Do people still blog?

And if so, do people still read them?

"Is this thing on ... ?"

I guess the better question might be, "Am I?" 

Well, "what the heck" and "who cares." I might as well start talking to myself again. I think it was good for me, in retrospect.

I don't know. Maybe it was good for you, too? I know the spambots absolutely LOVE my blog, and thank you so much, but I don't need as much Viagara or women's jerseys as one might think. I especially love the spambots that get hammered and yammer on about "red bottom shoes" and "sac Louis Vuitton" and "Bad diet plan as able-bodied as bereft concrete exercise anon depend with attention to sixteen. 6% associated with complete fatalities, or even four hundred, 000 fatalities in the usa every year. The final 20 in adjustment to 30 abounding years appear to be appointed by accepting an animated concern about traveling on a diet as able-bodied as concrete exercise. The majority of developed ups, red basal shoes, decidedly ladies, acknowledge they're aloft diet programs at atomic one time annually. Regardless of this dedication, the country is in fact advancing to access richer. Getting ample prices are in a acceptable in history higher, as able-bodied as years as a adolescent getting ample shoes with red bottom is in fact accretion with attention to the actual aboriginal time actually."

Did you even read that? I even posted it, and I didn't. 

Well, if you read that last paragraph, then you'll read anything. So maybe I can beat my record, two years in a row, of posting once a year. There, BOOM, I called myself OUT, twice like it don't hurt nothing but my ... I got nothin'.

Okay then, here goes nothing and maybe a lot of it.

Or not.

"Why I Stay Indoors Mostly" or "The World Makes No Sense"

jules: What's a sea biscuit?

me: A horse ... I'm gonna guess and say it's a salty biscuit. Y'know, how British biscuits are really cookies but they call them biscuits. They invented them. They can call them biscuits and not cookies. Because "cookies" aren't cooked. They're baked. Why aren't they called "bakies" instead ... y'know? ... aa-a-a-nnnd of course, now I have to Google it. "sea biscuit" ... it says, "a horse" so. "define: sea biscuit" ... aha, "a hard, salty biscuit" -- there. But I still don't understand why "cookies" aren't called "bakies". I mean, "stir fry" is stir fried. This is why I stay indoors mostly."

The Three Wise Men and One Dumb Guy

he: "What is this thing ... what is this you gave me for Christmas ... a ball of dirt, a ball of grass ...? What ... why ..."

me: "It's a tiny terrarium, constructed in a clear glass ball ornament. If you don't know what to do with it, for the love of God above, don't eat it. Give it back to me, don't throw it away."

he: "... why the hell'd you give me a ball of dirt ...?"

me: "It's not a ball of dirt. Your head is."

he: "So wait. This. This is like that Jesus thing, right? Yeah, where the wise guys came over to give him birthday presents, right? Like gold ... Frankenstein ... and dirt. Right? That was his presents, right?"

me: " ..."

he: "... Right? ..."

me: "No, this is my present. To the world now. A tiny one, but a world nonetheless."

"For fun, we played on traintracks and chewed creosote like it was bubble gum, and I'm still alive."

My mother always gives good advice. It may not be the most politically correct way to phrase it, but she's usually correct. She tells good stories, too. Some of them so good that I can't post them here. But, when she's not pretending to listen to me with the occasional pointless, small, unnotable vents and rants (luckily, I know she's not listening because I hear the bling-blinging of Bejeweled on her Nintendo DSI), below is one of many garden-variety phone conversations. We don't get bored. I don't anyway. Maybe slightly offended because I'm a tree-hugger. But anyway, she's got valid points.

