Apparently, it WOULD be in autumn.

I have just been handed this important bulletin... Well, not actually handed the bulletin, but wouldn't that be wonderful? Every time there was something you should know, someone runs up to you and hands you a piece of paper with the news? I digress... constantly...

Robert Goulet is dead, at age 73.

Goulet is dead, long live Goulet. Both Vanessa and I have Robert Goulet ringers on our cell phones, which will now serve as tragic reminders of a lost legend. Or at least of Will Ferrell's mockery of a legend.

If ever I would leave you, it wouldn't be in summer
It would be... now.

Rest in Peace, America's favorite Canadian baritone.

I come from good stock

In case there's any doubt that most of us lead meaningless lives of selfish pursuit, here are some things to note. Even for those who think that their yearly contributions to Shakespeare Festivals, walks for various diseases, or volunteering for that group that tries to promote equal opportunity for women who make pottery really make a difference... I can point to my parents. The following is copied from some Kansas government publication detailing why my parents were honored at a dinner about a week ago, presented with a nice trophy-ish thing, and... well... I can't find this article online so I'm going to copy it here:

"Earl & Arlene Winsor have been resource parents since 1996, providing foster care for approximately 60 children, including long term placement of children with extremely hard-to-manage behaviors. All of the children in the Winsor home call Earl & Arlene "grandpa" and "grandma," and they are always ready to go out of their way to support the children after they've moved from the Winsor home. They've provided respite without reimbursement, given advice and encouragement to the children's new resource or adoptive parents, and have taken care of the three pre-school-aged children of a teenager who had been in their care when the teenager was grown and in a difficult relationship. The Winsor's were presented with an "Open Arms Award" at the 2005 Resource Parent Appreciation Dinner for "being ready and waiting when children who have left their home need a place to come back to." One boy with very challenging behaviors left their home-and, although the Winsor's had a lot going on the last time he needed a home, Arlene told their worker that Earl responded without hesitation, saying that they needed to "bring him back home" and help him through this.

At an age when most people are only grand-parenting, the Winsor's are continuing to do foster care, and they have adopted a sibling group of four. Having the experience that she does gives Arlene the insight into the needs behind the behaviors demonstrated by the children in her care and helps her not to overreact. Her matter-of-fact manner has been a positive influence on elementary-aged children in her home who have control issues or episodic explosive behaviors. The Winsors have a practical way of demonstrating the love that they have for children, and it's impossible to determine the widespread effect of the work they have done."


Yup. That's what my parents do, and that's why most of us suck compared to them. They give of themselves, their lives, their home, their limited resources, their everything so kids that no one else has place or patience for can feel security, stability, and love. Let me be sure to say that this has nothing to do with me and I am not basking in their reflected glory... In fact, more times than not I have found the effects of what they do to be troublesome and annoying when I go home to visit. This makes me feel like a selfish bastard, which annoys me further. Sometimes I go home, especially after a long time away, and I want my parents to myself. I want time with my mom and dad. I'm jealous of others whose families come to visit them to "see the show;" I want my parents to be able to travel and see me in shows, too. (I did MUSIC MAN in Wichita in 2004 almost exclusively so that I'd be near enough that they could see me in something.) I want them to be like other parents whose homes are immaculate, under control, and aren't sometimes filled with the effects of some various stray animals (or group of animals) that a child has "secretly" decided to adopt, or just let in. I want to sit and have a drink and discuss currents events around the table late at night with them. I want, I want, I want. That's all selfish, and when I take a step back, I realize how lucky I am to have come from these two people. They are exhausted, they sometimes...often... neglect themselves, but they keep at it because it is what my mother feels they are called to do. Eventually, probably soon, they'll no longer take in any new children or placements. They give so much, I just hope they have enough at the end to care for themselves as much as they do for others. If you were to look at it proportionally, my parents do more with what little they have than you will ever see anyone give, anywhere.

And Mom & Dad, if you read this, one day soon I'm bringing you out... somewhere to vacation and see me in... something.

I should be learning music right now, but learning music is boring. I fear I may have adult onset ADD. Well, I might think that, if I actually believed in that disorder.

