s n a p p e r h e a d

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Ingrate Legal

digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009

Ingrate Portrait

digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009

Exquisite Corpse

The title of the Exquisite Corpse #0048, of which my portion was the last (bottom) 200 pix, is:

The Goddess Says | And Cents For | Space Cookies | Crowned Blightcorpse


Details, rulze, FAQ, history, and past corpses can be found at New Exquisite Corpse.

(My slice was based on the 15pix from the bottom edge of the 3rd slice. And, the JPEG I received was completely black except for a small blurry bit of aqua near the left side and a tiny bit of the bottom edge of the 'space cookie'. Now, I see that it was not completely black, but just greyish and I'm not pleased with the "seam". None-the-less, my first whack at 'corpse-ing' has been informative.)

Maxwell's Silver Hammer Flash


As I am still February-ing with my cough and sniffles (and whenthefuck am I going to be able to expunge this flu?). . . and today is the first day of Spring. I am not writing. I am not creating. But I am passing along a chuckle with this animation.

Le-Gi-Ec

digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009

Continuing Nonsense


Sitting in a bookstore restroom, yesterday (the tale begins), my cold-medicine-addled brain is weighing these options:
  • Buy one large $50 book, published in the last 6 months, on website design.

  • Buy three medium sized used books, the oldest published four years ago, for a collective price of $49 (also all on website building).

  • Find a comfy chair and sit here for the next four hours; skim all four books, until I can determine which one(s) are must-own.

The diaper changing station, in front of me, becomes my focus. Clearly, the name Sturdy Station was chosen with a *wink* and a *nudge*. I would have preferred: sTURDy STATION, but that would have been too heavy handed, I guess (the tale ends on the not so funny punchline as I buy three books).

Adopted Word: Essomenic


This obsolete word comes from the late 1700's and means: 'Showing things as they will be in the future.' I would love my next essomenic story to be firmly seated beyond the year 2525.

(with a tip of the tophat to Davecat)

giggle bone is recovering


So I'm lazing around the house, walking between the kitchen and the bedroom, fetching something to drink, (coughing, getting better, but still not good enough) when I overhear this conversation in the family room (the soft sound of filing is audible):

14 yr old: What does that thing do?
His Mom: It files down the calluses on my heels.
14 yr old: Does it hurt?
His Mom: No, it's just for the dead skin.
14 yr old: Whyzit called a Ped Egg?
His Mom: Probably cause pedafile was already taken. *giggle*
14 yr old: Your jokes aren't very funny.
His Mom: I kinda thought that was a good one.
14 yr old: You would. *14 yr old sigh*

I agree with her. It was pretty good for off-the-top-of-the-head funny. I giggle-coughed back to the bedroom. But, 14 yr olds require a solid dose of vulgarity in their funny; if she'd said, 'cause fuckin pedafile was taken,' he might of laughed.

Finally caught me

The flu-cold that has been doggedly chasing me for the last few weeks zagged when I zagged, drove down my troat, kicked the h out of it, and is presently setting up an old fashioned siege engine somewhere near my larynx. I'm pretty sure its planning to take over my lungs. I'm sending in as many chemical, vitamin, and liquid reinforcements as possible—but losing more skirmishes (and even a few major battles) than I'm presently winning at the moment.

When riding the bed solo (yowza, that doesn't read right. Bed-ridden. Being rode by a bed...to riding...whatever) I try to find a silver lining because otherwize I'm just a cranky little bitch in need of his blanky. Here is my cold's silver lining:

Last year at exactly this same time of year I punched myself in the side and broke a rib. (There's a grabber-sentence that won't let go!) If I were to guess, which would be the only way to be exactly sure, I'd say it was one of my right-lower false ribs (meaning one of the ribs on my right side not directly attached to the sternum, and also not a floating rib). I bet during my autopsy the doctor will be able to see a healed break calcification—if he has reason to look there, that is—and if I cough myself to death, well, he'll definitely have a reason to look there, won't he?

Now to the punching-myself part:

Last winter was spent in northern Arizona. Payson, Arizona to be exact, about a 30 minute drive south of (and thousands of feet below) the Mogollon Rim. (Pronounce it any goddamn way you please. . . .but, if you want to fit in with the triple-handful of geriatrics, tweakers, fake-dude-ranchers, and all of their red neighbors who—ever' last one of 'em—honestly adore Palin, and could no more understand why she shouldn't be VP than understand why owning a Dodge Diesel Hemi-V10, while livin' in a trailer and drivin' solely on highways, iz brain-atrophyingly stupid. . . .then you need to pronounce it Muggy-yawn). Payson could get a good snowfall or three every year; but if Payson got a foot, there would maybe be three feet on the Muggy-yawn.

One weekend—when the snow was coming down in huge soft floating flakes, muffling our voices and making the grip-scrunch of our boots and our own breathing, the only loud sounds to reach our eardrums—we drove our 4-cylinder Saab to the top of the Muggy-yawn, to go sledding. It took about 50 minutes to get to the sledding place, because of all the 4-wheel drive SUVs creeping along the plowed highway. Then we donned more protective outerwear, grabbed sleds and. . . .watched people sled.