ma: "Y'know, I was watching something on tv while ago. We didn't have any of these chemicals floating around our bodies 50 years ago. None of them. It's terryifying. I'm serious. From plastics, from everything."
me: "I know. We're all turning into hot-house orchids. I know. I can attest to it."
ma: "Did you know that people are actually not vaccinating their kids these days? I'm not kidding. That's terrifying. For everyone. That is not good. Okay, I'm here to tell you, tree-hugging hippie people: You want polio? I'm serious. It ain't funny. They don't even know what it's like."
me: "Wait, gimme a second. I'm still busy being offended. I hug trees. Physically and literally."
ma: "I'm serious. Polio, rubella, whooping cough -- it's not funny. They're in for a world of trouble if they don't immunize their kids. I'm serious. It'll go epidemic. And, we didn't have autism and A.D.D. when I was little. Your kid didn't have A.D.D. It was just B.A.D."
me: "Hey, that's my line. That's the second time you've stolen that, second that I know of."
ma: "Well, I'm serious. This world is full of man-made, toxic chemicals. Honestly. It's scary."
me: "What's on QVC right now?"
ma: "Diamondelles."
me: "I just needed my RDA of irony. But you're right. It's the chemicals. I can't get around new carpet without getting a sore throat."
ma: "Oh, there's chemicals all in your clothes. Did you know that? In your clothes, yep."
me: "Thank you. I'll be curling up into a tight ball in my closet now. Naked, I suppose. Let's go back to illnesses when you were a kid. Measles, mumps ... "
ma: "I tried to get mumps from one of my friends once so I could stay home from school. Did I tell you that?"
me: "Yeah, you chewed her gum or something?"
ma: "I ate a LifeSaver she'd had in her mouth. So I wouldn't have to go to school. Nothin'."
me: "Let's hope. I can't even use an ATM without getting a cold if I'm not careful."
ma: "You know how they could tell if you had mumps back then?"
me: "No."
ma: "If you couldn't eat a pickle."
me: "What."
ma: "That's right. If you couldn't eat a pickle."
me: " ... what does that even mean? 'If you couldn't eat a pickle.' You can't just say something like that without an explanation."
ma: "Yep. If you couldn't eat a pickle, you had mumps."
me: "You mean if you couldn't chew and swallow a pickle -- "
ma: "I mean, if you couldn't eat a pickle without your mouth hurting, you had the mumps."
me: "You mean if your mouth exploded in pain when you tried to eat a pickle --"
ma: "Yes. If you could eat a pickle, you had to go to school."
me: "..."
ma: "Yep."
me: "You're just making all this up."
ma: "I'm not. It's true."
me: "Maybe pickles were toxic back then. And school."

Except for the part where I get called a tree-hugger, this is how we entertain ourselves on Friday night. It's not only addictive, it's infectious.

I love my ma. And hugging trees.

If you need me, I'm on Facebook.

Well, actually, I'm not. Not as much as once before. I thought Facebook would end up killing blogs, and to a certain degree, it's helped mine trickle down to a few drippy posts here and there. 

Plus, I've been working like a hamster. Here's a photo of me, at my desk.

But good thing for me, I do love my job.

And carrots.

And, the smell of fresh cedar chips.

And hiding under the washing machine or in tight corners.

I also like running around in a squeaky wire wheel. 

But Facebook has become a very busy place these days. And sometimes, I'd rather just tweet a carefuly crafted one-liner on Twitter than ramble on anymore.

YES, lucky for you. But anyway ...

Hmm. I feel a back-to-blogfest coming on.

Right after a long winter's nap.

And maybe a few carrots.

Get your bearings.

This is fascinating.

The Neverland stuff, abandoned amusement parks, 

and much more

at bearings at www.terrastories.com

Illustration Friday : Cocoon

Happy Illustration Friday : "Ahead"

I try to stay ahead. I really do.

But.

When all else fails: Leaning always seems to help.

(I love Illustration Friday. Long-time stalker. First-time poster.)

Happy Charles Manson Day!

I don't think I'm doing Christianity a favor

by looking like Charles Manson

at one of his many parole hearings.

But lucky for me, for once, my naturally greasy forehead

will come in handy and take care of this in about,

oh,

2 hours.

Another thing I heard:

If you get lucky enough to get a huge cross like this then,

much like jury duty, you are exempt from doing it again for 10 years.

(It's true.)

PS: I'm giving up The Squatleys for Lent and moving to another apartment, and now I get to write about them for the next 40 days, even though I could most definitely go on about them for 90 days, easy.

I'm working on it.

No really, I'm working on it.

Okay, I'm not. But I used to here and here. Somewhat.

I wonder if I'll ever clean up the type in my header. I'll take a nap on that.

In case you ever needed to know:

Lysol® Brand Disenfectant 4 in 1 Midlew Remover with Bleach kills 99.9% of germs, destroys mold and mildew, removes soap scum, whitens/brightens and will snuff out a rodent-sized roach big enough to wear sunglasses in mere seconds if you can't find your old pair of jogging shoes first.