Reincarnation in a nutshell

Observed brilliance:

(Person #1 swatting of butterfly/moth of shoulder, butterfly/moth falls to ground.)

Person #1: Creepy things.

Person #2: Hey, that could've been somebody's spirit!

Person #1: All the more reason I'd want to get it the hell off me.

Blatant commercialism

I did a commercial for WSU recently. Here it is.

...with the fury or my re-ci-tations.

A ridiculous conflict of emotion, being saddened by the physical absence of that which makes you happiest.

So you know, I'm having a LOT of trouble with the supposedly labor-saving" third-party utility I used for my photo slide shows, so if you're only seeing two, or ten pics on those... it's temporary and will be fixed. Maybe these two old shows on a former "under construction" page will work.
Or this one.

Today I woke up, put on my robe because it was chilly, and sat in front of the giant 57 inch TV as I spoke on the phone to Vanessa in The Land of Faraway. Things are all set and I'm doing some of our paperwork for the big next gig. The rejuvenating effect a nice phone call with her has right now can't be overstated. Honestly, out here in the hinterland, I've been getting a little stir crazy and lonely without her. I would likely feel that way no matter where I was.
It's a bittersweet feeling, missing someone you love. It's a tug at the heart that reminds you that you are tied to another person, and that their happiness and well-being are at least as important to you as your own. The pull causes you both some degree of discomfort, even pain at times, and in response you want to throw your arms around the other... but you can't reach them, not until they come home. Unless you have freakishly long arms which can somehow reach hundreds or thousands of miles... but if you do, I doubt you're probably in a relationship. More likely, you are locked away in some government research facility. But I digress...

Right now I'm sitting in Wichita, Kansas at Dusty's. I'm in Wichita because I have to pick him up at the airport tomorrow, and my good buddy Nick is coming into town with his girlfriend tonight. Very excited to see him and meet the lucky lady. I forgot my razor, and I didn't shave today...or yesterday. I may be arrested for vagrancy.

I mean no offense to anyone at all by saying this, but while I have enjoyed spending a good deal of time with my family in the last few weeks, I will be very excited to leave Kansas jump back into my LIFE.

My dog got an emergency bath yesterday. It is actually the first time I ever bathed a dog, and it was a lot easier than I'd expected. We were taking our morning walk yesterday when he found some patch of grass he decided to fall in lust with. He would sniff at it, then roll and rub himself around in it. This was fascinating, and it went on for maybe ten minutes. I could not decipher the appeal of this random spot he'd chosen. We got back to the house, where the furnace was being worked on. Once in a confined space, well, I don't know what he found I know it caused him to smell like concentrated ass. Thus, emergency bath.

I had a really pleasant experience yesterday giving a little workshop for some high school kids in Hillsboro, Kansas. My music teacher from high school teaches there now, and she's better off for it. For many years I have said that I would've had a real leg up if I had grown up in larger school system that afforded more opportunity. I figured that it was because of the size and location of my high school that there was so little focus and opportunity for students there compared to most. So, when I visited with these very fortunate kids, my eyes were opened. This school is no bigger than mine was, 30 miles away. The facilities, programs, and... everything... are much, much better than what we had in Peabody. Sadly, proportionally speaking they have comparatively LESS now, there. I never really knew, I guess, where my high school fit or what its reputation was among other similar or "rival" area schools. Now I know... and sadly, they're right. As a side note, the kids I saw today have a lot going for them. Everyone who sang for me was excellent, with three or four really exceptional kids. The "worst" of the singers today would've been by far the best at PHS when I was in school. We weren't talent rich, we had to grade on the curve. I'm proud of Mrs. Just (my former teacher) for what she's managed to accomplish in a district where she's doesn't have to fight for everything she gets. Lucky kids!

Matt, you need to update your blog. Oh wait, you did.

To everyone - some of you, according to my trackers, are getting to the site/blog via OLD links. Please update your links and access via www.donwinsor.com as opposed to old convoluted AOL referrers. Those may stop working at some point.

I will close as I summarize today's mood using a haiku.

