August's 21 thru 31

	aware of th' measure—yea, I did things think o’ yer pleasure—'n cat gut strings tomorrow’s rose pink; Friday may be toooo new for a blazin' visibly different taste certainly I examine—the sound brings wild familiar famine—your voice sings of sorrow pour que; Friday may be toooo true a sound you’d hate to waste restrain celebration—hoop ear rings change th' station—grow punkin wings borrowed foam spray; Friday may be toooo blue for mohawk, shave my face Two fingers in th' pie, Three quail—the sky, Just so ya know why, freckles won’t cry, on Friiiiii-day.
	Children and teenagers are insane. Failing to interpret gray areas when things are not clear-cut right or wrong, a child sees only black and white situations. To stab someone is wrong, to hug them is right; unfortunately people’s indifference registers as punishment because it isn’t praise. Begin the correction process! Tell him, "I’ll never care about anything in your videogame world, ever." And tell her, "Repeating all your melodramatic 'she said’s' bores me." Teach children that the vast majority of their accomplishments fall somewhere between what you ate for lunch and what the DJ talked about during your morning commute.
	Slow blink. A colorful left eye. Iris contracted. Visible toward the bottom of the frame, almost in profile, it focuses up and beyond, over the stark nose’s bridge. Centered above the eye, the fast sloping skin of the nose tapers from the lower-left up to an angular arc of brow. Quite a few dark eyebrow hairs are visible at the top. Above the swoosh of nose is a distant, unfocused, background of bright peacefulness. The eyelid lowers. Slowly. The head descends within the frame. Pauses. A youth-tightened eyelid’s wrinkles, clean and shallow, open to reveal a complete lack of make-up.
	I have difficulty empathizing with anyone who professes to have Coulrophobia. I understand being afraid of heights; fall off a building—you could die. I sympathize with a fear of sharks; even those who eat little fish, because big teeth can maybe mean dead. Spiders? OK, some are poisonous. (Aren’t all these just fear of pain?) But, a fear of clowns...Jesus tap-dancing Christ! If you are incapable of rationally identifying a person wearing makeup and a costume, then you chose your fear, want this phobia, and—like any addict—must be getting something out of your ridiculous, Bozo fear.
	Either you’re the most beautiful-ugly, mouth-breathing, genius on the unpleasant side of the lake, or you’re a raven out of the tarry night: claws firmly gripped in a dead fetus buried in the landfill. You are a killer whale swimming into a pride of sea lions, hunting in the open; I’m ice fishing. Just collecting letters between people attempting to move from internet to phone to meeting—each ending when Durden Tyler tells enough 'truth' to make them avoid being hit by a onrushing VW, like crows fleeing fresh road kill. Two crows fled...care to land on the squirrel?
	I’m glad your money pit is still making you both happy (a gouging contractor is a learning experience — much like a kitchen ghost). I can’t recall the space over your garage; in fact, envisioning where the door will be installed, for the room you’re making, is not possible. Left-top of the stairs, I draw a blank. To the right of your beautiful wooden staircase I picture: guest room, hallway around it, and your bedroom; but my neurons failed to save images to the left. Funny, I recall your entire Brady Bunch house including bomb-shelter, loud walls, and mandatory nose icicles.
	Puffy writing—riddled with phrases skittering tangentially along the periphery of the direct object, blurring a sentence’s focus, (interesting, at times, in an esoteric rhetorician’s way) and intentionally luring the reader away from the message that eventually, hopefully, every sentence reaches—stymies objective thought, enjoyable reading, and informative communication. Like a ladle-full of recently consumed alphabet soup vomited in your lap, it can be tolerated and forgiven...once. A continuous and never-ending torrent of vomit in your lap becomes inexcusable after a very short period. Say, five seconds...maybe ten at the outside. Puffy writing is bad writing. Nuff said.
	Stranded in Maine while her husband was at sea in submarines, she had no friends and didn’t ask anyone how to care for you. Her family thought she was a fool to marry and get pregnant, so they didn’t talk. She thought you could survive on formula, so that’s all she fed you until you were almost a year. You cried and cried; she gave you bottle after bottle. You never stopped crying. She was a strongly stupid woman. Your first checkup, the doctor said: "He should have been on solid food for months". Now it’s labeled under 'cradle scars'.
	"The feces created when ignorance eats too much blind devotion" — is the best label I can compose for a wedding without a prenuptial agreement. Still insist on going ahead without one? Please be kind enough to remember my scorn once you stop referring to each other by unbearably cute, food-based nicknames and half of your earnings, as well as a sizeable chunk of your future pension, becomes sole property of the third party — formerly known as: sweet cakes. Yes, it is as unromantic as applying pre-sex foam and condoms; but even Herpes doesn’t take 25% out of every pre-death dollar.
	“If someone took money out of my wallet without permission — what should I do: punish him, or give him a second chance?” “Ummm...” I could almost hear his confabulation slamming against the damned-if-I-do and fucked-if-I-don’t. I almost laughed. “Doesn’t matter, now. You just admitted to it.” “No, I...” “It would be immeasurably stupid to blame your brother. After failing the question, don’t compound it by lying.” “But, I...” “The only words that might improve your position are: ‘sorry for taking your money and I won’t do it again.’ “Sorry for taking the money. I won’t do it ever again.”
	Self-awareness is anchored on a full container’s ability to pre-decide how it’s eventual empty self should be disposed. Some opt to become vulture shit. Others choose reduction to ash. Many are pickled, packed, and wrapped in lead-lined concrete before being buried below the frost. The decision is, ultimately, the only act of importance. Since every container’s actual choice matters less than the color of it’s undergarments and quality of it’s last dessert — I wish to become fish food. Weight my container and sink it deep. If cost is prohibitive: cremate, and drop the urn in any available ocean or sea.

Evil Clown Generator

Generate your own Evil Clown at scottsmind.

