Golden Star Show Choir

I'm not coming back to Blogger, or anything. I'm still going to keep posting over at my other place. But I needed to upload this new video I threw together, and Blogger is the easiest place to do that. So...um, just passing through.

Thanks, Angie for conversion site. :)

Moving.

It's official. I'm moving. I will continue to stop by and read the blogger blogs I read now. I just wanted a different interface and I liked Wordpress.

This isn't goodbye...just see ya later. Or maybe it's Goodbye...hell, maybe it was a 'hello' AND a goodbye.

Just This

I've seen it all...

Ever been in this mood?



Or how about this?

The Pets

Ok. Our pets are sort of the center of the house, so it's only fitting I have an entry dedicated to them. Here is a photo slide show of Brody, Charlie, and Tiny Philip.

Brody is famous...well sorta...ok not at all

In honor of it's *200th viewing on you tube I am reposting my first attempt at video editing. I apologize for the Adobe trademark stamp, but I was using a trial of the program, because I was too broke to actually purchase it.

No dachshunds were harmed in the making of this video...despite the lightning chasing him around the yard.




*200th viewing on You Tube is no Sneezing Panda. I realize this.

Sunday Morning Wii Pee

Ok.

I was stumbling through websites this morning, because it's perfect for my OCD. And I came across this video of a game for the Wii.

I don't even know what to think. But I did laugh, even though I was a bit grossed out.

Early Storms

We're having our first Spring storm. It smells really nice out.

A few days ago someone I know quite well killed himself. The crazy thing is when I heard about it I wasn't shocked. It wasn't surprising. He'd always been this really big strong guy...but I knew he didn't see himself that way. There was a lot of unresolved pain in there...

He was a great guy. I worked with him for about a year at the plasma center, but then he was shipped off to Iraq. During his tour there we would email back and forth.

I would never have considered him a friend, necessarily. The only time we really communicated was while he was stationed Iraq. It was sort of odd. When he came back to the states we probably only spoke a handful of times, that is if you could hold a conversation in your hand. Long story short (I use that phrase way too much.) I left the company for about a year, and when I came back he had just quit. He 'dated' a supervisor from work. So I kept up on him through her.

I'm not going to go into their personal life, nor am I going to talk about why I wasn't surprised. Because I mostly don't think the internet is the appropriate place for their story., at least it's not my story to tell. His story. But what I will say besides feeling quite sad that he is gone, I am really pissed off at him. You know? Yeah he had a painful life...but he also had a lot of people around him who cared about him a lot. And now who are all blaming themselves for a choice he made, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop this painful journey they are on. It's not fair for them. They never got to make a choice. He made the choice for them. Not to mention suicide = no life insurance and no military benefits paid to his child.

The storm is mostly gone now...just some rumbles off in the distance. D. is flying into Cedar Rapids Airport in about an hour. He got caught in San Diego after an Anatomy and Cell Biology conference because of American Airlines and their janky planes causing tons of cancellations. (I love American Airlines response to all the cancellations. They said something like 'we're grounding all the flights to look into wiring issues. We are putting your safety first.' Well, if they were doing that they wouldn't have failed their inspections in the first place.)

Anyway...D was lucky enough to get on the flight he did. There were 40 some folks on standby and 1 person got on. Him. I will be glad to see him. I've been alone in this house all week (except today I went to work...wow it was crazytown busy there. ) It's been a bit sad. Brody does an excellent job of cheering me up, though. He's a good dog.

Well. That's all I got today. Sorry I've been so quiet this week. Just workin' stuff out in the noggin' you know?

*The photo I obviously did not take during a Spring storm in Iowa. We don't have mountains. Just a bit of trivia for you. Iowa = No Mountains.

It's Monday! No Duh!

Brody should be a model. Or an Actor. (He has the sensitivities of an artist...)

It's Monday morning ya'll and I'm not rushing around to get ready for work. I have 3, count 'em THREE vacation days this week. Why? Why not! I have a bajillion days of vacation this year being it my 10th year with the company. Who knew I could be consistent? I have about 6 weeks total. I like to take a few days off in a row every other month as 'mental health' days. I love my job, don't get me wrong. But it can be quite stressful, and lately we've been quite busy (which is good) but we're very understaffed for the amount of donors (I'm the trainer at A blood plasma facility) we are processing.

