No News is Good News.

There was a time, not long ago, when I was a news junkie dickhead.

I’d slavishly, religiously, watch and listen to the news on TV and radio and Mr. Internet. I yearned to learn what was going on in the world and how I felt about it. I knew I could puzzle out the world’s problems with enough information. I figured I’d try and find a balance so I’d watch the “left leaning” network news channels and listen to the “right leaning” radio talk shows.

But what happened was- I became a new junkie dickhead. And I grew angry at all of it.

Miss Carol wouldn’t talk to me about anything news related. She couldn’t, I was always certain I was always right.

And then, one dark early morning run out west on 58 I had an epiphany. *cue the angels chorus*

I realized that, not only couldn’t I do anything about the news stories, I wouldn’t and couldn’t even want to. So why listen? Why watch?

So I turned it all off.

Now I just live in my little happy world with my friends and family and I’m a happier person, because, honestly it’s all about my happiness that counts.

Right, Miss Carol?

Miss Carol?

I’m back?

Has it really been 3 years since I decided to say fuck this because I felt that writing a silly little blog was cramping efforts with Project B?

Has three years somehow flown by while I thought that if I stopped writing short, teeny, tiny blurby blurbs that I would someway, somehow, someday magically start writing longer, more interestingly important stuff on Project B?

Has it been that long?

And did I really think that?

I did, and it has.

I figured that if I stopped writing small, short stuff that it would help the longer stuff flow. That somehow the short stuff was limiting me, restricting me, making me write shorter and shorter shit- a constantly tightening noose of shorter leading to ever shorter.

So I stopped the blog and I waited for the bigger flow for Project B to engage and propel me forward, and instead, this happened-


Well. After a coupla years or so, and a number of false starts and re-starts, I thought and I re-thought about me and I figured I needed to write something, just anything, to get it to flow before I forgot how to type with all ten fingers.

Anyway, I’m back for what it’s worth and maybe for awhile and maybe not. I’ve got some new tattoos and some new stories and we’ll just have to see how it goes.

Project B tugs at me as relentlessly as ever and I just gotta do something to do it and get it done and get it out of my head and maybe this is it?

Let’s hope.

So that’s it.

Me and Miss Carol were having our weekly Sunday disagreement and argument. She was telling me I don’t do enough on weekends and I was pointing out the things we’d done.

And then she said- honestly, really, why keep trying?

And I said- because I love you.

And she said- stop trying so hard.

And I thought, and I said- you got it.

And just like that.Ravens

I Hope.

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I hope we didn’t wait too long.

I hope you didn’t suffer too much while I screwed on the courage I needed to do what I knew needed to be done.

I hope your passing was as painless and as quick for you as it seemed to be to me.

I hope you felt me there with you, right to the very end. To know you weren’t alone.

I hope you know how much I loved you and how much I’ll always miss you.

But most of all?

I hope the Rainbow Bridge  is real and true and I hope Tug has found you.

RIP Cutter 2005-2018

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Ya Know?


I don’t know how this two word phrase has infected our lexicon. But it has.

Miss Carol and me went out to lunch the other day. We were sitting at the empty bar in a restaurant sipping our drinks, having ordered our meal, when I noticed the bartendress lurking nearby, maybe hoping for some conversation.

I rose to the bait. How’s life?, I said.

The bartendress fairly bubbled effervescently. She clasped her hands together, paused dramatically staring at the ceiling at who knows what, took a deep breath, and said-

Well, so, ya know, I was, ya know, getting ready, ya know, for my first date in like a week, ya know, and I was staring at, ya know, my closet wondering, ya know, what to wear, ya know, when-

Miss Carol was listening raptly.

I said- No. I don’t know.

The bartendress stopped, her pretty forehead furrowed in a frown. She thought for a moment and then gave up and started again.

So anyway, she said, I was, like, ya know, searching through my, ya know, closet thinking, ya know, do I, ya know, dress trampy, ya know?, or-

I said- No, really, I don’t know.

Miss Carol stared at me.

The bartendress stared at me. This time her furrowed frowning forehead came with a hint of malice.

What’s your problem?, she said.

You keep saying ya know, like I should know, but I don’t, I said.

Her frown deepened as if struggling with Euclidean geometry and then she said-

You’re weird.

Miss Carol murmured around the straw in her drink- I know.




Lola gets her voice.