Xjer-catch

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

random things my subconciousness said

Poached this idea from Pick Yin's 'Life is Great':

(rolled thru my brainpan between 1230 and 1530 today)

quick & dirty IQ

Your IQ Is 120

Your Logical Intelligence is Above Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius Your General Knowledge is Above Average

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

August's 11 thru 20

	I am not a very warm and loving person. I sometimes wish knowing this was enough to jump-start the hearth and make me gregarious, extroverted, and charismatic. Instead, I look at this person who I am, and feel contentment with what I see. I am not unhappy with this me. I enjoy being alone with hours of solitude. I write, edit, and plan future stories — all for me. I also read to expand my knowledge about, largely, useless and trivial things (to those who are not planning to incorporate it into a plot at some time, if the occasion arises).
	In more complicated times of simplicity our intelligentsia claimed we (on a flat earth) were infected with pox because of our sins. People traveled among us and struck themselves. Chanting about crimes against their deity, they scarred their skin, got paid, and headed to the next village to reopen their backs for some dinner. Were your distant relatives the soon to be survivors who merely watched, or were your great-grand-parents(x5) flagellants? Neither may have been foolishly pious — both may have been capitalizing on the plague by watching, or working in, a traveling road show; reality television for the middle ages.
	I hate consumer-oriented gifts. I’m a bad gift receiver. If you never sent me another tangible item, I would not think less of you, I’d think more of you: I’d say—with confidence—you understand my reasons for not exchanging gifts and being less of a consumer. The best gift I ever got was a hand-made drawing. My mother is the same. I sent her seven DVDs to show her sick and injured neighbors and whatnot. I got a curt, "no-thanks for all the junk mail I’m going to get because of this unwanted gift." I have been taught well.
	I stared at the large window in the back wall as I entered. The view was amazing. Wood flooring and all-weather furniture lent the room an open-to-nature feel. I walked to the corner of the window and bent down. The frame met with the metal bulkhead cleanly; no visible depth. A window made of azlocrilic would need a two-inch thick frame. "Something wrong?" Derek asked from behind me. Either Derek assumed anyone who could pull their focus away from the view must have discovered something wrong, or, the view was exacerbating some phobia of his. "It’s a screen." I said.
	"See?" My voice and legs raised me from the floor. We were now eye-level. "Yes. Not all secrets are to be kept." His mocking tone and threatening eyes coagulated his desire to see me kneeling or prostate. Never a convincing beggar or worshipper, I—instead—inhaled and jutted out my chest. "Did you expect to be alone in achieving your fulfillment?" "No." He started. His accusing finger poised before my nose. "But operating from your own rulebook, my sweet, brings about some nasty consequences." He leaned close. His attempt at imposing intimidation almost made me smirk. "Fear isn’t a tool."
	Shelby blinked. One dollar would have been fine. Perhaps he'd hoped to win one hundred dollars, tops. He could have gotten away with that, sure. But, as he sat fixed in his father's recliner, Lay's Potato Chip crumbs strewn from his skinny thighs to the corner of his limp lips, his right hand still clutching that shiny little card, he knew that he'd won much more than a C-note. The funny man on the small, glowing, screen repeated the winning numbers: "01-25-15-31-03-19-37." Shelby sat in stunned silence as the announcer signed off and commercials flashed before his widening eyes. Jackpot.
	Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago. Assigned to the 1st Battalion, 31st Infantry (Mechanized), from Camp Howze, Korea; living and working in a GP Large tent, located adjacent the DMZ on Camp Liberty Bell. Our patrol engaged one of theirs last week. Although no American was seriously wounded, we’re all on edge. The intelligent mosquitoes are insidious. A commo guy shot himself thru the head. He didn’t die. Our camo-nets provide a small amount of shade, but we’re still cooked by the heat of the sand. My son, whom I named after the James Bond author, was born. Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago.
	Design the perfect breast using only foodstuffs: First, take half of a Florida grapefruit; one that is just a slight bit larger than your average orange, would be preferred. Then take a miniature vanilla wafer; the ones which are about the size of a quarter...just a smooth little cookie...and place it slightly higher than the equatorial center of the fruit, towards the top of it — glued to the wall — so when you see it from straight on, it looks up at you. Finally, stick one of those little pink sour-sweet Smartie candies in the middle of that cookie.
	Not only breach but breach cesarean, I refused to turn around and start the dive. I must have grown accustomed to living in those warm confines for nine and a half months and lost all intention of standing on my head until the doctors figured out what I’d already discovered: there was no way I was getting my big ass through that little opening. So, I waited for them to come in and get me. Oh Yea. Two weeks late and never did a headstand. I was, and still am, an obstinate fuck (and have never liked being upside down).
	Unfortunately many people (parents are people first) do not accept things outside their radar. The same people who scorn television hatred—done to strangers by strangers—hurt their families and members of their communities with the exact same hatred. An Amish family cuts their children off like dead branches because they never returned after rumschpringe; a Jewish mother tears her clothing because a goy impregnated her daughter; parents excommunicate their son because his sexual orientation differs from theirs...in all cases, the reasons can be distilled down to: fear of the ‘unknown’ and the ‘different’ beyond the ring of firelight.

Film Reviews (Late Summer 2005)

Mysterious Skin (2004) directed by Gregg Araki (Splendor, 1999); starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Brady Corbet: Snaprating=Cheaper, CHARACTER theme. Depicting the ugly and troubling results of pedophilia (from two victim's points of view), this wonderfully directed film succeeds where The Woodsman and Palindromes did not.
Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005) directed by Miranda July (Jesus' Son, 1999); starring John Hawkes and Miranda July: Snaprating=Cheaper, RE-ORDER theme. This jigsaw-puzzle of vignettes paints an odd-joyful portrait of two characters and everyone they know. Fans of Todd Solondz's Happiness and Wes Anderson's Royal Tennenbaums will like this film.
The Devil's Rejects (2005) directed by Rob Zombie (House of 1000 Corpses, 2003); starring William Forsythe and Sid Haig: Gory-film-Fan Snaprating=Cheaper, All Others Snaprating=WFC, PROBLEM theme. A very gory — yet humorous — sequel, which outshines the slasher-flick which spawned it. Fans of Natural Born Killers will be thrilled by this shock-film because of it's caliber of acting and script.
The Chumscrubber (2005) directed by Arie Posin (Over My Dead Body, 2002); starring Jamie Bell and Camilla Belle: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER theme (secondary Re-Order theme). Fans of the Keepers Donnie Darko and American Beauty may enjoy this staged, Robert-Altman-esque, saga of self-medicated Californians because of the superb acting and the nod to Un Chien Andalou (1929).
Broken Flowers (2005) directed by Jim Jarmusch (Coffee and Cigarettes, 2003); starring Bill Murray and Sharon Stone: Snaprating=Cheaper, CHARACTER theme. Wonderfully directed, in a High Fidelity-meets-About Schmidt-way, this film never underestimates it's audience's intelligence. Cannes got it right this year.

