I'm so proud of ya!

Kathy Sue Wells, belle nouveau artiste extraordinaire, exhibits her original abstract masterpieces in the Community Gallery at Old Towne Events. Opening reception is this Saturday, April 3rd from 3:00 - 6:00 pm at 302 Jefferson Street in Clinton, Mississippi. The show runs from April 3rd to the 30th. Hail-yes, Kathy Sue, I'm so proud of ya! Did I mention that already?!

My cherry tree was cut down before it ever got home.

Don't stand in the sun for over an hour shopping for just the right tree. If a yard is only as big as a 1969 Lincoln Towncar, it probably shouldn't bother with a tree at all. But if you let the builder choose a tree to plant for you, odds are good you'll end up with a tree like the one I have now -- a tree that makes you think about what other kind of tree you wish you had instead.

This tree looks like a handy toothpick for Godzuki. This toothpick tree makes me think about other trees. I don't want to think about trees, I just want to blithely enjoy them and take them for granted, and I don't want to stand in the sun for over an hour shopping for just the right tree again either. That's why I picked a compromise tree. One that won't get too tall or too big because in a yard as small as this one, that's just embarrassing.

Since I have been forced to think about it, what kind of tree would I really like? I'd like a three hundred year-old live oak that Napoleon slept under. Before this afternoon, I would've liked to've had a dwarf Japanese Maple. But not anymore. In fact, the next one I see may accidentally catch on fire. I won't get into it here, but let me just tell you: if you are a mother, and your daughter calls you and beams about the Snow Goose Cherry tree she picked out on the first hot sunny day after a long drab winter, do everyone a favor and tell her you like it.

For a split second, I thought I'd turn the stinking van around and trudge the freak back out to the nursery and cancel that bloodstained stupid-stupid-stupid decision. But you know, I'm going to stick by this tree. I am going to name this tree and worry about it if it's a late-bloomer or if the weather is too hard on it during the school year. If this tree never gets any taller or wider or never ever blooms again, I know only one thing for sure that it will do. It'll be our little tree. Growing roots. And even if those roots grow into the pipes and ruin everything, just everything, it's already better than the Godzuki toothpick stabbed into the ground that makes me think bad things about trees to begin with.

When I get a picture, I'll show you the damned tree.

Prunus X 'Snowgoose'
Snowgoose Cherry
Zone 5

This rounded, upright grower features showy white, early spring blooms.

Don't get me wrong, I do love my mother. Sadly, I will never be able to gaze wistfully upon a dwarf Japanese Maple again, but life is really good since that's just really minor.



Unrelated.
And if I ever had to choose a stripper's name, it'd be "Sugar Cookie". I have to say, these are things I'd rather be considering than trees.


Hey, my birthday was Friday.

And look who dropped by to see me: why it's Mr. Bill Cosby himself. I loves me some Bill Cosby and some Jell-O puddin'.



No, you're not seeing things. He's tossing me the bird. But he was cranky. He'd been standing in the sun for over an hour shopping for just the right tree.

So I did my quick impression of him, for him.



I think he liked my shirt.



Ron took me to the Grizzlies/Houston game for my birthday, and the seats were so good, I could almost hear Hubie Brown say "f*ck".

He says it without the asterick, of course, but I don't need Clear Channel shutting me down. Ee-hay iad-say uck-fay. Thanks, Janet. Oh, I mean "Miss Jackson" because yes, I do consider myself quite nasty. I scoff at your wardrobe malfunction.

Anyway, this is a picture of Yao Ming:



Trust me, it is. What did I focus in on? Hands.* His hands are huge. They were like twins. He should name each one. Together, they could crush a poodle. One of those big poodles, not the tiny teacup ones. He could pop a cantaloupe with one mighty clench. Still, big melon-poppers and all, the Memphis Grizzlies managed to crush his manicured french Fifis.

