Covid Diary - Chapter 2


          About ten weeks ago, I wrote about my wife and I catching what we could only assume was Covid19.  I updated that article for a month, until our symptoms disappeared.

          In the two month interim, I have experienced three slight recurrences of the symptoms and she has experienced one.  Each were/are identical to our first symptoms only milder in both intensity and duration.

          I added 'are' to the last sentence because I—as I type (7 July 2020)—am, again, symptomatic.

          It began yesterday with sore long muscles in my arms; as if I had done too many push-ups the day before.  As the day progressed, I tested my muscles.  Other muscles began to feel unaccountably fatigued after very little activity.  Newly notable, was, when I entered strong sunlight, my iris's failed to contract as if an optometrist had dilated my eyes.  Today, every muscle is just slightly sore, which I notice most in my fingers, neck, abdomen, and thighs.  Slight headache.  No other symptoms.

          For the last three months we both have practiced social distance and/or stayed home; we wear masks and gloves if going shopping (which is the only time I went out recently: grocery shopping four days ago).

          Obviously, antibodies are only effective for a short period of time and then the antibodies, which may be still present, helped to reduce the severity of our symptoms from massive, can't-get-out-of-bed whole-body, 48-hour exhaustion (Chapter 1, for us) to a few hours of slightly tired muscles.

          This is my opportunity to pass along some funny-albeit-apropos words I heard from my daughter yesterday:  after all the shit I've done in my life, if I die because I touched my face...

Orangemen's Mailbox


Orangemen's Mailbox - 12 July (Orangemen's Day / 'The Glorious Twelfth')




Mailbox artwork - ALL
Santa Claus' Mailbox - 25 Dec (Christmas)
AULDLANGSYNE's Mailbox - 1 Jan (New Year's Day)
Sommerzeit's Mailbox - 8 Mar (Daylight Savings Time 2020 / 'Summertime' in Germany)
Γ”STARA's Mailbox - 19 Mar (Vernal Equinox / first day of Spring - northern hemisphere 2020)
Avril Poisson's Mailbox - 1 Apr (April Fools Day / April Fish in France)
St. George's Mailbox - 23 Apr (Feast of St George)
May IV's Mailbox - 4 May (Star Wars Day)
Serling's Mailbox - 11 May (Twilight Zone Day)


image portion by Jamie Wheeler

Laundromat Pantograph




For those interested in a game of Seek and Find:
I compiled this collage from the photographs of
Oregon artist Austin Granger (flikr link below).
- Good luck determining exactly how many -


continue viewing composite artworks:

image excerpts by Austin Granger at austingranger.com

BFR in the ROK
       (Big Fuckin Rock in the Republic of Korea)

           As I entered the platoon office, Staff Sergeant Colwell gestured with his chin in the direction of a soldier standing in front of his desk at parade rest.  Without looking up from the documents on his blotter, SSG Colwell squinted the left portion of his permanent wrinkles in my direction—which was either a smile, sneer, frown or grimace—and said in his quiet rumble (indicating it wasn't a sneer or frown) “Sergeant, this is Private Wiznewski.”

           I turned and extended my hand.  Wiznewski didn’t even move his eyes, let alone his hand.  I smiled and said, “At ease Wiznewski.  Pleased to meet you.”  He slowly brought his eyes to meet mine, almost smiled and returned the handshake like this was his first-ever.  I glanced down at his terrible handshake and murmured, “We’re gonna work on that.”

           Before I could say anything more, SSG Colwell interrupted.  “Private.  This is Sergeant Glines.  The squad leader for second squad.  He’s your squad leader.  Which means you are in the second squad.  Got it?”   I wondered about what had been said to make SSG Colwell think it was necessary to hammer the numbers and titles.

          “Yes. . .second squad, Platoon Sergeant; pleased to meet you, Sergeant.”  Wiznewski replied to both of us; his voice was average—matching his build, height and hair color and contrasting with his apparent age (he looked about fourteen years old).

          SSG Colwell then gave us both some brisk parting words containing a full complement of threats and ultimatums.  No matter that Wiznewski graduated from Military Police school last week, arrived in Korea yesterday, only assigned to us this afternoon, and had not been issued any equipment yet—he was to be ready to go to the field for training with the rest of our platoon in four days.