Up and Down (Horem Pádem) (2004) directed by Jan Hrebejk (Divided We Fall, 2000); starring Petr Forman and Emília Vásáryová: Snaprating=WFC, RE-ORDER theme. A second-string depiction of hatred and bigotry, like an uncohesive Crash set in Europe.
Eulogy (2004) directed by Michael Clancy (Emily's Last Date, 1996); starring Zooey Deschanel, Debra Winger, Hank Azaria and Ray Romano: Snaprating=WFD, RE-ORDER Theme (Character sub-theme). A Hilarious mix of Big Chill and Home for the Holidays.
Employee of the Month (2004) directed by Mitch Rouse (directorial debut); starring Matt Dillon and Steve Zahn: Snaprating=Cheaper, PROBLEM theme. The skillfully written script overshadows all, even the the heavy-handed direction and average editing, in this amalgamation of Bad Santa, Clerks, and "About Last Night...".
Look at Me (Comme une image) (2004) directed by Agnès Jaoui (The Taste of Others, 2000); starring Marilou Berry and Jean-Pierre Bacri: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER theme. Fans of Real Women Have Curves may enjoy this story of a misunderstood daughter and her shallow family surrounded by French stereotypes.

My Obsolete Skill...Shorthand

You are 'Gregg shorthand'. Originally designed to enable people to write faster, it is also very useful for writing things which one does not want other people to read, inasmuch as almost no one knows shorthand any more.

You know how important it is to do things efficiently and on time. It 's comforting to say, 'practice makes perfect'. You also value your privacy, and (unlike some) you do not pretend to be friends with just everyone; that would be ridiculous. When you do make friends, you take them seriously, and faithfully keep what they confide in you to yourself. Unfortunately, your work (which is very important, of course) sometimes keeps you away from social activities, and you are often lonely. Your problem: Gregg shorthand has been obsolete for a long time.
What obsolete skill are you?
Quizilla

August's 1 thru 10

	"...expression becomes about the writing and not the message," is deluded pouting. Writing muddy sentences on your blog is one thing, but you accepted an invitation to write on my site, balked after your first submission was returned for a re-write, and quit. When a kid did this, I understood. Still living at home, my editing scraped across his corrected-by-Mom scab. Shoveling sentence fragments for a quarter-hour, followed by a few minutes chopping off extra words, will never result in a 100-word patch of quality. It may take hours and still need an editor’s grouting tools to make it fit.
	Your blood knows no better. By divorcing my half-sister’s and mine before they died (and entombing your own age-addled mother against her wishes) you cast my filial obligations like a Pharaoh—in tempera. You also, somehow, allowed your brother’s revulsion for family to spread into your daughter and in two decades, I—twenty years junior—become you, become grandma: a resident of, "...I don’t want to be here...please take me home...they hurt me". For which they are poorly paid; get on board! The length of purgatory will be in your hands until you lose the strength to suicide.
	Finding someone who brings bliss and contentment into your casa, and maybe future, makes me happy. Attempting to shine a gentle light on the soiled pigeon in her rearview mirror, our sister’s replacement-place (campus) was her way of trying to forget the lusty fingerprints, scripted lies, and nicotine-laced oxygen of her latest meet market. When culling the deceitful herd—using a one-way screening tool, having unlimited time, and obtaining double-blind protection carries the stigma: 'overly careful and tired of meeting on campus'. "We inter-met," may sound like snowboard-skydiving to those afraid of heights, but they don’t walk in your zapatos.
	I’ve been practicing nostalgic recall. When I squint my eyes just a teensy-weensy bit — the inch deep, football-sized chunk of flesh cut out of your left scapula, the additional nine months within scud-missile range of the most rabidly governed and impoverished millions on this planet, and the self-inflicted hurdy gerdy you danced because your concubine’s aunt Flo missed her stop-over flight — appear as inconvenient blips in a blessed existence. Your e-mail filters more than the TDC sewer smell, the twelve-hour days, and the 5½-day work-week. (Is it still?) But recollections always cause me to affectionately remember FDNY 1997 and 1998.
	The foolish think old needs to be hidden; negotiating with time by repeatedly celebrating their twenty-ninth birthday. Although I didn’t know you at 29, I’m glad to know you now and extremely pleased with the us of we — today, at the leading edge of your fourth decade. I could be happier only if our backyard was ocean beach or forested mountain…and maybe our horizon is blocking that abode from our view. Thank you for being the perfect paramour. My happiness has become blissful because of your influences and willingness to share your life with me for the last twenty-nine months.
	I do not publicly correct the grammar of friends or family (unless I’m in a banter-provoking mood). Today’s breakfast companion said, "I had this bamboo plant growing in a wine craft." I didn’t correct her. The Yankee-menace said, "It’s a kind of ham that’s curated." No correction. But I open a newly-trawled blog to '...obligation to people dieing of thirst if your knowledgeable of where to find water...' and I take a minute to comment. Why? Because spoken words are immediately lost in the hubbub. Hypertext is the new granite. Don’t chisel until you’re cured and your carafe is empty.
	Why—when I catapult over—do you categorically refuse to return my playful intentions? My cataclysmic vocalizations, pleading for active altercations, are always met by a minimal allocation of near-catatonic silence. I yell for your presence but you always skulk away. If you don’t understand the language of Siam, would it be such a catastrophe to try and teach me your Russian? Stop playing in the bathroom, alone, with that stupid ball; come out here and chase me! If your education doesn’t include how to play, then placate me...or my application to excommunicate you will be submitted in triplicate.
	My window frame over the unnamed city street—antiqued and nicotine coated by dead relatives—is the same rough shade of raw as the unfinished edgy patches. Payne’s gray façades tower over book-page concrete almost obliterated by their creator. Random crowd impressions, adorned by slices of hardboiled egg-moons and cliché pentagons, become lost under bland window shades. Unbalanced staring at fire escapes, which hinge above crooked marquees; all signs direct, all arrows point one way. Incessantly glimpsing this thoroughfare one decade on top of the next, I have ceased wondering about it’s unoriginality and begun questioning: Who lives in there?
	Indoor-only Popcorn was let outdoors by a taker. Budroe P. Wilson died under a bush in my front yard. Scared of heights, Louie ran to a neighbor-roof. Samantha, caught by a dog, died in my backyard. Doc chose to live elsewhere after four days of snow. The unnamed Siamese caught leukemia. Spencer hated living in a trailer park and Lloyd was given away to an ex-step. Momma-cat was taken to a distant farm. Evil black was buried in a pasture. A car hit Missy. Moe was given to a neighbor to be outdoors. Cody got run over by a bus.
	Memories naught, strange visages kept Shadows caught, beneath foot swept Images wrought, still carefully frozen Criteria fraught, non-randomly prep'd Headlong, hysterical, brief giddy delight Dandelion diphtheria, foraged crabapple cure Dirt-road rest area, porch-yard twilight His boost her quench, slaked well water pure Witness old fear, her balancing poise Uncertain too near, she backs in alarm Truck blazing steer with silent noise Evening blight peer, bath light decants Unwilling to face, unsettled turn Autumn unfazes, petals unlearn Chilling pout night’s ethereal warmth awakes Pickle jar blight, perturbed contemplates Gradual bleach to bone Pert turns to stone Lusty stares grown Babes die

detritus from a toad to a day

snap on over to my sidebar

For those who've not perused my sidebar for over a fortnight, I've added some interesting links covering a wide range of sites: From a useless bit of time-wasting at Virtual Stapler; thru a wonderful re-dubbed clip from the Disney Film 'Dumbo' at Pink Elephants; to a superior compilation of film lists and reviews at Movie Review Query Engine (MRQE).