Note to all my beloved GirlieGirlfriends: Look away for a moment, I'm gonna get gushy over the Grizzlies, and I'll see if I can keep it to a paragraph:

I have never loved a basketball team before. That's what the Grizzlies will do to you. They are good. And they have style, every one of them. My favorite was Pau Gasol, because when he stuffs one, he doesn't smile. And I like Mike Miller, because when he stuffs one, he does smile. Not as much as he did as a rookie though. Jason Williams I call "The Midget" because well, he's not 7 feet tall. I like to watch him run; his toes turn in slightly and I swear that's why he's such a cocky player. Just like Earl Watson. He made me worry at first when he came in for Jason early in the season, but he kicked some considerable ass and gained a confidance yet unshaken. Bonzi Wells made me worry more than anyone when he was traded-in, but no blackouts so far and he looks like he feels at home in Memphis. Shane Battier is the most outward versatile chess-testing member of them all. And don't get me started on Bo Outlaw. Ron knows I love him, we have that understanding like that. Posey, Stromile, Wright, all fun to watch. And Sacko'doorknobs Tsakalidis is getting more than just visually intimidating. I saw Troy Bell score, and Theron Smith plays. Dahntay Jones went to Duke, that's all I need to know.

Ok, girls, I'm back. And I'd like to say a BIGFATTHANKYOU to Austin Jackie for my righteous Swarovski hairstiks! I love you!



*Interesting to note: Chris Farley. Loved him, miss him, so no disrespect here, just a weird observance. For a portly man of his size, he had the most delicate, slender hands and fingers, very expressive... What? I heard that. I am not a freak. You go look, go rent a movie, and tell me I'm wrong. Also, check it out: Dennis Miller has the tiniest hands... Ok. So I notice too much, and talk about it too freely. Embrace me despite my freakish qualities, and despite my snow goose cherry tree.

I promise to do better. No, really.

Back from work hiatus.

Sorry I've been slow to update. Right now, I'm trying to Google up one of the worst of my relatives-by-marriage, to make someone feel better about their own legally-binding, punch-in-the-crotch we call Life.

I can't find a thing, but I will. This guy I'm looking for was some criminal-type back during prohibition in Mississippi's Gold Coast. I saw a picture of him once. My mom showed me as evidence probably because I thought she was making the whole thing up. I swear I think it was in the encyclopaedia.

This man had an ex-wife who married into my mom's family. Married her dad's brother, and the woman brought more than just a couple of sons with her.

One son accidentally shot himself in the back a few times, dying an untimely death.

The next son was supposedly the pick of the litter: a real decent guy with real decent potential -- a musician who played the guitar so well that he stopped smoking weed and began teaching at the ivy-leaguesque local college. Then, he suddenly dropped dead with an honest brain tumor without any lead or foul play in it.

The last of the bunch was a girl, I remember her most. She was the daughter of one of the dead sons. Where was her mother? Let's pretend she was lost away in a convent somewhere in Lourdes instead of being a catalog-ordered sociopath bride from an all-girl reform school in the Delta.

Back to this daughter I remember... I'll start small, it seems appropriate. I'd encounter her in the hottest, stickiest summer months when they** all came to visit my grandparent's house on a Saturday afternoon. I always spent most of my supervised summer at my grandparents' house since my parents both worked. It was a great place to be. Until the likes of she-thug showed up. Her face always had "That Look" on it. She looked just like a mad possum.* It was half-smile, half-scowl. Get a couple of orange popsicles in her and she'd start swinging. She hit me in the shoulder harder than anyone has ever hit me, barring Fat Kim (I suppose the nickname is the reason she hit me, ya think?). And when I asked her why she hit me, she said it was because she wanted to, that's why.

So you see, this is how I know these things. I began a primitive background check then and there: on where she came from, why she was entitled to any of my popsicles, and why her stepfather gave her a pet raccoon to brag about.*** Long story on the raccoon, I'm sure. Or not. Hey, clearly she came from a long yet thinning line of gamblers.