          As my squad—the second squad, of the second platoon, of the 142d MP Company—departed the platoon’s tactical operations area the first morning of the field training exercise, we traveled in a convoy of three HUMMWVs.  My driver was PFC LaMott; in my opinion she was the best driver in the company.  And, with newly-issued equipment and (now) fully trained on how to correctly shake hands, PVT Wiznewski rode in the turret as my M60 gunner.

          Behind us, my other two HUMMWVs contained three occupants each: SGT Tinley was my second team leader and SGT Lee, a KATUSA, was my third team leader.   CPL Yoon, also a KATUSA, was SGT Tinley’s driver and PFC Witherspoon was the gunner for vehicle two.  PV2 Smith drove vehicle three (he hated being called Smith or Smitty and somehow ended up with Robert as a nickname, even though his name was Darryl—I think it was because of Robert Smith of The Cure—it was 1989, but it still makes very little sense.)  I don’t remember the name of vehicle three’s gunner, we called him Joe; he was either from California or talked about living there.

          We parked the vehicles near a roadside market, purchased snacks (which in the late-80s usually meant 16oz returnable bottles of Pepsi and Choco-Pie brand moon pies) and then I explained to my eight squad members how the week of training was supposed to go and how it was actually going to go:

          “Every day, all week, we’re supposed to drive our entire assigned area in a tactical three-vehicle convoy.  Our platoon is conducting battlefield route recon.  Our squad has the area marked on these maps.  The other two squads have different areas, different maps.  We’re tasked with comparing maps with actual terrain and making corrections on the maps as we discover them.  For example, if a bridge is marked on the map as having an 18 ton weight limit, but a sign on the bridge says 8 tons, we’d make a note.  We have many hundreds of miles of crisscrossing roads to cover.

          “The way we are actually going to accomplish this—much faster and more efficiently—is to separate.  Each team will drive an area, or a section, and make notes.  Before returning to the campsite in the evening before dinner, we’ll meet and I’ll update the main map with your notes.  That way it’ll all be in my writing.

          “I don’t know how much you all heard this morning when he was talking, but SSG Colwell has directed us to never change our radios off of the platoon frequency and also he said we aren’t allowed to stop and buy any snacks or local food.”  I said this as I raised a Pepsi bottle over my head, which got chuckles and laughter.

          “He thinks he can monitor us if he can always hear us, which would prevent us from separating.  But we will do it this way:  I’ll give you each a section.  We separate.  Drive different routes.  When we need to talk to each other without him hearing, say something on the platoon frequency about an animal, then immediately switch your channel over to 696969.00, say what needs to be said—like meet for lunch at the market at blah-blah grid coordinates—then switch back quickly to the platoon frequency.  Questions?”

          And that is how it went for three days.  Smooth.  Almost all our recons were already complete and we still had four more days left.

          On the fifth day, as we were departing the platoon camp, my vehicle’s engine got an electrical short.  Melting plastic, smoke, flames and several fire extinguishers later—we were down to two vehicles.  No one was at fault.  No matter, SSG Colwell wanted to find someone to blame and hated that he couldn’t twist this into someone doing something he had forbidden.  Because of this, his threats become more venomous.

          My two vehicles were now full with four people in each.  I said to PVT Wisnewski, “Hey, sorry man, you’re still a member of the second squad.   It’s just that I need you to ride with first squad for the rest of the week.  Not as an M60 gunner, just as an extra team member.  Shit happens.”

          And that was how it went for two more days.  Still smooth.  Our recons were now 99% complete, so we mostly fucked off and swam in a creek and relaxed in the shade.

          On the last day we had only two roads to finish (which was expected to take no more than an hour) and then everyone was ordered to meet with SSG Colwell and the Lieutenant at a central area before 1700 hrs.  Late?  Expect to be punished. 

          We finished the road recons, took lunch—Pepsi and Moonpies, and then leisurely headed south along the most direct road which the map showed connected to a highway leading to the meeting area.  About noon we exited the area we were responsible for updating.  An hour later, the road ended at the edge of a rice paddy.  The highway, which we wanted to be on, was about 200 meters away. . .on the other side of the mud-filled paddy.  A dirt track, which appeared to be just wide enough for a HMMWV, had replaced what the map showed was a two-lane gravel road.

          “Sergeant, this is exactly what we are out here to find!  To correct on the map, right?”