Those in need of a heaping quantity of international information the US counter-intelligence community's World Fact Book now has a link; and, on a smaller scale, if you want to read an ever-changing story (being created by many writers, which I edit) Quill Ting now has a microbutton.

it was right, just that it waz (PMP lix)

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

Prudence Aforé

"It is by the blind-idiocy of every wholesome American with an ability to squint and interpret what they see, that we have three unspeakably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, and the prudence never to practice them." - Snapperhead misquoting Mark Twain

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

Book Recommendation: Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

The matured and improved writing of J.K. Rowling has caught up with the ages of her characters. Because this sixth novel in the series walks comfortably in the resoled transition-book traveling slippers worn by The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, Children of Dune and Heartfire (Alvin Maker Series #5), this penultimate edition to the saga avoids the template-driven 'year of good outsmarting evil,' followed by it's predecessors. If the seventh book will actually be the last, I expect everything we think we know—now—will be turned upside-down between our ears, before the end of the next book.

Available online at discounted hardback prices (for those needing their fix). Non-addicts get a taste of JK at your library and this one will be available there, by the time you get a jones for it.

THE SEVEN SHADES OF LOVE

...or...

"How To Determine Why You’re Not Worthy of Being In Love With The Perfect Person Because You’re Color Blind"

          I read in Smilla’s Sense of Snow, that Icelandic Eskimo’s have seventeen words to describe sleet, snow and ice. The next week an actress on TV said, “The Inuit language has twenty-seven different words for frozen water.” Both of these synchronistic snippets got stuck in the linked fence between my right and left hemispheres. The following week I overheard a conversation between a bruised-banana lady — yellow suit with patches of brown from high collar to low heel — and a silver haired, gray skinned woman wearing a purple and teal blouse that hurt my left eye more than my right. (Yes, I always eavesdrop in public; I’m a writer. Sue me.) Banana said, "Oh, I just love that color on you." And her mother snipped back, "You always love everything. Love, love, love; is there anything that you only like a little? Or simply don’t care for?"

At that moment the synergy of the two unrelated ideas handcuffed themselves together on a bench just behind my left temple and I realized: We need more than one word to describe love.

Love (which I shudder to use in a sentence without wondering what vague and disjointed meaning you — my reader — may confer upon it) can be distilled down to seven shades:

Red Love is the first primary love — the foundational love — or the love of Mother. It is also love of Father and parental love: the love of one’s children. A catch-phrase is 'family love'; even though Red Love is limited to blood relatives.

Red Love is unending. Red Love can incorporate, but often has very little to do with: generosity or kindness, caring, sharing, commitment, protection, and communication. Instead, Red Love rides on the shoulders of: obeying, trusting, teaching, learning and respecting.

Easily mixed with black (no color/no love), Red Love — regardless how dark it becomes — never can become completely black.

Reciprocity is never an issue with Red Love. It does not flow from one person to another. It merely exists, like air, which gives life. Liking or associating with Red Loves is irrelevant; as in, “I love my sister. brother. mom. dad. parents. daughter. son. children, because we’re family, but I can’t stand to be in the same room with him. her. them, for more than five minutes — or I lose my shit.” Red love is based on a soul-connection existing before a child’s birth and lasting after one’s death. Born from the small confidences, the large punishments, the hidden Kool-Aid stains and the decades of sharing the same silverware…Red Love only dissipates after every person, with a memory of that Red Loved person, has gone (and I don't mean to Tipperary).

Blue Love is the second primary love. Blue Love is the love of life-long best friends and extended family. This incorporates co-workers, family members one gains through marriage and partnership connections, as well as other long-term friendships.

Blue Love is reciprocal. In fact, reciprocation is a strong requirement for this love to survive. It’s difficult, but not impossible, to Blue Love an acquaintance if he does not Blue Love you in return. If you Blue Love your brother-in-law, divorce can cause your friendship to fade like a bruise. If you Blue Love a co-worker and leave your job, maintaining your Blue Love-friendship can become strenuous work.

It is possible to marry a Blue Love. Roommates marry to cut costs; acquaintances marry out of obligation, religious reasons, or financial responsibilities; and friends marry because of pregnancy. All these rational and un-emotional reasons are not necessarily bad reasons to commit to someone for a long period of time. Blue Love can be nice. It can be filled with comfort and caring; as well as kindness, sharing, commitment, protection, and communication.

Blue Love is not very sturdy. Like a favorite pair of blue jeans — it can fade over time without careful, constant attention. But, like a deep blue lake, it can be the center of two people’s enjoyment and camaraderie. However, since Blue Love doesn’t contain the emotions of bliss, euphoria or passion, it’s the easiest reciprocal-love to walk away from.

Yellow Love is the last primary love. This is the love or connection one feels for pets, infants, mentally challenged (including autistic and Alzheimer’s) and others who are incapable — or won’t — return our love.

This love is filled with empathy, commitment, teaching, sharing, and warmth; but Yellow Love is not a reciprocated love. If someone has a yellow love 'crush,' which becomes a shared feeling, the reciprocity causes that Yellow Love to bloom into a Blue, Violet or Green Love.

The yellow Sun’s rays shine down on the Earth. The Earth doesn’t give anything back. But — no matter — the sun keeps shining.

One who knows Yellow Love, understands the object of their love may never recognize it. This is not to say animals, newborn baby’s, or senile relatives are incapable of returning affection. But love of another’s attention, feeding, touch, and care is not really love for a person but merely a way of saying thank you.

Violet Love is the first and most prevalent of the secondary loves. Violet Love is a mixture of Red and Blue Love. Combining family love with best friend love, Violet Love is the devoted love of a chosen partner.