Oh yeah, so back to her grandfather, the very beginning of this whole thing to begin with -- he was a gambling rum-runner involved in an unfortunate accident himself. The authorities found him drowned at the bottom of the Pearl River. With rocks in his stomach.

Back me up on any of the details if you're reading, Mom.

I could go on and on about these people for a good, long while. Now some of you might understand why my memory is like a de-classified file with lots of black omission and deletion marks, but I do remember some of it. This man's ex-wife married my great uncle who was an ex-merchant marine, why not, and she was a Jehovah's Witness. Why even mention that? Because I remember hearing about this gigantic family disturbance she caused one year because, for religious reasons, she would not stand up when they played the National Anthem at the annual rodeo.**** Of course, none of them talked directly about for years. And I'm beginning to understand why.

If you're feeling a little confused, I understand. I feel a little lightheaded myself.

Good stuff though, huh? Oh, if only I had more time to get really in-depth, not in that stomach rock kind of way, though. Maybe one day. If only my mom would tell me more. Oh well.

Back to work.


* Yee haw.

** All except for the Jehovah's Witness. We never asked if visiting was against her religion. We just all secretly hoped it was.

*** Which by the way, she punched it in the stomach in front of me. Yes, really.

**** Yee-haw, yippee-ki-yi-yay.


But before you go, thanks to the miracle of eBay and Scott, you too can enjoy your very own ball of Blint, for a limited time, prices and participation may vary.

Hello Poor Kitty.

This one is for Arpeggio... where have you gone? Awww, we miss you. Have you gone to the pub in your new football boots in the sky? No. No no no. You'll be back. So here's blutackcat in Adam's honor. No blutack cats were harmed during the production of this website. Wait... I mean, MANY were harmed.

Aw.

See, I told you I've been all busy an' stuff. So many meetings, so many little scribbly illustrations on my conference notes. But look what Shaun did. He took my little scribble-dee-dee and colored it, added backgrounds, made a little sign outta my scribble-dee'd word. You can't see the bird animation, but it flies in and a coupla tweet notes come outta him and...

Am I a nerd, a geek, or a goober talking like this?

Aw, who cares, I love how he brought my scribble-dee-do to life. Sniffle, sniff. I am so proud.

Ohyouknowhat, I went to the FedEx Institute of Technology this morning to hear David Kelley speak. If you ever get a chance to hear this guy talk about what he does, go go go.

Inspirational. He talked with his hands, started three sentences without finishing one of them and then had to sum them up with a "basically, it's like this..."

People like David Kelley make the world a better place through intuitive user design, form and function with thinking companies like ideo.com. Just looking at this webpage is like a sketchydoodledee without color. You need people to hear people like David Kelley color it and bring it to life. And also motivate people on a level of equal trust and respect to do it.

Oh and if you make fun of his Groucho Marx's moustache in front of me, then I'll develop three new and exciting ergonomic ways to slap you silly.

HA!

Stop, you know I love you for you and your brain. Enjoy!

Good, clean hours and hours of fun.

View here or play along. Why? Because I care about your brain, I told ya already. Now get out there and start shooting something on Fridays besides Jagermeister and Glocks.

Just when I think Michael is worthless,

he sends me the best link: Mr. Picassohead. Enjoy.

Am I busy or what. It may be a little bit of Busy mixed with lots of springtime Or Whats, but I have a couple of yammerings to share soon, I feel it coming. Beware, children.

But for now, because you know how I feel about virtual enlightenment, enjoy the downtime from my random blibberings with this coolness named dirtdirt. Ahh, I just love the Fisher-Price camera. Great. One more thing for me to search for on eBay.

This next one is beautiful to me. Katy, you out there? This is for you: ni9e reminds me of your graduate work. A+. Enjoy.

Oooo been busy, but had to show you a nice site: imustcreate.com

I am Pantone 383 with envy.

("Meatwad Aguilera and Ashton" submitted by Scottshead.)