Each day as I wake
I try to remind myself
Do not be a tool

The Ballad of Winsor and Clemo (vol.1)

John Clemo and I have set out to write an ongoing story between our facebook walls. This is complicated by the fact that only people who are friends with us both can read the the whole story. Also, you are limited to 1000 characters per post. Most of the awkward mid-sentence line breaks you will see are places where one of us ended an entry for the other to continue. For no other reason than to collect it and amuse (hopefully some of) you, here is collected Volume One of the ongoing ...

THE BALLAD OF CLEMO (no relation) AND WINSOR (no relation)
(dedication added: For Vanessa and Patti, whether they'd want it or not.)

There were too many trees, and something had to be done. Winsor sighed a heavy sigh and wondered what had gone wrong. It was an idle sigh, and while history had shown him unlikely to affect any change, his disquiet with the changes of the past five years was building in him like the pressure in a particularly reclusive teenager's pimple. There was a knock at the door...
The kind of knock that betrayed the knocker.....while it did satisfy it's obligation to alert those inside to a presence outside, the knock itself lacked a kind of commitment; so much so that Winsor mistook the knock for a ring, and immediately answered his phone. It took a moment to clear the confusion.
Once Winsor was satisfied that the phone was not the culprit of the mysterious rapping (a musical artform heretofore sadly unexplored), he realized that he was expecting a pizza. "Be still and await my response, courier of Italianized flatbreads," he exclaimed, to no response. Winsor warily began to negotiate the distance between couch and entry portal.
It cannot be described, the look on Winsor's face upon opening the door and finding not which is heart desired (the above mentioned "itailianized flatbread") but in fact a slightly mussed and most hunger-sated Clemo, who acknowledged the aforementioned indescribable look with a hearty, tomato scented, "Have you ever had their pizza? I just tried it, and I've got to tell you, it's quite possibly the best pizza I've ever tasted. I mean, I've been around this great big world of ours, and I've tasted many things, but that pizza was just ambrosian." Clemo seemed a bit stumped at Winsor's apparent impression of a Gorgon victim, but..
Clemo seemed a bit stumped at Winsor's apparent impression of a Gorgon victim, but...
was less than surprised when the tall gentleman produced a Laser(tm) gun capable of producing a beam of pure anti-matter and casually pointed it in his direction. You see, it was this very device which Winsor and Clemo had inadvertently developed together whilst attempting to start a theatrical production company together. Clemo laughed a tired laugh, and...
lamented casually, "Ah, yes, the Laser (tm) cannon we developed while trying to devise the perfect staging of THE MERRY WIVES OF TUMBRIDGE WELLS, that little known Shakesperian piece written, I believe, by Francis Bacon, pretending to be Christopher Marlowe. I thought it was a toaster." Winsor smiled at the memory, and quickly lasered two slices of bread to toasty perfection. "Jam or Marmalade?" He queried.
Clemo stammered a quiet response.
"How dare you, Winsor? You well know of my strong views on the evils of spreadables."
Clemo then soundly rebuffed his offender with a gentlemanly slap.
"Just making sure it was you, J.C., and the best way to do that was to tempt an impostor with things wiped on bread."
"Touche, my friend. Now, to the business at hand!"
Clemo pulled out a large manila envelope. He dramatically opened the top, and pulled out the contents. "Surely, you are aware of what these are?" He queried. Winsor looked on in a kind of stunned admiration. Of all the things to keep, after all these years......it was a sign of respect, certainly, and a kind of affection, to put so much emphasis on what seemed a trifle at the time of it's creation, but to see it here, now, after so much time....
"I cannot believe that you kept this!" He cried.....
"My 3rd-grade Crayola sketches of every Beatles album cover,including 'Live in Las Vegas,' which never actually existed! How did you get these in the first place?"