This love, based upon trust, sharing, open communication, unending kindness, common interests and rational commitments, is not as unromantic nor as calculated as it sounds.

Violets are winter flowers; strong and sturdy in cold, bad weather.

A couple who is physically attracted to each other, enjoy each other’s bedroom abilities, respect each other’s values, and possess each other's pre-requisites (..."She enjoys watching all my channels"..."His farts smell like summer strawberries"...) may settle into a comfortable Violet Love full of passion and equality. A Violet Love jam-packed with respectful, mutual decisions can be the foundation for a fantastic relationship or wonderful marriage.

Violets die in direct summer heat. If communication fails, commitments change, or agreements become dashed by a summer monsoon, Violet Love can quickly blacken.

Green Love: the second secondary love, is a twisted-twisty love. Green Love is the combination of Blue and Yellow Love. This combination of ‘must be reciprocated two-way-love,’ and ‘never to be reciprocated one-way-love,’ is fickle, unpredictable, sometimes ugly, always irrational, and miserably difficult to scrape off the bottom of your Birkenstocks.

Green with envy is a reasonable catch-phrase; envy of another’s possessions runs along the same vein as it’s running mate: jealousy. Lust is the bloated poster child for Green Love.

Never enduring and certainly without a required direction — vanity and narcissism are Green Loves, just like their stepchildren: addiction and obsession. It can be bestowed on inanimate objects (“I love that ‘52 Chevy”) and it can be gone without warning or explanation. Manias are based on Green Love. When a crush turns into a stalking, ordinary Yellow Love molds into a sick Green Love.

Orange Love is the last, most valuable (and rarest) secondary love. Orange Love is the combination of Red and Yellow Love. This mix of family love with non-reciprocating love is confusing because Red Love simply is — and doesn’t flow from person to person — and Yellow Love only flows in one direction. Rain is merely air (always present) and water (flowing in one direction) and just like rain, Orange Love attempts to soak through and permeate everyone. It is self-love.

‘Orange’ rhymes with no other word in the English language and to possess Orange Love is unique. To love oneself is as strong and important as Red Love, and as simple and spontaneous as the Yellow Love of a puppy.

Religions claim the love of their deity is Orange Love. Of the several flavors of god available in your grocer’s freezer, all have 'love' somewhere in his or her résumé. But to claim Orange Love is god’s love is not wrong, it’s just not completely accurate.

Millions of people (conditioned by their societies, families, or by their intentionally confusing religions) believe it is wrong to love one self. They mistake 'selfish' with 'self worth', and preach: "Think of others first, not yourself."

If you don’t love yourself first, foremost, and — most important — before loving anyone else, you can’t (or won’t) understand why that person loves you. Until you learn to Orange Love yourself with all your rough spots and mistakes you will find it impossible to hear your inner voice, your awareness will be limited to the physical, tangible world, and you will only understand those things your five senses tell you exist. Consequently, love will fall outside your ken.

Two people who have not discovered Orange Love (before they discovered each other) are incapable of White Love. They can never leave the Blue-Green-Violet Love arena.

White Love is the combination of all the loves under one roof. White Love is connected and unconnected to the other love-colors. None of their traits or characteristics can withstand the brilliance, yet their combined descriptions are what constitute White Love.

Talking about or attempting to describe White Love (as I’m failing to do here) with someone who’s never experienced it first hand, is as difficult and near-impossible as successfully describing Quantum Theory (quantum theorists even have difficulty talking with each other).

Billons of people have never known White Love; it is as rare as being struck by lightning. Sure, everyone wants to believe they experienced it. It’s the ultimate! Who wants to believe they are one of the masses; one of the 'also ran'?

To shop for White Love (sound ridiculous?...it’s simple) the only thing required is a few minutes of conversation. Sit down. Talk. You can be blind or blindfolded, because a person’s looks have nothing to do with White Love. Sexual attraction does not enter into the equation. When you first met, did you think about her body or her looks? Were you first attracted to him physically? Is their appearance a factor in how you think of them? Yes? That would be Green or Violet Love — my sad, attentive, reader.

White Love is immediately identifiable. A person who feels White Love for another is totally enthralled by that persons thoughts, feelings, words, emotions, and (like a junkie in need of a fix) will do anything, within value limits, to be in the continued company of that person. Every word flows effortlessly and smoothly; time moves without notice. The soul connection is so strong when talking with a White Lover, it seems as one is talking with oneself. "I feel as if I’ve always known you," is a common sentiment. Ideals, values, goals, characteristics, all seem identical; differences seem to melt away like white snow on white sand in the white desert.

Reciprocation is not required to feel White Love. One person can feel White Love for someone who feels Violet, Green or Blue Love in return. This usually happens because the person who does not feel White Love has yet to know Orange Love and it’s impossible to attain White Love if you don’t already possess Orange Love.

If my relationship ended today I would consider all the time I spent with him/her:

(1) A big wasted chunk of my life.

(2) A good excuse to cut off his balls with a filet knife from his tackle box, as soon as he falls asleep; the bastard. Teach him to end a relationship with me.

(3) Impossible. I've earned and received tenure. No way, after all this time, is she walking out of this relationship! I’ll take everything she owns and her bratty kids!

(4) A period in my life, filled with happy and sad times, but I wouldn’t be the person I am today if it were not for our time together.

Although an attempt at humor — 1, 2, and 3 are answers from a person without Orange Love, living life through the eyes of their partner. Always thinking: "His/her love of me proves I’m a good person." Everyone without Orange Love blames the demise of his or her Blue-Green-Violet relationship on the other partner.

If both feel Orange Love, and are equally self-aware, both know they are valuable individuals, no matter who they are sharing their toilet paper roll with. And both realize neither is wasting their life doing anything, anywhere, for anyone, except themselves. Past experiences are all valuable and necessary, directly resulting in the person they are today (whom they Orange Love).

So if the love of a partner fades away, there should never be blame. (Unless, of course, she wants to take the ‘52 Chevy, because I Green Love that hunk of metal and I’ll bash it into a pile of glass and paint chips before I’ll let her take it).

Magpie Love is the epiphany of love. Magpie love occurs when two Orange Lovers (pre-approved to maybe, eventually, find White Love) bump into each other, recognize feelings of White Love for the other, and, while discussing their feelings, learn of the others White Love.

Magpies mate for life. Two White Lovers — when recognizing shared White Love — are hit in a mutual rush of torrential greatness. Bliss. Euphoria. The dancing-on-a-cloud be-all, that ends-all.