          “Yes LaMott.  And I’ll make sure it's noted on the map first squad was responsible for, but, more important at the moment is deciding if we can slowly creep across this dirt berm or if we turn around and make the full loop back to where the road connects to the highway.”

          “If you ground-guide me across, I can make it.  No problem.  Driving that loop will add an extra two hours of bumpy gravel roads.  We’ll be fine crossing the dirt-berm if we go slow.  These are hummvees!”

          I began to walk backwards (signalling with my hands if tires got too close to the edge) and she slowly, carefully, drove forward.  The second vehicle crept behind us with SGT Tinley ground-guiding it.

          Half way across, the front tire on the passenger side slipped off the dirt edge of the berm (my fault for not ground-guiding further away from that edge).  Four-wheel drive began to churn loose dirt, but there was an obstruction catching the bottom edge of the front bumper.  It was preventing the truck from climbing back up onto the top of the berm.  We couldn’t reverse back up onto the berm because the loose dirt on the edge began to erode, which was causing the angle of the HMMWV to increase—too much more and it looked like the truck might roll down onto its side in the deep rice paddy mud.

          “I’m looking at what seems to be stopping us from making it back onto the berm, Sergeant.  It just looks like a tiny sharp rock.”  Said SGT Tinley from under the front bumper.

          “OK, get a shovel, pickaxe, and the muscles of Joe and Witherspoon up here to clear it.”  I replied.

          I began to calculate.  There were plenty of hours.  We could do this.

          Thirty minutes later the hole around the “tiny rock” was now almost a five foot circle and at least eighteen inches deep at the outside edge.  We had all spent time with shovels and various tools of destruction to no avail.  The four inches of rock jutting out of the edge of the berm was connected to a massive bolder which sloped away in all directions like a wedding cake.  When LaMott drove forward, the front bumper came to rest against the top few inches of the bolder.

          Another thirty minutes and I watched as Robert, shirtless, stood over the rock and bludgeoned it with a ten-pound sledge hammer, sending shards of granite splintering with every blow.  Tinley and I stood back as Robert shouted, “Fuck me to hell, Sergeant, this damn thing goes all the way to the core of the Earth!”

          “Ok.  Stop.  STOP.  Take a break Robert.  LaMotte, begin unwinding our winch.  I want to see if it will reach that metal telephone pole at the edge of the highway.”  As she began to un-spool the cable, I got on the radio.

          “This is DeltaTwoLima, warning anyone driving along highway eighteen-alpha near grid coordinate SC189543, there is a cow loose in the road.  Warning: cow in the roadway.  Drive with caution in that area.”

          I switched to 696969.00 and waited.  Two minutes.  Three minutes.  Come on.  Come on.  Come on.

          “Hello Veach? This is Dan.”  (SGT Dan Primock, the first squad leader.)

          “Fuuck it’s great to hear your voice, Dan.  I was worried Wisnewski wouldn’t remember.  I owe him one and I will owe you double if you can help us out of a jam.”

          “What’s with this secret squirrel shit?”  He asked in a laughing tone.

          “Got stuck at SC432476 and need a vehicle with a winch at the edge of the highway where that secondary road meets it.  Can you do that without talking on the platoon freq?”

          “Umm, let me look.”  His pause lasted forever.  “Yeah, we’re only 30 minutes south.  See ya soon.”

          LaMotte came back and pointed out that the cable was short by about ten meters, which was what I’d assumed.  I told them to continue to dig around the boulder, pry with the pick-axe, and attempt to break chunks off with the sledge while we waited for the first squad to arrive.  I said, dejectedly, “Hopefully, guys, you can find the edge of it.  If not, I’m counting on Plan B: connecting two winch cables together and them dragging us over that motherfucker without damaging the undercarriage.  Colwell is going to broil my ass over his personal hell-fire.  He’s someone who’d fuckin love to ruin my career—I want to do everything I can to avoid making him that happy.”

          First squad showed up and began to spool out their cable, connect them, and winch them tight.  Now, the hole around the boulder was deeper—about two feet at the deepest—and, accordingly, the bumper came to rest about five inches below the top of the rock.  Try as we could (and did) there was no way to winch/drive it up and over that BFR.