IMG_0715I was sitting and pretending to work in my Me Only Room when I heard a rustling behind me and a little voice said-

Hey shitheel.

Hey shitheel? I thought as a spun my Me Only Chair around to see our little Lola staring up at me.

Yup. Our little Lola got her voice about a month ago. And what a voice it is- it’s a strange combination of youth and age- kinda like a pre-pubescent Wicked Witch or maybe a 4 yr old with a two pack a day habit.

Yes?, I said, trying to remain pleasant.

When am I gonna fucking grow? Lola snarled- Did I mention our little Lola has a bit of a potty mouth?

Well, I said, clearing my throat, you’re not.

Whaddya fuckin’ mean I’m NOT?, Lola demanded.

You’re not, I repeated. You’re a Chiweenie, so you’re as big as you’re going to get- unless you keep getting fatter- I added.

Lola ignored the fat remark and stared down at her little four inch legs and then back over her shoulder at her hot dog shaped body.

Shit. Doesn’t that just fucking suck, she said, turning back to me.

Not really, I said, You’re a hybrid. You’re a cross between a Chihuahua and a Dachshund and you were bred specifically to maximize the positive attributes of both species such as intelligence and loyalty and minimize the negative aspects of the two species such as temper and aggression.

Oh yeah?, Lola snarled at me, we’ll just fucking see about that, won’t we?

And with that, she spun around and waddled out of the Me Only Room, but not before yipping and snapping at Cutter who had been sleeping at my feet.

Then Lola bounded down the stairs and I started pretending to work again until I heard a sharp bark and then a clang and a growling, scraping sound as Lola flipped her metal food bowl over and pushed it around on the floor.

I think she’s pissed, I said to Cutter.

Cutter opened one eye briefly and then closed it again.




Why I like swimming more than jogging.

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Time trials.



Sunday marked the fourth or fifth anniversary of technology bitch-slapping yet another of my favorite annual pleasures- the end of daylight savings time.

The end of daylight savings time used to be a big day in my year because I wouldn’t set my clocks back the required hour right before going to bed, nor would my anal retentiveness awaken me at 2:00 am to reset my clocks and be painstakingly precise.

Instead, what I would do each year was leave my clocks and my time alone and un-reset until at some point on Sunday when-decided on by me- I would TURN BACK TIME.

That’s right. I could TURN BACK TIME.

It was heady and god-like and fun. I’d leave the clocks alone until either I didn’t want Sunday to end or, more likely, when I wanted to repeat a particularly fun part of Sunday morning or Sunday afternoon or, even more likely, when I wanted that particular hour back.

For example, say Miss Carol made me go to church (um, it could happen) and I felt like I’d just wasted an hour. I could TURN BACK TIME and voila!, it was like it never really happened.

Or say that me and Miss Carol were sharing some afternoon delight (um, it could happen too) and were having so much fun that we wanted a repeat. Eazy peezy, just TURN BACK TIME and bingo- instant reset.

But what usually happened was that it would get to be late afternoon with the sun setting and the cold, hard reality of another Monday looming over my mood and outlook on life when I’d glance at my watch and go- Whoa there, big fella! We gots us another hour yet!, and laughing heartily- I would TURN BACK TIME.

*sigh* Those were the good old days.

But now they’re gone. Smart phone engineers and computer programmers and technology in all of it’s forms have gone out of their way to rob me of one more of life’s simple pleasures.

So this Sunday as soon as I woke up and before I could take steps to insulate myself and my idea of time to myself, I picked up my iPhone and automatically glanced at the lit up lock screen proudly proclaiming the hour-adjusted proper time and ruining what little is left of joy and happiness in my life.


Good deed indeed.

The other day, as soon as I entered the hospital where I frequently work, a little old lady approached me looking confused. She was one of those little old ladies that are still trying, that haven’t yet succumbed to old lady clothes and old person hygiene habits and even though her wig wasn’t on quite straight and her lipstick was applied a little outside of the lines she was nattily dressed- just a cute little thing.

Anyway, she approached me and asked if I knew the way to the Emergency Room parking lot where she had left her car the night before. I thought about giving her directions through the hospital and out to the E.D. but figured the number of turns would probably confuse her and get her lost and decided right there and then to go the extra mile and escort the cute little old lady to the E.D. my-own-self. (You have to realize, me being a Type-ME personality, this was totally aberrant behavior) So, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, I told her I’d be happy to take her to the E.D.