Experiencing life in Magpie Love makes every mundane action and routine, a task worth doing if done together. No idea is too unimportant, no topic unspeakable, every conversation orgasmic.

Unending, selfish, unselfishness is a description for Magpie Love. I like that concise label so much, I’m going to repeat it.

• Unending - forever lasting with no ability to wane.
• Selfish - putting one’s own interests first.
• Unselfishness - doing everything for another and putting one’s own interests last.

In Magpie Love, one White Lover will do anything to bring pleasure to the other, because doing so brings the pleasure-giver, more happiness than it delivers.

And so, patient reader, you have the color chart. Hold it up to yourself; examine your past and present relationships. Once you determine what you had/have, and what you want — then…

…as long as the two magpies doing the méringue don't bump into Rane Beaux, our waitress, causing your slice of lemon-kiwi pie with cherry meringue, to slide off the dessert tray and plop upside down on my grape and blueberry mango surprise — forcing her to become white hot enraged and throw us all out into the dry, desert, blackness — then, once you pay for our dessert, I’ll treat you to the story of,

Love’s Living Centers

-or-

"Seven Locations Where Love Settles When You Aren’t Paying Attention"

Book Recommendation: The Face

This par-level Koontz romps around in a wintry-SoCal-familiar-territory and intentionally remains not too supernaturally over-the-top. His smooth writing style (although riddled with repetitious exposition in places) compliments the routine plot, which is equally comfortable-predictable while the suspense is slightly restrained. In this story, city detectives with guardian angels are pitted against one caotic-obsessive kidnapper. Not as good as From the Corner of His Eye, or Odd Thomas, but better than dozens of others. This book can be found in second-hand bookstores.

Book Recommendation: The Sixth Commandment

Maybe, in the early years of Vietnam, Mr. Sanders found himself holding a gem, after weeks of banging on a Smith Corona, and attempted—but failed—to locate the correct combination of PCP-laced crank, which made that bestseller possible. Probably not. Instead, he penned bad sentence after worse and people bought the NEW YORK TIMES #1 BESTSELLING AUTHOR covers.

Having left him on shelves for decades, I forgot about the incessant adverbs ('His flaky eyelids rose slowly.'; '… she asked bluntly.'; and '...I said softly to him...') as well as his passive voice ('I had been right'; '....I'd fingered her as the author...’; and '...they had noticed me...'). Reading the late Mr. Sanders encourages using inconcise and grammatically incorrect sentences. Avoid him (and Vincent Lardo, who capitalizes on the dead author's name).

Quill Cog Native

"We are not a blanket: one piece of unbroken cloth of the same color and texture; we are more like a quillt: many patches, many colors, all woven and held together by a common orange thread." - Snapperhead misquoting Jesse Jackson

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

Life Meme - from aibee's tag

What were three of the stupidest things you've done?

1. Married in 1982, divorced in 1985.
2. Married in 1986, divorced in 1991.
3. Married in 1992, divorced in 2002.

I’ll let that stand alone in all it blazing stupidity.

Who has the most influence in your life?

I do.

My fox-point Siamese and my paramour exert the only external influences, all of which I love (except for the incessant yowling).

Who would you pick up for 'Dinner For Six' with your time machine?

1. Jack Ruby (ran a strip-club in Dallas, died in prison of syphilis, shot Oswald, what stories he could tell!)
2. Adolph Hitler (guarantees one interesting conversation: his explanation as to why he never eats meat).
3. P.K. Dick (I would need someone much more crazy-intelligent than me to ask the others bizarre questions and then argue with their answers). I suspect Phillip would refuse to get into the time machine (paranoia was his forte). If so, I’d find H.D. Thoreau after he spent 22 months living in the woods.
4. Eleanor Roosevelt (I bet she could — and, with a little coaxing and after-dinner drinks, will — kick Adolph’s ass in a bare-knuckle fight).
5. Vincent Van Gogh before he removed his ear. (He and Adolph can swap suicide stories; besides that, he and I were both born on the same day…only 106 years apart).

If granted three non-supernatural wishes, what would they be?

1. My ex-wife would die peacefully, in her sleep. Tonight.
2. My paramour would get promoted. Next week.
3. My sister would find someone with the je ne sais qua that makes her blissful. Soon.

Name two things you regret your city not having and two things people should avoid.

Phoenix, Arizona would be better if it had:

1. A better art-house theater catering to a quick turnover of crunching-the-top, fringe, indie, and foreign films.
   
2. White Castle or Krystal Burgers.

Avoid:

1. Going outside in June, July, and August unless wearing SPF 189 while dashing between an air conditioned space and a swimming pool or vice versa.
2. Staying indoors the other nine months of the year.

Name an event that changed your life.

I joined the Boy Scouts. I learned to love and respect nature, camp, hike and explore the outdoors before I became an Eagle Scout. All of which were gateway experiences for the US Army, where I learned to protect, serve, defend and explore a big chunk of the world before I retired.

Tag five people.

I tagged my dinner guests. They accepted my tag, but apologize for not posting. Most were more amazed about my description of blogs and the web of internets than they were of the time machine.

Of course, if you read this meme and want to do it...consider yourself tagged.

film reviews (early summer 2005) and Keeper Alert (Hustle & Flow)

Mr and Mrs Smith (2005) directed by Doug Liman (The Bourne Identity, 2002); starring Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie: Snaprating=Cheaper, PROBLEM theme. Although the Smith's fight can be compared to the fight in War of the Roses, the steady humor and over-the-top shoot-n-blow-em-up's, make this more 'Grosse Point Blank meets Léon, The Professional' with a nod to Butch and Sundance.
Batman Begins (2005) directed by Christopher Nolan (Memento, 2000); starring Christian Bale and Katie Holmes: Snaprating=Keeper , CHARACTER theme (secondary theme elements: Problem and Milieu). This is, hands-down, the best superhero-film to date. This saga incorporates over-the-top action sequences, vehicle chases, fight scenes, and witty rejoinders (with far less CGI) as if Van Helsing, Die Hard and Indiana Jones were morphed with the first Batman.
Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith (2005) directed by George Lucas (Star Wars, 1977); starring Ewan McGregor and Natalie Portman: Star-Wars-fan Snaprating=Cheaper, all-others Snaprating=WFC, PROBLEM theme. The script was cribbed from a videogame sound-byte tech (no sentences over six words) and most scenes are CGI hand-me-downs from one of it's older, wiser, siblings or are attempts at humorous nods to films like The Fifth Element and Frankenstein.
War of the Worlds (2005) directed by Steven Spielberg (Minority Report, 2002); starring Tom Cruise and Dakota Fanning: Snaprating=WFD, PROBLEM theme. Fans of Independence Day and The Day After Tomorrow may enjoy this dark, awfully edited, CGI-dominant, retread.
La Marche de l'empereur (March of the Penguins) (2005) Luc Jacquet's directorial debut; starring thousands of emperor penguins: Snaprating=WFD, MILIEU theme. Old fans of the 'Wonderful World of Disney' and younger fans of the documentary Winged Migration will enjoy this tale of Antarctic-nature's hardships and triumphs.
Hustle & Flow (2005) directed by Craig Brewer (The Poor and Hungry, 2000); starring Terrence Howard and Taryn Manning: Snaprating=Keeper, CHARACTER theme. Comparison to 8 mile is easy and simply wrong because this film has the warmth of a great script, wonderful directing (at one point, a woman's song made me tear) and superb acting, which are missing from Slim's hollow autobiography.