Wait a minute. What am I doing? Am I writing about work? Holy balls Batman!

Yesterday I decided to go to the plant nursery and see if they had anything new and exciting. I love going to the greenhouse, especially in the early Spring when they start to get all their new plants in. I really love gardening, but since I rent and my backyard is in perpetual shade (thank god for Hostas) I was always very limited in what I could grow. Outside. So I put some shelves along the bedroom windows and hung some grow lights above the shelves to supplement the morning sunlight and now I squeeze as many little trees as I can on that space. I guess some would call them Bonsai...but since I know what a real Bonsai is, I'll just say my little trees aspire to be one of those one day.

My favorite tree to work with is the Fujien Tea or Fukien Tea tree. It has small glossy leaves, rough bumpy bark, and it is hard for me to kill. The last part is the most important. There are some plants that, even though I think they're pretty or they have perfect leaves (small), we just don't get along and in the end I kill them. (Sorry all the Serissa plants I tried to grow. But honestly you were a bit needy.)

The greenhouse had a few very nice Fukien Tea plants and some not so nice Chinese Elms and Ficus. Typical Bonsai fodder. (nerd alert) I had a nice mental debate about purchasing another plant...especially in these times of financial lock down (we move into our new house in mid July, but the bank wants us to have 2 consecutive months of 3,000 dollars in the bank account. ouch!) Somehow I came to the conclusion purchasing the tree was my best option, because honestly, I just couldn't find a tree better. At least not in that moment.

Long story short (yeah yeah I know...a little late for that) I brought the tree home, took it from it's very root bound pot, gave it some nice gravelly soil and squeezed it into the group of other trees. It looked quite nice. I decided to take it downstairs and do some wiring on it, because a few of the limbs were off a bit aesthetically. As I was wiring I noticed...Aphids! I quickly mixed up a batch of soapy water and sprayed the hell out of the leaves. And then sprayed all of my other trees too. Damn it all to hell. I hate aphids. Thankfully, they're fairly easy to get rid of but my trees will drop leaves while I soap them. If I was one of those people born with testicles (ovaries for the ladies) I would call the greenhouse and "raise a ruckus," as my mom would say. If I hadn't already repotted the tree and hacked its root system I might have even taken it back. But I'm stuck with. And sans the bugs I think it will make a quite nice tree.

So that's it. That's my Monday. I'm going to get back to...well...nothing.

a boy, a dog, and a frog.

When D and I first started "decorating" our rental house we had bought a couple of sheik shelves and tables from Target. It's higher echelon low-middle income Amercia, Target you know? It's skies above Wal Mart in concept and design. He said, tongue in cheek. Anyhow. So we had this fancy table and shelves in dark wood but nothing to put on them. We weren't 'collectibles' kind of people. I mean, sure I still I had my Wicket the Ewok and D. had his scary clown doll from Iceland...but no knick knacks and no brick n' bracks.

Can 'collectibles' be a conscious effort? Do you one day just say, "I want to start collecting Geese," or "I'm going to start putting cheesy wooden crafty things such as ladies bending over in my front yard?" I think since I tend to over think most everything I do I've never collected anything. For me, I would begin to take note of, "I just gathered my 5th dainty ceramic shoe. What's the point of this? What have I become?" and then the fun would just be gone.

We decided to just go to The Hobby Lobby (or the Hob Lob as D likes to call it.) It's the ultimate hobby/craft/knick knack/crucifix/holiday store in all the lands. They have shelves and shelves and wooden balls in bowls, ceramic eggs in cubes, shadowboxes of fireman and fisherman, exotic throw pillows of the sort found in genie lamps. And all sorts of other things people should and probably do collect...like shiny objects. Bowls. Vases. The like. We probably sucked at picking things out and it was much more difficult than I expected.

The point to this is because I'm getting tired both of the wind up and for real... We bought a couple of frogs for the bathroom. One of metal, but hollow with holes cut through out and you place a candle in his belly and he lights up the room. The other of wood with dangly legs. He sat with his legs in the sink...but recently he was moved to the back of the toilet. He would just sit there. Watching you pee. I think D. must have gotten bugged by this because today I noticed the frog is now turned; staring at the wall.