Go, Lysol, go. Plus it comes with one, splitting headache absolutely free.

You're welcome. Back to work, citizens.

mom: Ohhhhhhhhhhhh...

me: .........

mom: (singing, too near my head)...mmmmmmmmmm-maresseedotes and dosiedotes and little lambs eat iiiiiiiiiiiivy....

me: Stop it. Anyway, It's Mares Eat Oats, or Mairzy Doats. I shouldn't know this.

mom: Ya know why we used to sing it that way? (dancing around me in a circle getting smaller and smaller) Because we thought we were singing in another language...

me: And they also sprayed you with DDT when you were kids to straighten your hair and made you duck'n'cover to protect yourself from radiation. Lady. Get out of my face.

mom: (singing, too near my head)...mmmmmmmmmm-maresseedotes and dosiedotes and little lambs eat iiiiiiiiiiiivy....

me: I'm not kidding you. I have a peach pill in that purse over there, and one of us is going to take it.

My Dad had a beautiful dream, I can do basic math now, and my mom's gone deaf.

mom: "Yep, that's what he'd say every time...blonde, blue-eyed, with big boobs..."

me: "And don't forget deaf."

mom: "Oh-ho yes, that's what he'd say to me and everyone at The Knife and Fork Club, when I'd tell 'em that I wish I hadda married a gay man. Your Daddy'd say, 'Well yeah, I wish I hadda married me a li'l ol' blonde with big, blue-eyes, big boobs, and she'd be a deaf-mute."

me: "You keep forgetting the 'and she'd be a deaf-mute nymphomaniac whose daddy owned a liquor store' bit at the end."

mom: "Remember when he brought Noel Hunnicutt's Playboy into the house, and I found it stuck up in his closet?"

me: "No."

mom: "Oh sure you do, remember, it took me 3 or 4 days to color all the clothes on 'em with Magic Markers, on all those nasty women. I even drew turtlenecks on some of 'em. Made him s'mad because he had to return it to Hunnicutt since he'd 'just borrowed it', yeahright. Honestly. I mean really. The very idea."

me: "The liquor store part always sounded pretty good to me."

mom: "That's because your Papaw hid in a utility closet to drink God Knows What outta his ol' brown paper bag...bless 'im..."

me: "I'm beginning to understand why. And you had kids? Thanks a lot."

mom: "Well. It wasn't on my mind at the time."

me: "Hey, you're not throwing me with that one anymore. It took me until I was 28 to do the math on this: two babies, born 3 years and a day apart, March 25th and 26th. Daddy's birthday was June 19th, and you couldn't have just gotten him a nice tie or a book instead?"

mom: ...

me: ...

mom: "So what'd you have for supper?"

me: "Brie."

Dear Apartment 42

You do know that at night, when you have the light on and the blinds are open, I can totally see you talking gibberish to your cat while you change your pants, right? If not, then oops. If so, then dude, you've sullied my porch time. You have to know this. I've thrown marbles at your window. We've been through this. Dude. Seriously. For real?

Love,

Apartment 22

ps: I like you, I do, but dude. Seriously.

Remember blogging?

Me neither. That's why I'm cranking up the blog again. Yes, it'll be loaded with actual writing that about 3 kind people will read. It'll be like the good ol' days.

Right after these important messages...

No, really. Oh nevermind, I need a nap and more iron supplements. And gouda. Smoked gouda.

From the very beginning, Stephen Merchant and I had a mutual, standing agreement to "keep our options open". But I'll admit, I've been spending a dangerous amount of time in Chokeville with Joshua these days.

(Good Lord, people, let me dream.)

www.fireland.com

mybossismichaelscott.com

Suffering through three megalomaniac houses of horror like this, I could contribute and compare battle scars and chunks of years lost, but instead I'll just read along and shake my head in sad agreement and newfound gratefulness for escaping these gaping, yawning maws of hell.

mybossismichaelscott.com

Nail Art by Design Swan

"It’s incredible how the wide range of life situations, feelings and emotions can be expressed and conveyed by simple nails. Power of art add Genius of creator, making up the nail art from Vlad Artazov. "

Enjoy.

source: neatorama.com

Novocaine for the Soul | Eels