Papa's Auto Opinion

          Recently a friend's dichotomy regarding her car purchase stirred thoughts from mental-compost-heap depths to my mind's surface, my keyboard, my screen — now it's on your screen ... in your mind.  This electronic artifice of passing along thoughts, replaces the decades-old verbal guidance my grandfather gave me.  Papa's wisdom is as vital today as it was when I was first-car shopping (only the dollar amounts are somewhat more than quadrupled).

          "Kiddo, there are four things everyone must keep in mind when owning and operating an automobile."  He used longer words rather than some of their available shorter equivalents and his voice carried decades of unfiltered Lucky Strikes in it's timbre.

          "Most important is maintenance and operating costs, which includes gasoline, oil, replacement rubber and repairs when the goddamn thing breaks down."  He said the word goddamn without emphasis.  Just another descriptor.  As if he was really saying, 'when the rusty-metal thing breaks down'.

          "And the insurance premiums, which for someone your age is gonna be a kick-in-the-nuts unless you can convince your parents to include you on their policy."

          He never called either of them by name, leastways never that I recall.  Only pronouns seemed to exist in his dialogue.  He even called his own wife the same thing everyone called her, Nana.  I never noticed it until thinking about him after he died.  When I asked her about it, Nana said, "Of course he called people by their names.  You're mistaken.  You were young, Sonny."  Yeah.  Sonny.  The pronoun used by both of them for Uncle Milt, their son.  But I'm the mistaken one.

          "And then, of course, there are the annual registration and license plate costs.  And in this state there is an excise tax, as well as a fee for getting an inspection sticker."  He raised his voice a little at this point.  He didn't seem to be at all pleased with government-directed costs.

          "The very last thing to consider is the payment price. When I say price, do not get confused and think I mean the amount listed on the sticker unless you are paying cash on the barrelhead — and even I'm not walking around with seven grand in my pocket.  Price means: the amortization of the interest and the principal amount you borrow, all wrapped together into a monthly payment.  All the money you pay the bank, over the years you pay, is the price tag on your automobile.  The ONLY price tag."

          When I asked for his advice in selecting an affordable car, he responded with questions about my income and current expenses, did some calculations and said, "You can afford to spend about two-hundred a month on an automobile, give or take a few dollars."

          I immediately forgot almost everything he told me.  My mind clicked through current interest rates and how much I could borrow to keep my payments around two hundred.  Maybe he suspected what I was thinking, but his laugh-lines didn't show it.  Instead, he asked, "How many miles a week do you think you'll drive?"  I said, "To and from college a couple weekends a month, to the movies once in a while, in the summer I'd drive to work and around town; maybe a hundred miles a week or so?"

          Then he did some murmuring and thinking out loud for a long minute.  It sounded like, "...rate at that...per gallon...a year...seventy cents...every three...maybe quarterly..."  Then he looked at me and said, "You might be able to afford a $1,300 car as long as it gets over twenty miles to the gallon."

          I must have looked crestfallen or even crushed, because he laughed. "You paying any attention to me?"  I said, "Yes, Papa."  "Well, do the math.  500 miles a month is 6,000 miles a year.  If you get 20 miles to the gallon that's 300 gallons of gasoline you need to buy next year.  An easy way to predict the rest of the maintenance costs — hoses, windshield wipers, fluids and the like — is to figure 100 dollars for every 1,000 miles.  At the current cost of gasoline, your maintenance costs will be around 900 dollars a year.  Liability-only insurance, on your parent's policy, should be around 500 a year and taxes and shit should be no more than 150 or so.  Now, that's over $1,500 a year on an automobile you have yet to put a price tag on.  If I co-sign, you might could get an 18-month loan for about $1,300 at a reasonable interest rate, and that is a $75-a-month payment, which would bring your monthly costs to the two-hundred mark."

          I told him I would think about what he said.  I went away and did my own calculations.  The result looked like this: $4,500 at ten percent interest for five years is $95 a month (I could afford the extra $20, he was being too conservative). I knew I could get a really great car for forty-five hundred dollars.

          When I talked to Papa on the phone later, I explained my calculations.  He said, "Why don't you borrow your mother's automobile and do a price comparison on automobiles with $4,500 stickers and then on similar cars on the same lot, but which are five years older.  See how your newer car fares after five years in the value-department.  Don't forget that your tastes in automobiles will probably change over the next five years as well."

          The following week, I did what he recommended.  I found a sporty-looking Datsun for $4,900, which was only slightly over a year old (and I was sure I could talk them down).  Then I was shown several older cars: A seven year old Toyota was marked at 1,900; an eight year old Honda was $2,000; and I found a six year old Ford for 1,750.  Papa said on the phone that night, "Seems you have learned that the car you spend almost six thousand dollars to purchase over a five year period will be worth less than two grand once you actually own it.  Why don't you see what kind of value you can get purchasing a twenty or even forty-year-old automobile?"

          I think my response used catch phrases like 'clunker' and 'gas hog' but it couldn't hurt to humor him.  I checked classifieds and drove my stepfather's van to a local farm.  The farmer was selling three antiques: a 1953 Oldsmobile tank for $750; a 1961 Corvair for $1,000; and a four-door 1949 Pontiac with one of those external windshield visors and no back seat (he said it was made that way for traveling salesmen to store their wares).  He wanted $650 for it because it needed a new paint job and the tires were in bad shape.  All three ran perfectly.  He didn't seem to be bothered at all by some teenager showing up and asking to drive his cars up and down the county road in front of his place.