Clemo scoffed,indicating these are not what he wished to be noted.He reached deep into the envelope.Deeper,it seemed, than should be possible.He groped as a man who is sure something was in that pocket gropes,in the hopes that a sudden movement of the hand will reveal something hidden in the altogether limited space.His eyes widened and he
turned a strange, whitish kind of pale. Finally, he spoke the words that would chill a man's soul.
"Don. As strange as this may sound, something has.....got me."
At that moment, there was a strange kind of sucking noise; the kind of noise you would hear at the annual "Drink a Very Thick Shake Through a Very Thin Straw" contest, held every year in Zanesville, Ohio. Clemo's entire arm jerked, and began to disappear into the envelope.
"Grab my hand!" yelled Clemo......
"That's fairly intimate for two gentlemen to become, Clemo."
"Curse you, Winsor, and your fear of intimacy! It shall be my undoing!"
With a dismissive sigh and a look that said "oh, very well,"Winsor grabbed Clemo's remaining hand and tried to help free him from the mysterious pull of the envelope.What could he have brought in the envelope?
Clemo shouted, "By Achille's mittens, you shall not have my phlanges!"
With a mighty final tug,the two gents pulled free of the manila prison.They fell to opposite corners and
after the release of tension that sounded like something underwater yelling, NI NI NI!, they rose from their corners, and stared across the room at each other.
"If I may be so bold as to ask," stated Winsor, politely, "What in all the green glades of Gilson's Creek was THAT?"
"I'm not sure, my alliterative friend, but trust me when I tell you that I will not be opening that manila envelope again. It seems to be possessed." And with that, Clemo absent-mindedly opened the envelope.
A small piece of paper, about the size of a smaller version of an 3 x 5 card tumbled out from between manila sheets, and floated to the floor as if being drawn to it by a very forgiving magnet.
Clemo drew his trusty Webley revolver from somewhere within his voluminous cloak, and prepared to fire, but was interrupted by his compatriot who, in his charming and yet self deprecating manner, said....
"Ekerty wip boble neffle tiptop bang, hycvwa."
For a moment the gentlemen locked eyes upon this utterance, neither of them seeming to have any idea what it meant. Winsor held the confused gaze whilst slowly kneeling and retrieving the card. When he returned to full height and looked at the card, his brow furrowed. One word shown clear in black sharpie on the white face of the card. He turned the card so Clemo could see the card fairly shouting "EULALIE!"
Clemo put away his gun. "There is only one thing this could mean which does not involve Meredith Wilson, or perhaps does, but it ......
certainly is a puzzle. First of all, we must ask, EULALIE who?"
"Please, practice your yodeling at another time." Sneered Winsor.
"Quite right. There will be another time to fine tune my Alpian singing style. Perhaps your little black book will hold some answers."
Winsor nodded solemnly. There were few things he hated more than bringing out that part of his past. But, if it could possibly help the situation, he would put on the mask of stoicism, and attend to the matter. He walked across the room, pausing only to pick up a lamp which had fallen in the recent "manila envelope" adventure, and placed it on the table; which was in itself difficult, for the table had been mangled in the aforementioned adventure.
Winsor opened his book, a stark reminder of the strange time when, for many years, he would only date older women. More specifically, older women who had once been panelists on THE MATCH GAME television program. Even more precisely, older women who had been panelists on THE MATCH GAME between 1973 and 1979. He flipped through the listings
"Joanne Worley? No... Vicki Lawrence? Possssib...nooo... Betty White, no... Mary Wickes... definitely not. Avery Schreiber... no... Leslie Nielsen... no..."
"Wait," said Clemo. "Aren't those last two... aren't they men?"
"Yes... terrible mistake, that. Their names are rather girly, though. An easy mistake... two, rather. And two very awkward dinners."