          “Ok, guys.  I was afraid of this.  Start winding up your winch, Dan.  Everyone else!  Climb inside first platoon’s vehicles.  You’re going to have to sit on laps and climb into the bed with the gear.  I’ll stay here with the two vehicles.  You’ll all make it to the 1700 meeting.  That way, I’m the only person who gets in trouble. . .aaannd. . .What.  In.  The.  Hell.  Could.  This.  Guy.  Want?”

          As I was talking and soldiers were re-winding winch cables and putting on shirts and beginning to store tools, a very, very, old and extremely well dressed—in traditional white suit, hat, and booties—Korean gentleman slowly shuffled toward us along the berm, leading a large beige cow on a hand-braided rope.  The cow had a wooden ring the size of a dinner plate thru its nose.  The man was so stooped over that he seemed to only be able to look at the ground in front of him.  He stopped.  I said, “SGT Lee?  CPL Yoon?  Please tell this farmer that I, we all, are so very sorry for damaging the berm of his rice paddy.  And ask him what we can do to make up for it.”

          While the two KATUSA’s talked in hushed and respectful tones with the great-grandfather, I went to some of the other soldiers and asked them to examine their wallets for Korean money, and to please kick-in what they could (I assumed he would want to be paid for the damage).  I promised to repay them all if they would give it to him.  As they all began to check their wallets, SGT Lee approached me with an odd almost-smile in his eyes but not near his mouth.

          “What did he say, Lee?”

          “Sergeant he...  He wants to help.  Help us with the rock.”  Lee was struggling with keeping a smile away from his voice.  I stared at Lee to see if he had snapped in the heat and, somehow, thought that now would be time to crack a joke.  It didn’t feel like a prank.

          “How would he...?”  I asked as I looked past Lee at Yoon, who was not having any difficulty with laughter because the gentleman was handing him the rope to the cow’s nose ring and beginning to untie the front of his white linen jacket.

          “Does he think that his bull is going to have more success than the truck winches?”  My voice now had a bit of a giggle in it.  Lee could hear my breathy giggle and that caused the smile he was fighting off to reach his mouth.

          “I do not think he wants to use the cow, Sergeant.  He only asked if... he... could... use the sledgehammer.”  The word broke out of his mouth with many more chuckles than he wanted.  He tried to stuff them back in.

          But I had no similar compunction.  I laughed and said, loudly, “The fuck are you telling me?  Lee! Is this a joke?  This old guy, dressed in his Sunday best, can’t even stand up straight.  You just watched four strong soldiers fail to break that fucking hunk of Korea with a sledgehammer and a pick-axe for over an hour—are you, seriously, telling me that this dainty ninety-year-old wants a go?”

          “Yes.  He said he can help.”  Everyone, from both squads, were now standing and chuckling and smiling.  I looked at my watch.  It was 1530 and the drive—for them—would not be more than 30 minutes.

          “Ok.”  I shook my head with laughter and shrugged my shoulders, “Joe, hand him the sledgehammer.”

          The man said something.  Lee translated, “He only needs the top part.  The metal.”

          Joe turned the sledge over, tamped the handle, the head slipped to the ground, then he picked it up and handed it to the farmer, who was now hat-less.  The cow seemed inpatient and pulled on the rope a little.  Yoon tugged back.

          The man slowly, gingerly, lowered his legs into the hole we’d dug around the rock and then picked up the head of the sledgehammer in both hands, leaned forward toward the point of the rock and then tapped the rock with the metal.  He licked his hand, rubbed the rock, and then . . . tap tap tick tap.  He bent closer.  Looked at it from a slightly different angle, tap tick tap.  As thirty seconds became a minute ..tap, tap, tik.. and then a minute became five ..tap tap.. the spectacle wore off.  The funny died down.  Sure, there were still some giggles, but they were becoming snickers of embarrassment.  Someone said, with too much volume, “A diamond cutter!” ..tap, tic, tap.. “This farmer is going to find the vein in the granite!” ..tap, tick, sloooooog.

          The top tier of the rock-wedding cake, the size of a basketball, slid off and settled near the right foot of the diamond cutter.  Everyone burst into shouts and applause and shocked awe.