I think when we move into our new home I will keep collecting frogs for the bathroom. Why? You ask. Or maybe not but I'm asking that for you...so there. I was thinking of the connection I have with frogs and bathrooms and it made sense to me. When I was a kid I would stay with my Grandparents most every weekend. Grandma and Grandpa H were who I looked forward to seeing all week long. My home life was shaky and I never knew what was going to happen. But at my Grandparents it was perfect and planned. Planned to have ice cream served in little ice cream bowls and eaten with small ice cream spoons before bed. Planned set the table at night for breakfast in the morning. And planned to have a story read to me before I slept. The story I always picked was of a boy and a frog. It was a very short book of just pictures, no words, but my Grandma or Grandpa would tell in their own.

(This is how I remember the story...I just googled it and it was a Mercer Mayer book. hmmm I didn't know. And it was a little bit different than I remembered. But that's memories...)

A small boy walked down to the creek to do some fishing. He looked happy and excited. He had his fishing pole and his tackle box. Once he got to the pond he noticed a quite wily frog who taunted him while he fished. The boy wanted to catch the frog. And tried several times only to be outsmarted and outwitted by the frog. A muddy mess from his attempts the boy decided he best walk home and clean up before his mother caught him in such a state of filth. (they were a clean family don't you know) Anyhoo, the frog followed the boy home. He followed the trail of mud and shoes and pants and shirt up the stairs to the bathroom and found the boy taking a bath. He jumped into the tub to surprise him and the boy was so happy the frog was there.

That is the story. Such a simple simple story, and yet I looked forward to hearing it every weekend. I planned on it.

Ode to Applesauce

Spring is sprunging. We had a nice thunderstorm this morning; made it quite difficult to drag my ass out of bed. And even more difficult to explain to Brody he really needed to poop before I leave for work, despite the downpour and the thunderboomers. After much cheerleading on my part he dropped a lil wiener loaf. He looked sad and soaked after. It was for his own good though. He would've hated to sit in his crate with a gut full of poo all day.

I just wrote a paragraph about my dog pooping. It only makes sense, I guess, since it is very much a part of my daily conversation with D. In the morning: "Did Brody poop yet?" At night before bed, "Did Brody poop before bed?" Seriously. At least twice a day we discuss Brody's poop. We really could adopt. (Notice I said 'could') Because, yeah, being a parent is just talking about baby poop...twice a day. And THAT last statement is why we don't adopt. That and I heard on Fox news that gay parents can give their adopted children cancer. And the gay virus. But excellent fashion sense and a love of Bravo.

That's a good place to end this entry. And I thought I was going to write some Ode to Spring and I digressed on dog poop and gay adoption. That's what happens when I live on Red Bull and Coffee all day. My brain is applesauce.

I can't NOT blog

Ok Ok.

Yes yes...saying 'the end' in a post is quite dramatic; especially with a long-ish period of no postings. But honestly...not writing something down is a bit stifling. I'm not known for being 'quiet.'

So, I'm writing to say I will be writing more.

Also. I had a very good day at work. We had a speaker tonight and she reminded me my job made a difference. I think I might have forgotten this. Which would be fine if I worked at McDonalds. Although, I'm sure a Happy Meal probably changed a life or two...

Today I'm grateful.

Do you ever think some days you're experiencing another 'sunrise?'

I think I've beaten the "victim reborn" horse to a pulp. You know? (read past entries...you'll see.) My most fun thing to make of fun of is when a person becomes a caricature of their own self. (Think Jodi Foster) Their idea of who they are under a magnifying glass. The joke was on me...because that is who I had started to become. I'm not that.

I will be blogging again!

Hear that internet! I WILL!

The End.

And now for something lighter...

I stumbled upon a really neat interactive video of Arcade Fire's "Black Mirror." Check it out. I also stumbled this crazy town video from Adult Swim. I suspect it is from Robot Chicken, but I am not sure.

Thin Skins of Cocoons

Mom and I hadn't really spoke of Grandpa's abuse in years. Not since I had written her that letter years ago. I've been fine with silence, for the most part. I've always felt when she was ready to talk about it, we would. The discussion wouldn't be for my benefit, because I had already traveled down the road of stages of 'acceptance/forgiveness.' It's a one trip deal mostly, and once you get to your destination, the journey isn't so wonderful you wanna do it again. It's kind of like driving across the state of Nebraska. It's necessary to get to all the good landscapes on the other side, but man it's painful when you realize you're only in the middle.