to be continued

UPDATE 11/01/07
The rest of it, as it desperately meanders then withers to a conclusion...

Clemo was supportive. "Yes, I can see how you could make that mistake. Both of those....gentlemen.....are

very.....well...."
"I do so hate to interrupt you," injected Winsor, and Clemo was grateful for the exit, "But I do believe I have stumbled upon a clue."
He opened the book wide, and there, in all it's glory, was the name Eulalie Page.
"Eulalie Page...."mused Clemo.
"Eulalie Page....." muttered Winsor.
"Any bells ringing?" Asked Clemo.
"No a one" Replied Winsor.
"So, it's a long forgotten Page then?" Said Clemo
Winsor sighed, for it seemed that Clemo was falling back upon the Pun, which was, in his opinion, the lowest form of verbal humor. Winsor considered hitting him with a Good Humor bar, which he had just been musing upon, feeling a bit peckish after this trip down memory lane.
Then, Winsor noticed that the card was not only inscribed on one side, but fully covered with pencil marks on the opposite.
"I fear, J.C., that we may have overestimated the importance of the prominent Eulaliness of the forward side. It seems the back may be where our answers lie."
"Or," countered Clemo,"it may be that this is simply a piece of random paper that fell into my envelope."
"Clemo, if you in fact filled this envelope, why all the guesswork as to the contents or message?"
Clemo's eyes widened, his eyebrows raised and furrowed, and his mouth opened with a sharp, prespeech intake of air; an expression that indicated that he desperately WANTED to retort but was faced with unconsidered truth.
After a moment, he managed a response of
"BURMA!"
Winsor was puzzled.
Clemo raised his left eyebrow apolgetically. "Sorry about that. I panicked. Let's have a look at the BACK of the Eulalie message."
Clemo took the piece of paper and stared at it like a starving man would stare at the Mona Lisa. He turned it clockwise; counterclockwise; he flipped it in the air; he wore it like a hat. Finally he said, "well, that's interesting."
"Yes," said Winsor, "I especially liked it as a hat."
"Well, you always had an eye for style, but that's not what I meant. Apparently, these chicken scratchings are exactly that....the scratchings of a chicken. But, much like twenty monkeys will evetually write HAMLET, this mystery foul has given us the beginnings of a quest..."
"Let me see that. Hmm... chicken scratches, indeed. But this list... bread, milk, eggs, chicken... Why would a chicken make a list which includes eggs and chicken, which are surely in ready supply in their immediate vicinity?"
"Perhaps it is a lonely chicken, and that is a personal ad," posited Clemo.
"No, Clemo, I propose that it is neither a personal ad, nor a code. We are dealing here with a fiendish list composed by a forgetful, serial killing chicken. Of course he has to put chicken and eggs on his list..."
"She," interrupted Clemo. "It would have to be she, for it to be a 'chicken.'"
"What? Fine. She, or he, would most certainly be caught if they were to murder chickens in their own coop, or to steal eggs from nearby hens. Wait, HENS are female chickens, you dolt! I think. Anyway, of course they'd have to go OUTSIDE the coop to satisfy their bloodlust, else risk capture!"
"They are already captured. They are chickens, in a coop."
When faced with that kind of logic, both men simply stared at each other, wondering what the other was thinking.
"I wonder what Clemo is thinking?" Thought Winsor.
"Hot Fudge Sundae." Thought Clemo.
Then it came to them, simultaneously:
"Round up the usual suspects!" they exclaimed, in perfect four part harmony.
"Find the nearest coop!" cried Winsor.
"I've got a map!" cried Clemo.
"Where to begin?" said Winsor.
"Kentucky?" queried Clemo
"Too obvious." countered Winsor.
"California?" Clemo queried. Again.
"Hot chicks, but not the ones were looking for." Winsor replied.
"Well, then, I'm out of ideas." muttered a devastated Clemo.
"And you've completely destroyed the vaudevillean concept of the Triple." said Winsor, Triumphantly.
"Curse you and you attachment to ancient comedic technique!" roared Clemo, churlishly.
And there they sat, like protagonists in a Beckett play.
"Shall we go?" said Clemo.

Hours passed.

Still, more time passed. One of them sat down, and turned away. The other yawned.

