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.