          I glanced at my watch—and began barking orders as I realized SSG Colwell may never get a chance to be happy on my account.  “Lee, get him out of that hole.  LaMotte, get behind the wheel.  Dan, Joe, Tilwell please pool all the Korean money you can find and give it to Yoon (I gave him about $20 worth)—Yoon, make a list of how much everyone gives and I want that list.  I’ll pay you all back.  Help him and his cow beyond the back vehicle and make sure he understands how much we— I —love what he was able to do.  I think we just witnessed a miracle!  Please explain to him why we need to go so quickly.  Thank you.  And thank him!”

          The HMMWV climbed over the topless-boulder like it wasn’t even there, made it down the berm to the highway in a few minutes, and we all drove to the meeting point.  We arrived before most.  SSG Colwell asked about the dirt and mud on the vehicle.  I said, “We had to veer around a cow in the middle of the road and went thru a mud puddle.  We called to warn others who might be driving in that area.”

          “Sounds like you were driving too fast for conditions.  I told you to insure everyone drove safely or I’d give you an article fifteen.  Sounds like you didn’t listen.”

          “We weren’t going fast.  Hardly moving at all.  But we didn’t hit the cow, just a little mud.”

          THIS STORY IS 100% FACTUALLY TRUE.  IT IS AS ACCURATE AS MY 30-YEAR OLD MEMORY CAN RECALL, BESIDES MOST OF THE NAMES (CHANGED TO PROTECT THE GUILTY) IT HAPPENED EXACTLY IN THIS MANNER AND IN THIS SEQUENCE.   I THINK IT'S THE BEST TRUE STORY FROM MY LIFE.

How I Spent My Summer CoV-acation




          There are a few interesting things to see in Westford, Vermont.  Besides a 180 year old covered bridge, there is a 700-pound (318 kg) carved wooden 'fuck you' gesture on a lighted pole and a 30-foot (9 meter) boat painted like a shark with a hand-painted sign: 'THIS VIRUS SUCKS...I WANTED ZOMBIES'.

          The reason I rarely permit myself to be photographed and, subsequently, don't publish photos which include my likeness, or visage, is because a UW-Milwaukee professor who taught me watercolor painting in the early 1980s said (as an explanation for why everything he wore, or owned, consisted of shades of grey):
          I believe the most successful artists are the best observers.  To be a good observer, one must strive to always blend in.  Nobody pays attention to some grey-haired old guy in a grey suit, wearing a grey tie and driving a grey car.  Like a scientist preventing their research from becoming contaminated by his or her own DNA, artists should be observers; not the observed.

more snap-photos of me:

shun the fleck in my roar




Looking at myself in the grungy mirror of who, what, where and when
For the first time in my privileged life, I hate the world today times ten
Things I have no control over which nobody has control over but then...
Some may cure others elect and twelve may incarcerate those bad men

Frame of window glare in tunnel awareness focused switch-plate the ken
Train of thought: removing all untoward distraction, until everyone is zen
I want to cry, I want to yell, I want to teach, I want to bash n bash again
Please empathize, listen, engage, delve and then agree to quit only when


continue contemplating art-poem combinations:


image excerpts from Chad Abramovich at Obscure Vermont

Mailbox Philosophy - Jainism



          The foundation of Jain philosophy is based on three intertwined thoughts and behaviors which they have determined to be correct:
  • Faith
  • Knowledge
  • Conduct
          Adherents to the Jain way of living strive to avoid:
  • Violence or harm to living things (which includes food; most are vegan and intermittent fast)
  • Deception or lies (if speaking truth might harm someone, a Jainist chooses silence)
  • Stealing or misappropriation
  • Passion or lack of chastity
  • Acquisition or possession of material goods
          Jainism is not a religion because they do not believe in a creator.  According to Jain teachings, the universe has always existed (with fluctuating levels of energy) and will always exist.

          My artwork, Mailbox Philosophy - Jainism (Now in letterbox and living color) depicts an ascetic Jain (possess no clothing) wearing a traditional mouth cover (prevent inhaling small insects) while carrying a feather whisk (to remove insects from the path).  Strict followers of the Jain philosophy do not have residences or mailboxes (an octopus has, instead, camouflaged itself as a mailbox); above which, the octopus's stretched skin bears the Jain's motto, in Sanskrit, Parasparopagraho JΔ«vānām, which translates approximately to:  All Life Is Dependently Inter-connected.  Although self defense is permitted, the Jain's posture is not one of fear (from the Japanese Spider Crab) rather, she appears to be glancing at the Jain flag while she takes advantage of the water (Jains do not waste water by bathing).