Digression is my boyfriend.

I called Mom on Thursday from work just to see how Grandpa was doing and to make sure my Aunt S. had made it up from St. Louis to help Mom out with Grandpa. I was thankful to hear my Aunt was able to get FMLA from her job and had 3 months freed up from work to stay and help.

Aunt S. was having a bit more of a difficult time dealing with the deterioration of her Father. Apparently Grandpa, during his 'Sundowns' (I guess when the sun goes down this is when the cloud is thickest around his mind) is very rude to her. He likes to tell her she is getting fat and she has no business helping him because she's not really part of the family. She's adopted. (She's not fat or adopted. Strangely he never comments on the fact her eyebrows are tattooed on. ) Granted, he was a bit famous for saying things like this anyway, but now you can't blame him for it.

Mom said she's been having difficulties reconciling "what he had done" to me. This is how she always refers to the sexual abuse, as "what he's done." This statement tells me a lot by what it does not say. But, I get it. I know why she skirts around the words. The real one's are too descriptive, they reveal to much. She said she wants to be able to forgive him, but she doesn't know if she can.

"You don't have much of a choice, Mom." I said.

"He's my Father and I love him but I just don't know if I can do it."

She will do it. There's no other choice. I told her I would be home for the day on Saturday to see him before it gets too late and he doesn't recognize me.

When I got home from work I told D. about my conversation with Mom. D asked, "Do you really think she has to forgive him before he dies?"

That was a very good question. And it came back to me throughout the day. Can you truly forgive someone after they are dead and gone? I think it's probably possible, however I imagine it would be more difficult. More important to me, regarding this question of forgiveness was...what the hell does "to forgive" mean? I don't think it's an accident it is paired up with "to forget," because I think forgiveness is a precursor to forgetting. And a lot of times, with something horrible, it's the forgetting we are waiting for. It's a fruitless wait...like waiting for Britney to get sober and regrow brain cells. It's best not to hope for this tabula rasa, I've discovered. But there is a magical mechanism connected to the act of forgiveness. It's a powerful release of tethers. Time is a component, and Understanding is key, but remembering the flaws of humanity dwell in each of us was probably the most important for me.

Forgiveness is not an illusory by-product of the souls ability to recoup.

I stopped at my youngest sister L's house. She had just packed a bowl of weed, and asked if I wanted to smoke a little bit before I went over to Mom's. It seemed very ceremonial this passing of a pipe with my Sis while we discussed the state of our family. The weed was swag, so the buzz was very light and non-intrusive. L forewarned me of Grandpa's current mental state, but said Mom seemed to be doing fine. Which didn't surprise me. Mom was there every day to take care of her Mom while Grandma slowly died from emphysema. She had accepted death and it's fingerprints. She doesn't recoil from it's face. Mom truly believes it's a transformation, and is aware of her attachments, and the emotions they manipulate. Not in those words, of course. She's much more down to earth than I.

When I arrived at Mom's house we stayed in the kitchen. My Aunt S had driven to the store to pick up some corn bread mix for the ham and beans cooking in a crock-pot. Mom said they had a rough night.

"He kept calling S. Maudy. (His dead Sister) And that they needed to 'git out there and pick those watermelons before a rot sets in." Mom said, "I was sitting in the living room and I couldn't help laughin' about it. I mean I know it's sad, but it's funny too. Your Aunt said, 'Cat. How can you laugh abut this?' And I told her it's either that or we cry. Later on in the night he kept putting his hand out. Like he was reachin' for someone. S. asked me if I should hold it, and I said, Sure why not? When she did he snapped up and grabbed her arm and said...'I'll CUT you! Scared the shit out her, but we both laughed about it."

Mom said she and Aunt S. have been wondering who he's been talking to when he sits and mumbles. She thinks Grandma is visiting him and his parents and brothers and sisters. She told me they had even got the digital camera to snap some shots of the room and..."There are orbs in there!" They are sort of obsessed with the idea of capturing spirits on film...you know...orbs. I'm not convinced, but I'll keep an open mind.