The look of radiant relief washing over her wrinkly little face could’ve melted snow.

As we walked, the cute little old lady told me that she had had to bring her husband into the E.D. the night before because of some internal bleeding and that their doctor was going to perform a colonoscopy later in the day. I tut-tutted and oh-noed in all the right places and told her that I hoped her husband would be all right- all the while wondering what all this escorting was doing to my already busy schedule and why I’d even bothered.

But then we reached the E.D. and a weirdly wonderful thing happened.

When I opened the door to the E.D. for her and she saw, and clearly recognized, a familiar space within all of the unfamiliar uncertainties of the past several hours, she looked up at me with the warmest smile of thanks I have a ever seen and a little thing cracked in me just a little and a little flickering light lit in me and after she had left and I was walking back to start my day the flickering little light warmed in me and grew into a resolve to do something for someone else each and every day.

But, as usually happens, my reality slapped me and my flickering little light guttered.

I work largely alone, especially when I’m driving the big truck so my interaction with other people is pretty limited, meaning that a good deed every single day might be a bit too much of a challenge. I mean,  I could probably keep escorting the cute little old lady if she kept showing up and forgetting where she was when I was working at the hospital, but what are the chances of that?

So then I thought that maybe weekly might be a more attainable goal- until it occurred to me that there are 52 weeks in the year. That’s still a pretty big number of good deeds to be doing.

So monthly. Surely I could find one good deed a month to accomplish and feel good about myself. How hard could a monthly good deed be? But then I remembered how busy my schedule is and how hard it is just to post a stupid blog once a month or so.

So finally I’ve settled on an annual good deed. Once each year, I’m going to find someone who needs my help and, gosh darn it, I’m gonna help that person and stop thinking about me-me-me all the time; just like I did with that cute little old lady the other day.

And while I realize it’s a rigorous goal, I think it’s one I can meet. I mean, I’m already good to go for 2016 and I figure that since my first good deed was in November which is close to December which, let’s face it, is right around the corner from 2017, I’m thinking I’ve pretty much filled up my good deed dance card until 2018- leaving me plenty of time to find a good deed to do and someone to do it to.

Wish me luck.


Surviving Matthew.


The storm that wasn’t supposed to be a storm for us until it became a storm for us swept in on Saturday night.

As late as late on Saturday morning, Matthew was forecast to trundle north as far as Cape Hatteras and then make a sharp right and barrel out to sea sparing us more rain.

He didn’t.

Instead, Mr. Matthew decided to mosey on up the coast and check out what Miss Carol and me were doing for the weekend.

Saturday morning, Weather Underground was predicting 20 mph winds and a 60% chance of rain. By afternoon the prediction had changed to 45 mph winds and a 90% chance of rain. By midnight I awoke to torrential rain pounding the house and winds that were rockin’ and rollin’ her on her stilts. I lay in the heaving bed and bedroom and silently cursed Matthew.

Because we live on an island the power almost immediately goes out in any storm and Matt was no exception. We lost power Saturday evening and didn’t get it back until Wednesday night, a full day after our generator arrived and I hooked it up.

In those long powerless hours I learned a lot about myself and life-

Being without the internet is truly a hardship. As much as it pains me to say that, it’s true. I can do without some things, but it turns out that facebook and e-mail and youtube aren’t among them.

No water equals no toilets. Who knew? Or maybe I should have. All the years living in Sandbridge we had city water so no matter what you could at least go to the bathroom when the lights were out. Not now, not when we get our water from a well whose pump requires electricity. (Side story- no water equals no showers which equals zero sexual attraction- apparently something about the smell?)

Camping in your living room is fun. It is. For about the first 10 hours and then the newness and excitement rapidly declines and resigned suckiness sets in. You can only make so many meals on a small propane stove before your repertoire is exhausted.

Reading by candlelight is frustrating and can lead to book fires. ‘Nuff said about that.

But the biggest, most important thing that I learned in the aftermath of MattMan the hurricane?


That’s right. A couple of weeks before the storm that wasn’t supposed to be a storm and became a storm, we had a different storm and lost power for about 36 hours. After that little stint, I swore I’d buy a generator and hook it up to our house panel. I even did the research and decided on which one I wanted, which generator would be the best bang for the buck.

And then I sat on it.

I figured, what the hell? It’s mid-October, hurricane season’s almost over, right? I can wait, right?