    PARSE (Philosophic Argument Relating to Socital Emblems)
             The Thin Blue Line vs Black Lives Matter


          Police officers unjustly killed another black man.  This time it was in Minneapolis, Minnesota.  Protestsranging from peaceful sit-in's to destructive riots—are currently happening worldwide. 

          If you want to learn why you should never display the "thin blue line" flag, patch, or banner as well as why you should never say the words: Blue Lives Matter or All Lives Matter, read on...

          Driving thru the Oregon countryside in 2018, my wife pointed to a pickup truck flying two large flags and asked if I knew what the black and white one represented.  Although I'd never seen an "American flag" with: black bars instead of red, a black field behind the stars instead of blue, and a horizontal blue bar thru the middleI was able to make a reasonably informed guess (because the other flag in the back of the pickup was a confederate battle flag).

          There are a few variations of banners with these blue lines.  Even though they range from those with solid black backgrounds, or are combined with the stars and bars, or the union jack (as well as with the aforementioned stars and stripes) I've discovered one strong common denominator:  all appear to have been created after 2013when the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement began.

          For decades, the descriptor  thin blue line has been used as a simile.  By referring to the police force as the "front line" of law enforcement, the phrase successfully brings to mind a line of blue-uniformed officers fighting valiantly to separate and protect law abiding citizens from criminals.  I joined the Military Police in 1985 but it wasn't until 1990with the film The Thin Blue Linethat I learned this term was a label for police.

          If someone wants to show police solidarity and also wants to display their support in the form of a banner (on the back of their Ford F150, as an example) they should consider a emblem from the Fraternal Order of Police (FOP).  This organization is over a century old, advocates for the safety of law enforcement officers, and the FOP logo contains no words intended to usurp the message of another group.

          There are a growing number of flags, banners, and signs which bring universal scorn to those who publicly display them.  The Blue Lives Matter banner is now joining with the signs of the "Church" from Westboro, Kansas; the flag of the National Socialist German Workers' Party (the Nazi Swastika); and variants of the US Confederate Battle Flag (Confederate Southern Cross).

          Specious claims of "pride in one's heritage" are no longer palatable and displaying one's racism proudly is less and less tolerated every year.  But still, there are many who feel a need to display an emblem decrying their hate, so the white supremacists have recently adopted the thin blue line flag, which provides a superficially plausible explanation (claiming to support the police) while actually displaying their hate-filled message (which is that black lives don't matter to them).
  •      The Thin Blue Line Flag is equivalent to the Blue Lives Matter banner.
  •      The purpose of stating "Blue Lives Matter" is to oppose the "Black Lives Matter" movement.
  •      The primary "Black Lives Matter" message is to stop police violence against people of color.       
               Thus:  Displaying a Thin Blue Line flag means you support violence against people of color by the police—there is no other rational interpretation.  Any statement/emblem which contradicts that of the Black Lives Matter message, logically, stands in support of violence and murder of black people by law enforcement personnel.

          Keep following the logic...

          If someone declares Black Lives Matter (by banner, statement, or flag) they are protesting police violence on black people by sharing that organization's slogan.

          Any replies similar to:  all lives matter, or blue lives matter, or everyone's life matters, are contrary statements made by those disagreeing that black people have been and will continue to be unjustly targeted with violence by law enforcement personnel (which is what the Black Lives Matter movement wants to stop).

          After posting this article in 2018, I received a few proudly ignorant commenters claiming they were unaware the blue lives matter banner meant black lives don't matter, but rather than accept this rational argument, they all seemed to prefer keeping their emotion-based ignorance.

          Hate is a strong emotion.

          Nobody ever likes to think they previously made a wrong-headed decisionat the same time, we all like to hear others admit when they discover they made a mistake in judgement; we consider those who are able to recognize their mistakes (and are "big enough" to admit it) to be leaders who possess mettle, strong character and emotional intelligence.

          When was the last time this was you?  Could this be you in the future?

          Maybe a change, which we all can contribute to making, begins with your awareness that racist police violence has to stop.  If you change your apathy today, tomorrow maybe you'll be big enough to tell the ignorant multitude around you that they are part of the problem.


    are the same as 





Recommended Products
      (unsponsored)

         I provide this small list of items I wish I'd discovered when I was younger, don't know how I got-by without previously, strongly recommend now, and would immediately replace if lost.  Although approximate 2020 prices are included, I suggest using camelcamelcamel to know if the current price is high or low (relative to previous prices).  The links to Amazon are for ease of identification and are not sponsored links.