After about an half hour of chatting with Mom and Aunt S in the kitchen, Aunt S. asked if I wanted to go in and see Grandpa. She went in and woke him up and said, "Dad, we have a surprise for you, TWO surprises...Jason and D. are you here to see you."

D and I walked into the room and it was very much a death bed scene. And that was surprising to me. I had just seen Grandpa about a month ago and he was not this person lying in front of me. Grandpa reached his hand out to me...his arms...his arms were black with bruise; his skin was torn in several places, and came off in flaky patches. He had thin sheets of a plastic substance on the skin to hold it together, and coban and gauze wrapped wrists. There were tiny blood stains on the sheets. I was almost afraid to grip his hand for fear the skin would rip to the bone. He gently squeezed my hand and said, "What are you two doing in this neighborhood?"

"We came to see you, Grandpa."

We talked very little. I asked him if he remembered Roberta coming to see him the previous day. Roberta is his girlfriend whom he'd been with for the past 10 years or so. Roberta is a kooky old lady with a heart of gold and a love for quilting. And it was this love of quilting that kept them together, I think. They made over a hundred quilts together. He said he remembered the visit, and seemed genuinely happy to see her.

We left him to rest and went back into the kitchen to talk to mom for awhile...

When it was Beans and Cornbread time my Aunt S. helped Grandpa into a chair in the living room. She got him all comfy, and fixed a t.v. tray up for him with some beans and cornbread...after she got him all set up she said, "Can I get you anything else dad?"

He looked over at me with a wild look in his eyes and made the universal crazy person motion with his fingers and glared at her and said, "Keep movin'...." "Keep movin'..."

"Dad, now...I just wanted to..."

"Keep movin'...."

We chuckled and told him he was being rude. At that moment I realized while I sat with him in the living room I was afraid to be there. It was an odd fear. I was afraid he would just completely snap, and I would be there to witness the break. I have an irrational fear of madness as a contagion.

It was such an odd moment in time. My grandpa sitting there eating beans and cornbread, mumbling while D and my sister sat on the couch chatting, and my niece C. sprawled out on the floor drawing a picture. The normality of it was bizarre. C. looked over at grandpa and he shot back a glare at her that should have frozen her in fear. It would've me if were her age (4). But she just stuck her tongue out at him. He then started shouting at her, "You apologize to me! You apologize to me!"

My Aunt S. told him to quiet down, "She's just a little girl, Dad. Let it go."

"But she stuck her tongue out at me! She started it..." He then looked at me and sneered, "She's the worst child in all the town...and all the towns around."

C. just kept drawing.

The rest of the afternoon was more of the same. At about 5 we decided we better drive back home to Iowa City. I went into the bedroom to say goodbye to Grandpa. He grabbed my hand and looked into my eyes and said, "You're back on the shopping list."

The strength of mom, I hope, is genetic.

I called my mother today to check up on her. About a week or so ago my Grandfather moved in with her while he recuperates from back surgery. I'm amazed by the amount of her patience, and her capacity to give. I really should have driven home last weekend and the weekend before to help her with his care. But I just can't.

Grandpa is very confused right now due to his cocktail of oxicontin and morphine. This morning mom came into the living room, where Grandpa sleeps now, he was sitting on the couch, naked, and his soiled pants were on the living room floor. He looked up at her and said, "We better hurry up or we're going to be late for the movie."

I know she needs help right now, but I'm so afraid in his confusion he is going to talk to me like he did when I was a child...

"Remember you promised to never tell anyone about us. They won't understand and they will be very angry with you. This is our secret."

I hear these words still till this day. And I just don't know how I would react if I hear them from his lips again, now. My stomach is turning just typing this. The words stir memories of his pleas to be silent while his thick, dry hands manipulated my belt buckle and pushed my pants around my ankles. It pisses me off I spent many years smoking so many drugs to create a fog around my past, that these memories survived; shook off my attempts of destroying their synaptic map. Sure my good memories faded into cerebral nooks, but these deep rooted images stayed. I think I've finally realized they are as much a part of me as any other memory, more so even...but it has taken years to get here. And 'here' is built on spun glass cellular membranes...fragile. I'm not yet convinced of any derived strength from all of this. Just a different point of view...and a smidgen more cynicism than the average dude...but I've earned it. Damn it.

