made some connections/met other nice authors, so it was worth it.

I tried to be gentle yet illuminating in my reply.

It was nice to meet you, too.  Your experience (few sales, but good time) was par for the course. As a reluctant veteran of many book fairs, and can tell you that the turnout was, in fact, typical for a book fair.

Also, the rules of Book Fair are a variation on Rules 1 & 2 of Fight Club:
1. Nobody sells books at Book Fairs.
2. Nobody buys books at Book Fairs.

If you want to find the people, check the cookie booth.

If you want to find the fair attendees, check the cookie booth.

*   *   *

Whether you celebrate the coming of spring or the day when industrial workers worldwide  protest the capitalist insect that preys upon the people, [6] may you have a Happy May Day, and may the hijinks ensue.


Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!



[1] or the only marginally better regarded,  “women’s fiction.”

[2] You know what that is.

[3] Then NBC decided they wouldn’t take the spot even if it were censored altered.

[4] And for which, all you well-meaning library patrons – or at least those who mistakenly think they are supporting literature by reading library books – the books’ authors are not compensated. If 2000 people serially check out the library’s copy of Reflections on a Wrinkled Elbow, the book’s author receives a royalty on the one copy the library purchased.

[5] This has happened at every such event I’ve participated in.

[6] And when in doubt, I say, celebrate ’em all.

The Ground I’m Not Breaking

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Department of The Informed Consumer

This is what the back/insides of your clothes dryer may look like, after someone has taken it apart in an effort to discover why it has stopped drying clothes.


Now you know.

*   *   *

The D word

As in, Duh – do ya think?

Earlier this week I found The L Word TV entire series collection as I scrolled through the Netflix offerings. I was looking for an intellectually-effortless diversion to pass the time until MH returned from a game of Ultimate Frisbee and we could watch The Serious Movie © we’d rented.

I recalled that the term “groundbreaking[1] had accompanied every other mention of the show during its finale year, and thought it a shame that no such ground had been broken on my TV screen (the show had heretofore not been seen by moiself). Thus, I proceeded to watch the first two episodes of The L Word, that seminal, [2] groundbreaking cable TV drama about the lives of a group of Los Angeles area gay women.

Correction: I tried to watch the first two/pilot episodes of The L Word

Hey world, we got your bold, sassy, livin’ and lovin’ LILAs (Lesbians in Los Angeles), hanging out at chic coffee shops (read: having sex), going to parties (read: having sex) and art gallery openings (read: having sex) and exercise class (read: having sex) and skinny-dipping in their chic condo pools (read: having sex) and flirting with straight women, all of whom have repressed or unaddressed desires to be with women (read: having sex)….

And all of the women – every fucking one of them (pun mostly unintended) – had the faces, physiques and wardrobes of models who’d just stepped off a Calvin Klein catwalk. Which is, of course, how the majority of lesbians in this country look (ahem  [3]) .  And the gym locker room scene between two topless ladies, featuring the spinning instructor who was so-skinny-you-could-see-every-clavicle-curve yet somehow had amazingly ample breasts (the outline of her implants could be plainly seen, what with her skinny-ass skin stretched so tight to accommodate them)? Classy.

I couldn’t make it all the way through the second episode, FAVOR. [4]  I found the show too silly and too booby and too fake blow-jobby and…

Okay. My age or something may be showing here, [5]  but I just don’t find the overwrought, overplayed scenes of what I call movie sex to be sexy, or the least bit erotic. Not. At. All.

You want erotic? I’m bringing sexy back with this:


While I take a breather and dab my forehead with a cool compress, I must apologize for the previous pop song reference.

By the way and apropos of almost nothing, did you know that when I first heard SexyBack I thought Mr. J. Timberlake was warbling about his allegedly alluring upper torso?

You know, like this:


And not this.


Excuse-moi. Once again, I digress.

The morning after watching The L Word I googled the show to confirm what (to me) was a duh suspicion: that The L Word was produced by men, who could sell to other men (who are the majority of television producers) the idea of nubile lesbians – not a lumberjack shirt or sensible pair of shoes in sight – getting all rubby-dubby with their hot lady selves.

I was close, if not entirely correct. Credits claimed The L Word was “created by” three women; however, two of the three executive producers – the ones who greenlight shows and are the real power behind what shows get made/aired and what doesn’t – were men.

*   *   *

Department of What’s the Point

While we’re circling the subject….

Yet another night sitting in The Stressless Comfy Chairs ®, awaiting the queuing up of yet another movie.

Ahhh. Welcome to the no stress zone.

Ahhh. Welcome to the no stress zone.