Finally, at just the right moment, Winsor answered.
"I think it's time. Let's go apprehend the serial-killing chicken that apparently sneaks out of its coop to murder other chickens, to steal and destroy eggs."
Clemo furrowed his brow. "Why did you just restate everything like that?"
"For people who lost track of us while we waited for the commercial break to be over."
"Of course," acknowledged Clemo. "Now, why exactly is this our responsibility. Truth be told, I was coming over here in hopes of maybe getting a bite to eat, or having a game of
Six Degrees From Kevin Bacon, and perhaps some stimulting conversation about the sorry state of morals in the American Cinema. Instead, I'm on a chicken quest."
Winsor looked outraged. "Are you suggesting we simply ignore our responsibilities to the rule of law, and in a smaller sense the fowl community in letting this alleged crime go unpunished?"
Clemo thought of a moment.
"Yes. That is, in a nutshell, what I'm suggesting."
Winsor was caught off-guard by this thunderbolt of honesty, as well as the complete negation of a sub-plot.
"Well. Then. I guess we'll just..."
At that very moment, there was a terrible ghastly silence, much like the sound of a set of bagpipes being put through a food processor.
"BAH GAWWWWWK!"
The Evil Chicken had landed.
Winsor turned to look at the chicken which had just landed upon his open terrace with surprise, disbelief, and an a shrug of apathy."Well, I guess this tears it.We stick with the chicken."
"CAWWWWWWW brrrrrAAWWWWWWHK CWAWW,"threatened the chicken.
Clemo responded quickly."You don't frighten us, you paltry poultry!"
"Clemo, we are not comicbook superheroes.We do not need to resort to calling him out in such a manner.Perhaps the evi... Perhaps the chicken would like to have some tea with us. Etgay the ungay."
"Bkawww?"The chicken was perplexed.
"Ikcenschay antkay eakspay igpay atinlay,"observed Winsor as he set the table for tea.
True,thought Clemo,as he went to the bookshelf to remove the hollowed out volume of Kelsey Grammer's autobiography "So Far"which held Winsor's pistol.He remembered the day they'd hollowed the book-"It is now as empty physically as it is in every other way," he'd observed.
As he stood gun-getting and remembering, Winsor and the chicken finished having tea.
A brief side note on the effects of tea upon chickens, or in fact any of the domesticated fowl. The inherent caffiene within the various varieties of tea can affect the chicken in many a varied ways; for example, Earl Grey tea tends to make your average chicken somewhat lethargic, and in those periods of lethargy, it becomes quite easy to lull the chicken into a coma (and, with the proper hand gestures, into a casserole) with the music of Mannheim Steamroller or, in a pinch, The Alan Parsons Project. However, Lemon Zinger tends to make the chicken cranky.
"Winsor," asked Clemo, "Whatever tea have you served our guest and OH MY GOD how could you do such a thing to Kelsey Grammer's heartfelt autobiography?"
Winsor's doubts upon the intelligence of his friend surfaced like an Orca in the Artic Circle, but being unaware of the effects of tea upon the average chicken, he let it pass.....
"I have, of course, served the chicken a hot cup of Celestial Seasoning's Salmonella Suicide tea," and with those words, as if on cue, the chicken did a spit take, its eyes bulged in surprise, and it collapsed forward onto the table. " I keep this tea on hand for guests I hate but want to be civilized toward."

Hours later, as they sat enjoying the last of the fried chicken they'd just made, both men realized something important.

"Winsor," said Clemo, "we have been entirely sidetracked from our true purpose here this evening."
"Have we?"
"We had dates. A double date. I just remembered... the envelope had the tickets to MAME starring Jude Law; we were to escort our respective redheads to the show tonight."
"Egad," exclaimed Winsor in a way not heard often enough these days.
"Egad indeed," Clemo screamed, for no reason. "What time is it?"
Pocketwatches were produced from pockets. "Smurfette's little hand is between then seven and the eight! There is still time!"
Clemo looked incredulous. "Where is Smurfette's big hand?" he asked.
Winsor gave Clemo the look a slot machine might give the man who pulled the lever....so many options, so many combinations, none that would be appropriate, and only one that would be realllly funny.
"We must fly!" Cried Winsor.
"Yes, to pick up our loved ones, and off to an evening of maiming!" cried Clemo, trying on the veneer of excitement for size.
"Mame-ing" corrected Winsor, looking for his car keys, his wallet, his autographed photo of Eddie "Rochester" Anderson, and his Little Orphan Annie Secret Decoder Ring. He found everything but the tickets to the musical nightmare they had promised the ladies that they would be attending.
"Have you seen the..." he began.
"...rain? Have you EVER seen the rain? I want to know."
Clemo had,in fact,but was more curious about the tickets to MAME. Then he remembered he had stuck them to the soles of his shoes with bubblegum, because they were important and should not be lost. They were still there, and not too much the worse for wear.Clemo was examining the tickets, when he stopped suddenly and asked...
"Why are we going to this horribly miscast horrible musical?"
"Because of the women.They deserve a date night."
"But they are smart women.We all enjoy theatre.Why would we want to see MAME?Why would we want to see Jude Law playing Mame?"
"This town is a cultural wasteland,"explained Winsor."Our only other options are low-budget horrible semi-professional or community efforts.At least this will be ridiculously high-budgeted and horrible.We will be able to laugh about it afterward over drinks."
Clemo nodded in agreement.Tonight they would forgo mystery-solving,crime-fighting,and hyphen-misuse, all for Love.