I need to get over the idea of me being the only character in this story unfolding. Mom has never not helped a family member. She is always there for all of us. And I need to be there for her. Luckily at this point in our relationship, Grandpa and mine, if he does cross any sort of line with me I'm not above telling him to "Fuck Off." You know? I mean he is powerless in this situation. A confused mind in a broken body. I suppose really anything that would transpire at this point would come from a place of desperation. I don't want to take joy in his crumbling...and I don't. I genuinely am able to compartmentalize the relationship we had in the past with the one we have now. Honestly, we mostly get along quite well, all molestation aside. Outside of Oprah episodes I think this is probably what happens in families of sexual abuse. People inherently want to overcome, and we're damn good at denial...so there you have it.

These lessons get complicated. But I'm trying. Looking at it from every angle. When he's gone the closure will be one-sided, and that might not be enough.

This is a photo taken of Mom while she was on a cruise a couple of years ago. I love this pic of her.

Can YOU feel a Brand New Day?

Today on Video Friday I bring to you the amazing phenomenon that is Show Choir.

And to think in the late 80s when I was in High School shaking my hips to "Soldier of Love" and Jazz Hand(ing) to It Don't Mean a Thing if it Ain't got that Swing. I mostly had no idea I was gay. Mostly.

So here ya go. From my home state of Iowa.



Yes. Train wrecks are equally fascinating.

Cool on your Island.

I've been on a manic downloading frenzy on itunes.

Awwww man. Beer and itunes is such a bad idea. I downloaded From a Distance, for the love of everything holy and chocolate covered!

I did get some nice Tori Amos tracks. I'm a sucker for the Amos.

Anyhoo, I decided to see if YouTube had any videos of Tori back in the Y Kant Tori Read band days. I found, instead, this amazing mash up using the song "Cool on Your Island" from the Y Kant Tori Read album. It's a very nice job. I send digital kudos to Devendra. And Kudos for the name 'Devendra.' Two snaps in the air, even... if I did such things as "Snaps in the air."

"snaps?" now...I'm not that kind of gay.

Here's the video:



And here is another video for my kindred spirit, Auld Hat.

Random TV Regurgitation

Dear Diary

I think I'm mostly done with American Idol. Mostly. What is annoying me the most this season (besides the fact I'm watching it again) is the obvious exploitation of folks with mental illness. Folks have to get past some gatekeepers before they make it to the "judges." I know, I know, they weed out the mediocre singers and put through the freak shows and the pretty goods. I think in the earlier seasons I was moderately amused by the freakshows...but honesty I just have to walk downtown to see performers of that, um "caliber. " I've noticed something has happened to me this season and I mostly find it sad when the folks with a distorted self-image are given the most camera time. It's not funny anymore. Just sad. So either I'm getting boring and less cynical...which honestly if you knew me you would know this is far far from the truth OR American Idol is becoming a caricature of itself. An eventuality of most things Hollywood I've noticed.

Please Please those who write checks for writers...GIVE THEM THE MONEY! If I have to sit through anymore unscripted shitbag TV I'm going to resort to reading more books. BOOKS! I tell you.

Anyone watching Crowned Mother of All Pageants? Well it's pretty frickin' satisfying as far as pseudo-reality TV goes. It's crap, sure. Tongue and cheek TV at it's best.

While I'm on the topic of reality TV...Project Runway is on soon. I know that Auld Hat is on a hiatus so I won't be able to watch her play by play action. Which is quite sad, because 1) Her recaps are fantabulous. And B.) according to E! Entertainment the episode is supposed to be crazy town express. (Yes, I'm aware that I get 50 damnation points for even pausing on the E channel.)

Arrgh.

So I searched the vast interweb for a widget playlist thingy. So I could have a music-y blog. (I am slaughtering English here. Slaughtering! Good thing no one reads this! whew.) So, anyway as I was saying...to myself...I searched and found the widget at the bottom of the page (insert cool arrow graphic pointed down) I spent about an hour looking for 45 songs, cuz if I didn't the site would "finish" my 45 song play list for me...using some magical demographically driven algorithm based on my favorite fish. So I did it. I picked 45 songs that I thought would be a nice broad representation of my musical taste. So the millions of blog readers that flock to my page could see how diverse my musical taste is.