First thirty seconds: 'Wow. Look at all the kids, there must be over two hundred, having such a great time sledding and playing in the snow.' After a couple minutes: 'At least half these people aren't children, but teenagers and adults....something doesn't fit.' After four minutes: 'Everyone is sliding down the hill THE SAME WAY. All two-hundred people—no matter their age—are all sitting on their: wood & metal sleds, wood toboggans, metal saucers, sheets of plastic, inner tubes, moulded plastic sleds, or sheets of cardboard.

After watching for ten more minutes, I notice a few stupid-teenagers (as if that's not a redundancy) who think they can stand on their sled and ride it snowboard-like down the hill (probably because there are two real snowboarders...both learners...who are, actually, not falling all the time). All wanna-be-snowboard-sledders either quickly end up on their asses, or lose their sled after a few seconds, and try to stay on their feet by running their momentum downhill....and end up on their asses. I tell my paramour's 13-year-old that the best slide (as I recall from my long-ago Midwestern sledding years) was obtained by getting a running start, throwing the sled down, landing on it, and riding it to the bottom. He went to the top of a medium-steep portion, got ready, watched everyone going ahead of him, and then sat down like the rest of them and rode it like a grade-schooler all the way to the bottom.

"Why didn't you try it like I said?"
"Cause...what if I hit someone like that dude just almost did? It'd be my face!"

Not one person is sledding on their belly. Not a single, solitary sole was laying down on their sled and riding face-first down the slope. I watched more. He'd just called attention to another obvious flaw in the Anozirian-way of downhill sledding. Almost all were turning around after their sledding-run and walking straight back up the slope. Acting like they were the only person on the hill, walking straight into sledding traffic, then either jumping out of the way or getting run over...which made for some funny things to watch. It explained why, with the huge expanse of available slope to sled, so many people were waiting at the top. Because they were waiting for a point when there were less people walking in their path.

More people arrive. Now there are 250 people walking up everywhere and anywhere and sledding down in the sitting position. I decide to take the reins (sled rope) and instruct my family to, "watch how real sledding is done." As I put my thick mittens on and strap down my cuffs I say, "What you are about to see is Midwestern high-dive sledding; not like this baby-wading-pool shite. All Arizonans sled like pussies!" Which caused some heads to turn, as I intended; because I hoped others would see my way of doing it and emulate it.

I climbed along the outer edge of the slope, went over to a point where it was steeper and, consequently, much less people sledding (and almost no one trying to walk up). I waited a minute to make sure it was clear, then ran forward five paces, landed on the sled, and began my run with a loud "Whaa!" to call attention to myself.

Half-way down....I'm traveling so fast the snow blasting up from the front of the sled is getting in my eyes, making it hard to see....3/4-way down and I see a mogul coming up that I didn't notice before....7/8-way down I can determine it's a smooth hump about 12-inches in elevation. My brain has a fraction of a second to decide: roll off the sled or take this mini-mogul—that I never noticed until now because every Anozirian sledder who rode down this slope was going so slow they made this bump invisible—with the gusto it deserves? I choose: Gusto....and hit the bump with my arms doing a push-up off the sled at the same time. My entire body is air-born (I learn I was no more than 18" off the ground, it felt like 3-feet). I get another 'Whaa' out before the sled hits the ground and my body hits the sled. My body, no longer positioned on the sled where it was, moved slightly right in-flight and my lower right ribcage landed on the fist I was gripping the sled with. The pain is sharp and immediate. I am now at the bottom of the hill and I slide the sled forward so my chest is not in contact with the sled....and my belt buckle acts like both a scoop and like the skid-brake on a soapbox derby car: filling my jeans with a loaf of snow.

I get a round of applause. I walk off smiling, knowing I either broke a rib or bruised myself real bad....to empty out my pants in private.

After a few days not being able to take a deep breath or sleep on that side, I know it's a broken rib. So I wait 6 weeks for it to heal. Nothing more. No doctors or x-rays or pain meds or wrappings; I just take it easy so it will heal.

TANGENTIAL POST SCRIPT: I was asked, by a few who don't really know me, why—if I have free medical attention for the rest of my life as a retired military member—I didn't go to the nearest military or VA hospital. Yes, it is true I have socialized medicine available to me, as does my paramour (Native Americans have socialized medical benefits at Bureau of Indian Affairs hospitals). And I am a proponent of free medical care if only people used hospitals for real emergency situations only. Unfortunately, our free-county hospitals (just like military and BIA emergency rooms) are chock-a-block full of idiots who have the flu or a minor broken bone or small cut or their baby has a weird rash, or some other non-important shoulda-stayed-home malady, but they all believe the 'wonderful-doctors-have-a-magik-pill-to-make-me-all-better' propaganda and, accordingly, line up for hours to get no real help.

I don't visit doctors or hospitals because, in my rarely-sick experience, they are all over-paid over-esteemed and over-valued. But it is not the medical personnel who are at fault for America's broken health-care system. It is the insurance companies. They run our health care system—and they should not. The fix? Simple. Pass a federal law mandating all insurance companies have a year to become non-profit organizations. All non-profit insurance companies would, then, be required to show where all their monies are allocated. Period. Profiting (as a stockholder or executive of an insurance company) at the expense of other people's health care (by denying claims) is immoral and should be illegal.