          "So, those old cars seem to have gained their value back." Papa said after I told him about my test drives.  "I doubt if that Corvair cost much more than a thousand when it rolled off the assembly line."  I told him I suspected maintenance and gas would cost more, since these cars were older, probably harder to find parts for, and said they would get worse mileage (especially the eight-cylinder Olds).

          "Bullshit," he said. "That Corvair will get at least 20 miles to the gallon and I bet it is easier, and cheaper, to fix and find parts for.  But don't take my word on it.  Call any shop-mechanic and ask him.  Tell him what you are considering purchasing and what your concerns are about repairs.  Just ask how much he would charge to examine a car before you purchase it, to provide his mechanical opinion of it's condition."

          The mechanic said he loved working on old classics.  He preferred them.  They were the cars on which he learned.  Parts were always available and they cost no more than new-car parts.  He said, "There's nothing better made than Detroit-steel."  And, "all cars need repairs, but newer ones sometimes cost more in labor, because everything is jam-packed together under the hood and I always haveta move major components outta the way just ta do simple stuff, like change spark plugs.  If you want my opinion, buy a older car."
          Papa shared this wisdom with all his "grandkiddo's."  Although I don't think his granddaughters listened (or his guidance was drowned out by all the fear-based auto-industry commercials).  Now my sisters and nieces drive always new, trade-before-it-needs-tires, money-sinkholes, with the best fear-induced 'extended warranty' they can feel comfortable paying for.  Papa's grandsons did listen.  If there is one clear demarcation between the sexes in my extended family it's seen in our vehicles.

$35K, new.  Insurance is not too bad.  Mostly garaged except winters and whenever she needs to tow her horse trailer (because it has a ten-cylinder engine which makes a fill-up cost two arms and one leg).  She only repairs it at the dealer she bought it from, so maintenance costs are not equitable to any other sane person I know.  She combats her fears by driving something that one needs a gangway to embark into and debark from.  WORTH LESS THAN $18K IN TRADE (which will happen soon).

$5K, when it was 37 years old.  Maintenance negligible, fancy improvements and paint cost more than anything.  He drives it every day.  It's orange and that almost makes up for no air conditioner.  Rarely needed in the Midwest, he says.  WORTH OVER $8K TODAY.

$8,500, when it was fifty years old.  Almost no engine maintenance (but it came with a new engine and new interior).  An extra car which is driven weekends, when it's raining, or when his motorcycle is in the shop (which seems to be more than just once in a while).  It is great to drive and has an after-market air conditioner.  He has already put 70K miles on it.  WORTH ABOUT $12K TODAY.

About 20K new.  Insurance is phenomenal (because she drives as if she's the only person on the road, fast).  Maintenance is acceptable if you disregard the cost of the accident repairs.  WORTH ABOUT 11K TODAY (More, if the next owner doesn't check accident history).

$3K, when it was 31 years old.  Almost no maintenance costs.  Liability insurance less than two hundred dollars a year.  Drove it for six years and over 30K miles and sold it for the same price I bought it.  I don't presently own a car.

65K or more, new.  This is her toy.  She doesn't know how much anything costs because she doesn't 'do the bills'.  It gets picked up by 'the garage' for all routine maintenance, and nothing is ever wrong with it unless there is a light or a noise.  Nonetheless, IT IS WORTH ABOUT 50K TODAY (and it will be traded next year).

Minimum blogger standards revisited

I wrote a post in May explaining my winnowing three blogs from the applaudable ranks. Others, who will also be missed, now join them. Writing less than twice a month was the issue in my May post; now here are a few other reasons to lose my applause.

Uninteresting writing: Some bloggers become enmeshed in describing daily details or environment up to—and beyond—the point where their writing is as interesting as watching my Hayward AquaPilot suck dead bugs (which is actually interesting for about 23.57 seconds).

Self-promotion: Overly narcissistic blogs have a friends and family niche; unless I'm related to the ugly-in-every-picture I prefer not to see your digital storeroom. Along the same artery, those who seem to have a need to throw their shoulder out of joint with self-aggrandizement: less is more, even when it comes to masturbatory-back-patting.

Jerry's kids: Some blog-reads are very much a romp in Springerland. Although I'm oddly interested when I stumble across the show and may even watch for a few minutes (mesmerized by toothless, mouth-breathers) I don't program the show on TeVo.

By request: Asking to be removed from applaudable status to avoid being listed here if one's writing (or my opinion of it) flagged in the future, seemed—at first glance—abnegation bordering on fatalism. But I suspect it's far more confusing and falls somewhere between 'shouldn't pander approval' and 'control-curtail stressors'. So, although I still applaud their writing, I bow to their wishes.

To these bloggers, I wave a hypertextural goodbye (even though some may have been gone long, long, ago)...

• the uglier house
• sepia tone dreams
• fluffmuppet takes on nyc
• written inc.
• spelunk in the trunk
• unfounded shamanic shifting & powerful foolish wondering [added 11 Jul]
• rezzee's blog [added 11 Jul]

After slip-skipping thru the atmo-blog, I complied an informal census, which indicates all blogs fit into these cubbies:

• 20% - written in a language I could not read (unfortunately)
• 18% - focused on political or religious subject matter (with proselytizeable foaming and rants)
• 14% - advertisement or word-cache for another site
• 12% - yet to be determined, as the blog was too new
• 11% - caught my attention and held it (and were appended to my clap-pending list)
• 9% - fan site (sports, pr0n, celebs)
• 7% - juvenile (creative over-attempts)
• 5% - digital album niche (friends and family oriented)
• 4% - simply dislikable (for various reasons)

vaca-enn-we

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

I'll be back for fireworks

I'm actually scuba diving in Mexico's Sea of Cortez, not fishing; unless fishing means 'breathing underwater like a fish'.

In Korea, Butterflying means 'having sex with multiple partners' (like a butterfly flitting from one flower to the next). I heard the word Sharking used in the context of 'obtaining something fraudulently' (like sharks who will steal your hooked catch before you reel it in). Cowing refers to 'frightening someone with threats' (because cows will retreat to hollering and arm waiving).

Maybe I am fishing.

I'll be back not to celebrate the fourth day of next month but to watch the colors in the sky that night.

Until then, check out the blogs listed on my sidebar (applaudable blogs and standing ovational blogs), the sites found by clicking my micro-buttons, as well as my phantastic photos and unarguably, art sites.

Oh, if you read any of my clap-pending blogs, please tell me if they make you clap.
Until next week - enjoy your summer or winter (depending on which shoe fits).