And now... After I copy and pasted the handy dandy html code. The music player sucks my ass. Cereal. Ok...so. You can't go back and listen to another song cuz the player is all like, "NoooOOo you gotta buy it if you wanna hear it again." and then I was all like...I wanna skip this song, and this song, and this song, and...wait "NooOOooo you have to listen to ALL of some of them A$$jerk." This player's stupid. ::Throws Rock and Stomps Off:: Oh wait, it gets dumber. And Stupider. It REMEMBERS me! I closed my web browser and came back and it was still playing the same song. I tried to skip it and it was all like, "NooooOOoo you can't fool me with those dark glasses and tiara. I know it's you. I will haunt your dreams with this play list! YOUR DREAMS!" or at least it went down something like that. Soon as I find a replacement widget you're history finetune. You can blow me!

So yeah. Anyone know where I can get a good player that doesn't give me lip? With easy to copy and paste html code? With a free pony? And Pop Rocks? Huh? Hello? ...Damn it's just me still. :: Kicks Rock and walks head down off into the interweb...::

And Scene!

Photoshop Pic and a Surprising Outpour

I'm trying to learn more of the ins and outs of Photoshop. I'm wondering if Adobe could have possibly made Adobe more difficult to use? Anyway. My project tonight was to learn to make magical looking bubbles. Because I'm gay. And I'm supposed to just fuckin' love bubbles...especially fantasy bubbles, the kind unicorns fart out of their magical asses.

So. Here's my first attempt.

I should have went home this weekend. My grandfather isn't doing very well. Most likely he will die soon. His death has been a symbol of my release for so long, and now that it is getting close...I don't feel guilty for wanting him to die. The not feeling guilty scares me. I'm not supposed to WANT someone to die. Even someone who is the root, the rope which ties me to an enslaved innocence. His demise has been the metaphor for my wings for years. What happens when I realize there is no where to fly. (and no where to hide from bad metaphors.)

Point.

I'm wanting a last breath apology. But the idea of receiving one, or the reality of not, are equally weighted. A balancing act of his redemption and my release.

I'm fooling myself if I truly believe his burial will be my rebirth. I'll still just be damaged. Healed over, perhaps, but a knot of a scar nonetheless. How narcissistic of me to turn the end of his life, into my story? But maybe it's ok for me to want this too. His end. And my beginning. It's only right I should want release from threads tying me to his fold out couch. It's only right I should want a Phoenix of my childhood to rise from his coffin. Something good should come from all of this.

I need to sleep. I will call Mom tomorrow and see how he is doing. I'll think about a trip next weekend. Then everything will be arranged for a perfectly good Lifetime Movie. (humor is my shield.)

Modern Problems

Anyone remember this move?



or how about the movie this song is from?



I'm having an 80's flashback YouTube moment. How joyous.

And finally a wonderfully mixed 80 megamix. 80's music makes me smile on theinside.

A Saturday Night Cartoon

Every once in a great while my Grandfather would get his old real to real projector out and we would watch old movies. This movie was always the opening.

D&D

I took an extremely long survey to discover what kind of D & D character I was. I'm a little bit sad to not be a magic-using Elf. But I'll take a Druid, I guess. It's better than an oafish fighter. Oh my god. I just earned 50 nerd points.

I Am A: Lawful Neutral Human Druid/Ranger (3rd/2nd Level)


Ability Scores:

Strength-11

Dexterity-12

Constitution-11

Intelligence-15

Wisdom-14

Charisma-13


Alignment:
Lawful Neutral A lawful neutral character acts as law, tradition, or a personal code directs him. Order and organization are paramount to him. He may believe in personal order and live by a code or standard, or he may believe in order for all and favor a strong, organized government. Lawful neutral is the best alignment you can be because it means you are reliable and honorable without being a zealot. However, lawful neutral can be a dangerous alignment because it seeks to eliminate all freedom, choice, and diversity in society.


Race:
Humans are the most adaptable of the common races. Short generations and a penchant for migration and conquest have made them physically diverse as well. Humans are often unorthodox in their dress, sporting unusual hairstyles, fanciful clothes, tattoos, and the like.