That's about it. The end of the road; the end of the story. It could be said that after the musical, they went to dinner at a nice place; they talked of many things; the past, the future......and all was well.
"I say, Winsor" said Clemo. "I hate to interrupt our reverie, but isn't that Jude Law?"
And surely it WAS Jude Law, looking every bit like a dollar bill caught in a change machine, trying to put cream in his coffee while negotiating his Moons Over My Hammy.
"What's that in his lapel?" asked Winsor, but the tremor in his voice gave away his fore knowledge.
It was a chicken feather. A perfect chicken tail feather.
The game was afoot.
But THAT is a story for another time.....

The Conclusion.

A tender offering

I have to get this down while I remember it.

So I'm walking Charlie. He's bounding at the end of the leash. He stops to sniff something by an electric pole. I am thinking of what I am going to say in a letter reply to Vanessa's brother. Mind wandering. My canine companion and I continue our trip, and a little boy comes around the corner of the house to our right.

"Hey! Can I give your dog this dead squirrel?"

I wish I had this on video or someone else had been here to see it, because I don't know if this will translate, but for some reason it's the funniest thing I've heard in a long time.

The three-footer exclaimed this while in fact holding up said squirrel, apparently in some stage of rigor mortis, by the tail with one hand. This was a perfectly normal, healthy looking boy with a nice haircut and a nondescript bright pastel blue button up shirt. No future serial killer thing, I am confident he did not kill the squirrel, he simply found it as young boys do. I nicely explained that I tried to limit my dog's handling of possibly long-dead mammals as we continued on our way.

For some reason as I walked on this made me realize more than ever that though it will always be a very dear place to me, my inner self has long since left Smallville for Metropolis.

UPDATE: The unanimous vote on which movie to watch first: Star Wars. That's nine votes so far, with one text that said "Jurassic Park if you have surround sound, maybe Indy..." so... I guess it's Star Wars unless there's a grass roots movement for Steel Magnolias or My Dinner With Andre.

You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

Writing.

Learning music.

Working on house, still. A little.

All while distracted by the arrival of my dish network DVR and a 57 inch TV.

Ahem.

Sitting at a coffeeshop in El Dorado to pay some bills on a more reliable connection, and while driving I like to listen to talk radio. It quickens the blood, and I think it's good to know your enemy. The hate and invective used one a lot of those soapboz jockeys would be entertaining, comical even, if you didn't know that there are people that take what these people say as gospel. It's a sad commentary... literally. I bring that up because one particularly ignorant caller was calling for someone to be "censored" on the floor of the house. He meant "censured" but was never corrected.

Those are two different words. One of them is distinctly un-American. I think it's funny, but vaguely related to an overall pet peeve of mine, totally unpolitical in nature.

I know I'm not alone in this. I am tired of having to decipher what people mean on signs, in letters, whereever, because if you read if flat out it makes no sense. So, a handy guide for the record:

When referring to something that belongs to someone, such as a hat, it is "your hat."
When referring to their state of being, as in being an idiot, "you're an idiot."
Never again should that be mixed up. Offenders will be shot.

When you get a letter and you take it, you ACCEPT the letter. You do not EXCEPT the letter. Maybe you take everything in your mail but don't take that letter, then you take everything except the letter. I never again want to see a handwritten sign on a cash register that says "Sorry We Do Not Except Checks."