I reached for the remote to mute yet another commercial about ED, only this time I paused to briefly consider the paradox of the ad. An attractive, older (silver tresses elegantly coiffed; no male pattern baldness in sight) couple was walking on the beach, holding hands and exchanging sly looks, while the voice-over promised you’ll be ready for whatever comes up, so to speak. The couple continued their stroll while another voice-over cautioned that, in return for the illusion promise of an appearance by the swashbuckling Captain Standish, [6] you may also be visited by his deck crew, Ensigns headache, backache, sore throat, sneezing, “indigestion” (upset stomach and diarrhea), sore throat, nausea…

So. You’ll be ready for sex, but who will want to be around you?

*   *   *

More Guy Things I Have Recently Learned About

“Intellectual growth should commence at birth and cease only at death.”
Albert Einstein

Albert was right – education really is a life-long experience.

Last week a friend called to reschedule our meet-for-lunch date because she had to leave her work to pick up her husband at his work. She took him home to get a change of clothes and tidy up, after he’d had a self-described “wardrobe malfunction.” Details: he’d been in need of a bathroom break, and while using the facilities he had “lost his grip.”

Never again will I be able to hear one person tell another person to get a grip without wondering just how metaphorical or literal the advice may be.


The story, entertaining on its own merits, elicited additional amusement when I relayed it over dinner to MH. I previously had no idea as to the real and present dangers every man faces when he uses public or workplace restrooms, until MH enlightened me. A wardrobe malfunction is a common result of urinal splashback, which, MH gravely informed me, is why smart men “never wear khaki.” Denim and other dark colored pants are best for hiding and/or absorbing splashback. [7]

Good to know.

Or, if you're going for the full splashback effect, make it epic.

Or, if splashback is unavoidable, make it epic.

*   *   *

We now take a (perhaps welcome) break in our unintentional Naughty Bits Theme to end with a moment of Self Promotion.

The Book fair is here! The Book Fair is here!

As I mentioned in last week’s blog, Saturday, April 25 (yikes, that’s tomorrow – I’d better start looking for my hairbrush), the Beaverton City Library is holding the ingeniously titled Author! Author!  – a book fair featuring local (Washington & Multnomah county) authors.

2015 Author Fair

The event is free, open to the unwashed lit-loving public who, from 10a – 1p may browse and (hopefully) purchase selected titles of fiction, nonfiction, poetry and children’s literature penned by local authors.

Yours truly will be there, with copies of The Mighty Quinn, and also my short fiction collection, This Here and Now . [8]

TMQcover4x6THAN Cover OWC

*   *   *


 May your backs be sexy, may your wardrobe never experience a malfunction, and may the hijinks ensue.


 Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!



[1] Whether a show breaks ground or fills in previously dug holes – makes no diff to us, as we are among the few remaining cretins/sensible people who refuse to pay $$$ per month to get 249 channels we have no intention of watching.

[2] That just doesn’t seem right, does it?

[3] PC apology/disclaimer forthcoming. One of these days.

[4] The return of my favorite acronym: For A Variety Of Reasons.

[5] But at least not my titties, unlike every character in that show, who must have signed multiple breast exhibition clauses in their contracts.

[6] One of my slang terms re such matters, along with, “Having the Irish toothache.”

[7] A phenomenon which is never, ever, to be confused with sexyback.

[8] Which is out of print – RIP, Scrivenery Press – and may only be obtained from the author herself, ahem.

The Bird I’m Not Calling

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I can’t find a recording of the bird call MH and I kept hearing last Sunday when we were hiking around the Fernhill Wetlands.  The call was familiar – it reminded me of…of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Until I did.

MH said it was the call of the red-winged blackbird. But RWB’s have several songs and calls. None of the RWB calls I listened to when we returned from our outing [1]  sounded like the one we heard while hiking, which had a distinctive series of three notes (lower–upper-lower). In an AHA! moment, I realized that particular bird call reminded me of the classic Star Trek sound effects which were used for hailing frequencies or to otherwise [2] indicate There Are Complicated Instruments and Computers On Our Spaceship’s Console, And You Know That Because Of The Noises They Make.

I finally found it. There is a website for Star Trek sound effects (well, of course there is).  If you click on the one labeled Transporter Room Report – and just ignore that pesky vocal of Capt. Kirk – you’ll hear a good approximation of the bird call to which I refer.

Transporter, one to tweet up.

Transporter, one to tweet up.

*   *   *

Those Who Live In Glass Houses Shouldn’t Cast the First Stone
After Walking A Mile In Someone Else’s Shoes

As much fun as I’m having with the latest batch of the Scientology exposés (including documentaries and books from journalists and former Scientologists alike), it’s just as much fun hearing criticism of Scientology coming from other religious believers.