Primary Class:
Druids gain power not by ruling nature but by being at one with it. They hate the unnatural, including aberrations or undead, and destroy them where possible. Druids receive divine spells from nature, not the gods, and can gain an array of powers as they gain experience, including the ability to take the shapes of animals. The weapons and armor of a druid are restricted by their traditional oaths, not simply training. A druid's Wisdom score should be high, as this determines the maximum spell level that they can cast.


Secondary Class:
Rangers are skilled stalkers and hunters who make their home in the woods. Their martial skill is nearly the equal of the fighter, but they lack the latter's dedication to the craft of fighting. Instead, the ranger focuses his skills and training on a specific enemy a type of creature he bears a vengeful grudge against and hunts above all others. Rangers often accept the role of protector, aiding those who live in or travel through the woods. His skills allow him to move quietly and stick to the shadows, especially in natural settings, and he also has special knowledge of certain types of creatures. Finally, an experienced ranger has such a tie to nature that he can actually draw on natural power to cast divine spells, much as a druid does, and like a druid he is often accompanied by animal companions. A ranger's Wisdom score should be high, as this determines the maximum spell level that he can cast.


Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)

...And One on Saturday

To Follow up my Willow Don't Cry here's another Leslie Hall video:



PS: The stomach flu can kiss my ass...instead of wreck it. yeah. yuck that.

Video on A Friday.

Ok here's a video from a local hero. Leslie Hall.

You really should check her out. Perhaps buy a CD or rescue a Gem Sweater in her name.

Lil Late For Christmas.

I was looking at my YouTube account and all of a sudden this song started playing out of my computer speakers. I was minimizing windows left and right (er up and down) trying to figure out where the music was coming from. It was a song from Emmett Otter's Jugband Christmas. It made me happy.

Sadly it wasn't magic...I had just accidentally opened the video in another Tab. Or Baby Jesus guided my clicker finger. Either way it was nice to hear the song.

So, I know it's late, or crazytown early...but here is a clip from one of my most favorite Christmas movies. Thanks Jim Henson.

God's Birthday.

I don't blog much.


Sometimes I think I 'live' as much. Well...if you read this you would think so. Just short sentences between vast bookends of silence. Nothing. ness. Suppose that might be true. Could be for most of us, really.

Had a doozy of a panic attack recently. Real death's finger kinda moment. It's scary the illusion of not being in control. Or realization that the control was really the illusion. Those are the thoughts that do ya in. You know?

Had a pleasant holiday with the "in-laws." Sum up as follows:

Very Northern Minnesota. Practically Canada. Lots of snow. Quiet. Lefse all day, Fondu at night. Comfortable, despite the heavy amounts of evangelical-free molecules bouncing about the fireplace warmed home. I hurt my back...I'm doomed to be one of the few people who will suffer a "back-outage" from a soupish soak in a hot tub. So yeah. We played games, watched a western, skirted political and religious topics...and mostly had a nice time. 10 hour drive home on Christmas day, slick as snot as they say. My dog Brody caused us to go into a ditch going about 55. I didn't take him for a Kamikaze. The rest of the drive after the "accident" was mostly white out and speeds of 35. On the interstate. 35.

All in all a much better visit than I expected.

The rest of my life has been textbook. Not sure which one, though.

My mom left me a message my Grandfather's vertebrae collapsed. On Wednesday they will ambulance him (yes it is now a verb) to a hospital in another town so they can "balloon up" (my mom also invents verbs) his vertebrae and inject cement. Or something. I'm a bit conflicted...

Mostly he won't survive long after. He has prostate cancer, and barely functioning kidneys. His legs fill with fluid, the swollen skin pulls tight and shines...water soaks his socks. His skin on his arms like bruised tissue paper, torn and bloody.

I still wonder if his death will be a closure, mostly aware of the trap in this thought. But still hopeful.

Anyway. This isn't really the direction I wanted to go. I actually had a video I pieced together of my nieces I wanted to post. That was it really. And there I went. Crazytown Village.

Here's the video. From clips recorded during Christmas with my family. Christmas. It's a state of mind.

PS: Sorry I haven't written back Auld, er Ang, thanks for the New Year's wishes. I've been checking in with you. Standing quietly off to the side. I do that sometimes. Hope you are well.