I always want to put in a comma after "not" and change the spelling of "checks" to "Czachs" and turn it into a vague ethnic slur. Then people would wonder... they do not WHAT except to/for Czechs?

Anyway. You get my point.

As a closer, I think it would be awfully convenient if I could subscribe to the views of rabid right wing talk radio. I would like to be able to blame my ills on a convenient, large, always visible subgroup, like they do with the vaugely defined "liberals." I'll have to think who I will blame. I think it might be "whitey."

This relates to a theory I had some time ago. I believe that the world would be simpler if we all, every one of us, had an arch-enemy. This would of course mean we were all someone's arch-enemy, in turn. That way, you would always have someone to blame when random bad things happened because it may well be someone's fault. I shared this with an old roommate of mine, Doug Rosenheim, and we tried it for a summer. We would purposefully do little irritating things to one another, and when anything bad would happen I would shake my fist at the sky and cry "ROSENHEIM!"

Hit every red light? Could be Rosenheim. Flat tire with no trace of a hole? Rosenheim! Someone ate my leftover pizza? DEFINITELY Rosenheim. Arch-enemies might eliminate the need for war, because everyone would be too worried about their own, personal arch-enemy.

This relates to an upcoming entry, one that I'll put up around Christmas, wherein I reveal my strategy for personal amusement when participating in Secret Santa at your workplace or school.

My train of thought runs on a jagged track when I'm supervised, heaven help you all when I am not. I miss V!

One question before I go, and seriously, email me this answer: I have yet to watch a movie on my gigantic screen. I am trying to decide which movie deserves the treatment, would benefit most from it. Send suggestions!

Intolerable Cruelty

For the last week or so, I have been working on my late uncle's old house in Burns. I'm trying to get it in better shape as it has fallen into disrepair since he passed, at some points being actively coaxed toward disrepair. As it stand how, it's fully functional and the yard is well on its way. The next gig doesn't start for a bit yet, and V is off on a short project, so what else do I have to do?

There is no TV, really, signals are apparently weak nowadays - Burns used to get several broadcast channels yet over the years and now few have the strength to be picked up without a large antenna. There is only dialup internet. No cellphone signal in Burns to speak of. I am not, as anyone who knows me will attest, any kind of Luddite. Okay, well, anyone who knows me and knows what a Luddite is would attest to that.

Have you used dialup lately?

If you haven't, keep in mind that however slow it used to seem, even the most basic content on the internet now is considerably larger than it used to be.

Take what you remember of its slowness and imagine that about four times slower.

Intolerable cruelty.

Anyway, amongst the many questionable decisions in my life, I recently saved a dog from going to the pound. He's staying here with me right now, and he'll go to the farm when I leave for the next job. He's a 9 month old shar-pei / Australian shepherd mix, and his name is Charlie. I didn't name him, he was already named and is well accustomed to it. He's very smart and house-broken and no work at all besides his puppyish need for attention and approval. His primary talent is catching insects, which is frankly amazing to watch.

The goal in deciding to do this house thing was to give myself time and room to breathe in order to begin undistracted a writing project I've talked about for years. Thus far I have done everything except that. I am TOO undistracted. I guess I need stimulation, and unlike Charlie I am unable to find it in the scent of urine on trees or the sounds of a distant bark. Would it were so easy. If I wrote right now it would be a rehash of "Marley and Me."

Last week I did a commercial, had a line or two that should be (apparently) very funny. It was a fun shoot, I'm not sure when it will air. It's in the style of THE OFFICE and I'm a big jerk. Those are unconnected statements.

I do have one announcement: Partially as a function of my next job, I am (finally) going to release a CD. It will be done by December and I will offer it for sale through the website here. I may offer pre-sales to help defray production costs, because I'm doing most of that myself. Let me know if anyone's interested. Presold CDs will come with an action figure version of me, an autographed 8x10, and a lifelong sense of fulfillment.*

Last night I hardly got any sleep for no good reason. No bad reason, either... right now I'm writing this entry because I'm trying to keep myself awake until it makes sense to go to sleep. I'm almost there. Okay. Sleepy.

*Supplies limited on 8x10s, nonexistent on action figures.  No guarantee on sense of fulfillment.