          This CGEAR ground-cover/mat is not only for camping and picnics, but can be staked down in high winds with attached eye-rings.  It was designed to be utilized as a beach blanket, to prevent sand from being carried back to the vehicle, but I use it primarily as a base for stargazing (keeps clothes / top blankets dry) and as a 'home base' when exploring the forest with my cat.

          Available in several sizes; the 8' x 8' is between $50 - $80.


          The DURALEX Unie glass has a perfect heft, volume, shape, and size.  It holds 20oz (560ml), weighs 9 ounces (250g) and is made of tempered Duralex, which is the same material as vehicle glass.  If it breaks it shatters into tiny square pieces and not into sharp shards. 

          There's only one perfect size: French pint tumbler goblet $10 - $15.



          Having a favorite bar of soap is a first, for me—but I am so dedicated to the smell, creamy texture, and longevity of these triple-milled Wavertree & London (lemongrass and lemon myrtle scent) bars, I keep a "back stock."  (It's not hoarding if you only keep a 6 month supply is it?)

          Large bar, made in Australia:  $9 - $10.


          This Ibiyaya double-compartment backpack is sold as a pet carrier (definitely great for cats) but—as a backpack—it is durable, ergonomically-comfortable, and luxuriously outfitted with great details (which you weren't even aware you'd appreciate, until you discover them in this fantastic piece of high-end luggage).

          Overall size:  22"x15"x11.5"; $145 - $160
    

A Flatter Curve Means...


  • People not wearing a mask or social distancing (until 2021 or 2022) are more-than-probably narcissists, sociopaths, or fools.
  • In the narcissistic sociopath's mind, everyone else is either insignificant or unimportant; their dysfunction causes them to only focus on their own convenience and comfort.  It's uncomfortable to breathe your own exhale.  It's inconvenient to maintain awareness in order to keep your distance.
  • Psychopaths try to blend in, so they'll not be as easy to spot.
  • Governments have begun to loosen restrictions because their hospitals are below capacity.
  • Fools take this to mean: "it's all clear, we can go about our normal lives."
  • Narcissistic sociopaths never wore masks or kept a distance.  They are just glad to be able to blend in with the fools now.
  • Doctors and historians say this will not go away until at least 80% of the entire population contracts it (if antibodies prevent re-infection, which is still unproven).
  • I had it and don't want it again.  I (and scientists) don't know if I'm still contagious.  I still wear a mask and keep a distance because empathy causes me to not prioritize my comfort and convenience over other people's life. 

continue covid19 creations:

Arthouse Bizarre Convoluted Dark Films (ABCD Films)


          Continuing the theme from Chasing Svelte (films from 2005-2008) I provide eight of the most convolutedly-bizarre, dark-humor films of all time (as of 2019).   These ABCD Films are not in alphabetical order, best-to-worst, or oldest-to-most recent; they are in my recommended viewing/re-viewing order, which is referred to as mix tape order (explained by Rob Gordon in the very non-bizarre film High Fidelity).

           If you are unfamiliar with this cross-genre niche, welcome to discovering something you will either love or hate.   


Rubber is the first on this list because it rolls somewhere between unexpectedly-strange and oddly-hilarious.  Why do the characters speak English in this French-Angolan film?  No reason.  If Rubber is too surreal and unsettling (even though all great films, without exception, contain an important element of no reason) then you have already learned not to keep watching down this list.


Bad Boy Bubby is so much more of everything (which is why it's in the #2 spot).  This underground, extremely-dark Australian comedy contains some thought-provokingly disturbing imagery and very adult situations.  Not mainstream horror, but a few scenes fall so far outside "normal film standards" that viewers who enjoy it are confirmed ABCD film lovers.  (Rough-experimenal in technical quality.)


Allegro non troppo, an animated Italian musical formatted like Fantasia, is insightful, humorous, and consistently off-kilter.  Familiarity with the Disney film isn't a prerequisite.  The six shorts, accompanied by classical music, are sandwiched between strange live sequences with subtitles.  "Man's origin" set to Ravel's BolΓ©ro is permanently wedged in my monkey brain.  (Suitable for mature children.)