Here's a site that lets you create a composite photo of you and a celebrity. But with the options provided by Reality TV these days, this site seems like a lot of trouble. Just go do something inane and be a celebrity yourself.

Okay, I can say only so much because I admit, I am a tiny part of the problem. I recently dabbled in the idiocy. I actually watched "The Big Fat Stupid Obnoxious Guy Whom I'm Pretending to Get Married To, for Money, wait no.... for Money for My Family Because We're Only Kind of Wealthy Now". But it was only to see blondie get kicked in the crotch in the end. But you're never going to believe this: she didn't. Surprise, every family unit has its pricetag. This family's was one million praises. "You're such a good familyyyyy, yes you are, goood family, good." Hey, why not. Oh, and they got some cash as well.

My bad. I'll try not to watch that crap again. I'll just sit here knitting like a grandma instead. Stockpiling toilet paper, peanut butter and soap in preparation for the riots one day. Ron bought some yarn for me. Red. I love Ron more than thin crust pizza. Also, that he added in "It's called Grandma's Best brand yarn. They were out of Spinsters Deluxe" makes life without reality that much more bearable.

Back to the Reality TV: A Generation in Crisis. I have two solutions for you. For free. Why? Because I care about you and about your brain. No really.

(1) Netflix: The best 20 US dollars/month you'll ever spend. Ever.

(2) Recommended reading by David Sedaris.

For you. For free.

Feel the love.

Not as easy as it looks: Identify the candy by its cross sections.

And this (somewhat) just in from Jeeerrrsh, a list of the Top Ten Strangest Toys at this year's Toy Fair.

Not dead yet.

Even though last week did kick my teeth in. Only after it sanded off my lips, with a belt saw, layer by layer. So whatever force created that set of unfortunate days, like the forces that drive an extra day into every four years maybe, sounds about as good as any valid reason. I'll bet it was the planet Uranus. Uranus just sounds like a problem planet. Regardless, as soon as the planets realign, last week will be nothing more than a memory and possibly a file in a permanent record somewhere. But for now, it's Monday. Pilates Day. Time to wring out a few toxic organs. Sounds much more relaxing compared.

But luckily, even the ugliest workweek meets its timely death, slain by the hope and splendor known as The Weekend. This weekend, my accidental escape came in the form of talking to nice people at flea markets, petting puppies, and asking numismatic questions at a coin show. Being around those varied people made me feel better. I talked to a farmer selling turpentine, a deejay who digressed in guilty lengths, a blossomed man still fragrant of last night's gin, and I even listened (oddly enough) very intently to one guy about metal detection. No, really. I listened to him like he was revealing the answer to something big. Something really big. Something bigger than Uranus.

(wait for laughter... two three... "But seriously folks...")

He had several long tables covered in red cloth and filled with civil war artifacts he'd found around the now quiet, sterilized suburbs of Memphis. I find that kind of thing extremely interesting because no found object over a certain age looks authentic to me. Me, the simple product of my simple and apparently historically incapable environment.

I locked my arms behind me and hovered my face inches over hundreds of old, browned objects which were laid out neatly in rows and piles -- like belt buckles, suspender clips and pins, spurs, hat badges, epaulets, and all sorts of coins and jewelry. Even bowls, knives and forks. I had to pick up the fork just to touch something, and I was surprised how heavy it felt even in its mangled state. He had drawn maps by hand noting the location of every single thing he'd found down to the last bullet. He had handfuls of hundreds of bullets. Especially bullets with teethmarks, the civil war's only anesthesia.

Oh and I knitted. I heard it's like meditation so I wanted to try it. My mom sent me a great book. Despite that, the basic learning process almost killed me at first, trying to quietly teach myself from these pictures with nothing but a week's worth of leftover burned out patience versus determination, but I got it. I can see how people think it's relaxing. It's not brainless, but it's just the world leaves your mind as it reduces down to one string to work with. You work the same basic stitches over and over, again and again, and at the end, you have something warm to show for it. If nothing else, I just want to knit one big red scarf.