In this country, most religious believers who diss Scientology self-identify as Christians. Christians, as in, people who go to a temple or church or some other kind of worship box to grovel to/”invite into their hearts” the ghost [3] of a 2000 year old Jewish zombie who, according to their holy book and their 2K+ year old theologies, was his own father (and who, therefore, impregnated his own virgin mother). This father-deity ordered mass murders of Egyptian babies and men women and children of other religions, sent a bear to maul children the for the crime of teasing a man about his male pattern baldness, hates foreskins for some reason but loves the smell of sacrificed animals, and, as per that book again, says that says disease comes from sinning and that a complicated ritual involving killing birds and wiping their blood on human body parts will cure leprosy…and then to worship this god you symbolically eat him (via crackers and juice or wine, which turn into the Jewish zombie’s skin and blood in your tummy  [4] ) and telepathically tell him you accept him as your master, so he can remove an evil force from your soul that is present in all humans because  6,000 years ago a rib-derived woman was convinced by a talking snake to eat from a magical but forbidden tree….

Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Cool story, bro.

Anyone who swallows that shit believes all or even some of that has little business criticizing Xenu, engrams, thetansauditing, and the whole lot of wackadoodle Scientology tenets.

Oh, but the fun continues. Many religious believers cap their anti-Scientology statements with, “Besides, it (Scientology) isn’t even a real religion!”


Scientology teaches crazy shit and asks you for money – of course it’s a real religion.


*   *   *

Department of Seasonal Poor Taste

Content warning:  Well, duh.

My (belated) Easter sex joke:

He is risen!
He is risen, indeed!  [5]


*   *   *

Department of Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Cigar…
But what the hell could this mean, Dr. Freud?

I Dreamed a Dream…that I was a guest artist with a Performance Art Troupe, and I had to deliver a pizza to Ronald Reagan.

*   *   *

Department of Dreams Come True

A recent edition of Science Friday reported on how some British scientists are tackling the problem of detecting sewer misconnections that can lead to discharge of wastewater into to rivers: by using tampons soaked in optical brighteners to serve as pollution detectors.

The story, presented during SF host Ira Flatow’s interview with science reporter Arielle Duhaime-Ross, contained a brief but entertaining discussion of, and I quote,

“…planting tampons in manholes.”

Aside from delivering pizza to former presidents, planting tampons in manholes is my dream come true. Also, I expect it might make a compelling platform for the next presidential candidate:

“A chicken in every pot!
A car in every garage!
A tampon in every manhole!”

Calm down, guys, it's just science.

Calm down, guys, it’s just science.

*   *   *

Department of I Am So Going To Do This Someday
Performance Art Idea # 2507

Props: plastic bag; realistic-looking dog feces substitute.

This performance will entail going out for a walk – in the afternoon, perhaps? – on a sunny day, when there are a lot of neighbors out and about, doing yard work or watching their grandkids play or whatnot. I will be toting one of those empty plastic doggie waste bags (the stunt poop will be hidden in my jacket pocket) [6] but, as per usual for moiself since I am not a dog owner, I will walking sans canine accompaniment. When I return from my walk I will be clutching the now-full-of-feces plastic bag (which, as every dog walker knows, will festively swing from my wrist with my every step). Still, no dog in sight.


*   *   *

Spring language Lexicon: The Continuation

In last Friday’s blog we learned the difference between Doot-doots and Deet-deets. This week’s lesson features Neng-nengs and darby. Both are nouns, both come from two of my college roommates’ special family words.

Neng-nengs: a pair of old, well-worn, comfy pajamas, or the emotional equivalent of such, which induces a feeling of well-being, contentment, and security.

Darby: a visible bruise of unidentified origin. (“I don’t recall having bumped my leg against anything, so how did I get that darby on my shin?”).

As you see, both are phenomena with which you are already familiar – and both arguably fall into the there should be a word for that category. And oft times, in the German language, there is (see Schadenfreude). Of course, in that great German tradition, put them in charge of coming up with an unidentified bruise term and you’d have something like Ausschreibungnichtidentifizierte. Isn’t darby so much simpler?

There seems to be a collective unconscious of special family words.  I have encountered several people from totally different backgrounds (read: people who’d never met my college roommates) who’ve used or were familiar with the word Neng-nengs, and who claimed that their family was the originator of the term.

Future Neng-nengs?

Future Neng-nengs?

*   *   *

Harbingers of Spring

Absent a calendar reminder – or pollen allergies – how does one determine that Spring is in the air? For moiself, there is the first day when birdsong wakes me up at 4 am, followed by the first appearance of the asparagus steamer on the stove. Mmmmm, ’tis the season: fresh asparagus, at least four times a week!



Another harbinger, new this year but equally yummers:

The compound archery bow is here!


*   *   *

May all your harbingers be Neng-nengs, may your body parts be darby-free, and may the hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!



[1]  Bird calls I googled, of course.

[2] Yes, that’s the extend of my innate musical notation abililty.

[3] Aka “The Holy Spirit.”

[4] the Catholic teaching of transubstantiation. The understandings of the communion rite varies among the many flavors of Protestant and Orthodox Christianity, but the majority of sects still practice some form of the body-blood-of-Christ consuming ritual.

[5] For those not familiar with churchy stuff, this is the traditional Paschal greeting.

[6] Somehow. Still haven’t worked out the details.

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