The Brand New Testament, a French-Belgian odd-quirky comedy, is much more main-stream than the films which precede it because "quality mix tape order" requires a softening lull and this begins the less-intense midpoint.  The next few are still ABCD films, but some leave less room for interpretation; less room for thinking; less room for discussion.


eXistenZ is Cronenburg at his Cronenburgiest (I mention because some are overly confused/put-off by his films).  It's as if Nolan's Inception was melted into Spielburg's Minority Report with a flamethrower—only with creatures grabbed from inside and put outside.  Watch it (again?) but don't focus on the when-did-that-what-happen.  Think about the subtexts.


John Dies At the End is delectably detestably (thank you word-suggest) debatably similar to the previous two (buoying-down/anchoring-up the slightly more Hollywoodish midpoint of this list) only John Dies At the End has significantly more sauce, overt philosophy, and abstruse wordplay (when you come across a new word for the very first time in your life you'll always read or hear it again within twenty-four hours).


Eraserhead intentionally makes empathic viewers uncomfortable in a myriad of ways.  That is its gift.  (Those querulously confused, lost, and/or befuddled are more-than-likely the opposite of an empath.) This is the penultimate ABCD film:  second-most experimental (behind Bad Boy Bubby); second-oldest (behind Allegro non troppo) and second-to absolute most surreal.


Gozu is a Japanese film (subtitles) with a Yakuza enforcer central character, but it's not an action/suspense film; it's engorged with dark humor, but it shouldn't be placed in the comedy genre; and it gushes with whatdidIjustsee (normally labelled horror) but doesn't fit comfortably in that skin.  Gozu will be tattooed into your long term memory.  It's overwhelming grand finale pushes the bizarre out. All the way out.


Serling's Mailbox - Answer Key


Before viewing this list of Twilight Zone episodes, see how many you can find in the original artwork Serling's Mailbox.

(click to enlarge and magnify)


ancillary addendum's to other artworks

Asperger's Trait: Hyper-Focus (lack of eye-contact) Explained



          Some fellow-nefnd—who posses the Asperger's trait commonly labeled: hyper-focus, which is sometimes referred to as an extreme attention to detail and also, usually, confused with the symptom lack of eye contact—are unable to exercise control over their brain's focus or attention the way neuro-typicals are able.  Which, simply put, is one of the many reasons Autism is considered a disability.  I may consider hyper-attention to be my normal, but I recognize that being able to switch it off (without closing my eyes or turning my gaze toward a blank wall) would be hugely beneficial.  

          To aid in my explanation, I provide this photograph.  One early-Spring, first-covid19-quarantine, day-trip took us thru:  Granville Reservation, Texas Falls, the Robert Frost Wayside, and passed a well-maintained roadside cemetery East of Vermont 116 or North of 125 (memory fails which).

          The relevant point:  I was driving over 35mph (60kph) when my eyes landed—for a half-second—on these light blue doors about 100feet (30meters) away.  Because I can not shut off my brain's hyper-attention I became aware of the unusual (for the US) ventilation holes drilled into the doors and then returned my focus to the slight curve in the road.  Four seconds later, I recognized we were passing a cemetery and immediately made the connection with the doors/ventilation holes leading underneath it (presumably they lead to a place for the storage of lawn care, snow removal, and grave digging equipment or tools).  So, I turned the car around and went back for this photograph.

          If the ventilation stars were pointing up I would have still made a mental note as I glanced at them; no choice—can't turn my focus off—my inner awareness, if it were a monologue instead of images, would be an incessant hubbub of chatter grabbing for my attention.  However, short term memory would have over-written two regular stars as routine with some later, more overwhelming, images [like the flock of a dozen wild turkeys near Hinesburg or the road-sign to St George (I was in the process of creating that artwork at the time).  The turkeys and sign made it into my long-term memory but not into a camera].

          All it took, to turn a routinely-forgettable mental image into a sufficiently-overwhelming one, was the person drilling those ventilation holes to turn their template 36 degrees—thereby, causing me to spend a few seconds imagining foolish candlelit goings-on betwixt some weed-eaters, tarps, and a backhoe; a few minutes to take and upload the photo; and a few hours writing this explanation.

          Thank you ventilation hole-driller.


more memorandums on mind and memory: