Don't Let It End This Way... (sing in the style of Styx!)

Honest Injun.... (Sorry, I was born in Hannibal, MO - all those Mark Twain references, ya know! )

For several reasons, I don't have a single unfinished knitting project in my house, but I do have 4 of the largest Rubbermaid storage tubes (on wheels) that are full of my yarn stash.

One of the reasons is that I believe, in Martha Stewart-fashion, "If I spent money on it, I'm going to use it!"

Reason #2 is that I went to an estate sale 2 years ago. It was a 2 story home, and 5 of the 6 rooms that were on the second floor of this house were dedicated to the now-deceased home owner.

If I'm lyin', I'm dyin' - send my soul straight to Hell!

I did look into this woman's closets (in an estate sale, EVERYTHING is for sale, including everything in drawers, cabinets, closets, etc.

I noticed in her closet(s) that there were, indeed, several finished knitted items, including some spectacular sweaters.

HOWEVER.... 5 of the 6 rooms on this floor were filled with large display-type tables that were each loaded with hundreds of Ziploc baggies, laying on the table fallen domino-style for the sake of cramming as many baggies on each table as possible. Each of these baggies had all the yarn needed to complete a particular project. The instructions (magazine clippings, etc), needles and even a knitted swatch were in every bag with the correct yarn for the project. In *most* of the baggies, this woman had a large portion of an arm of a sweater completed, for example, and nothing more finished on the project.

Even though I couldn't take all the yarn with me (but I wanted to!), I did manage to buy several hundred dollars worth of fine, expensive yarns that are now out of production - for $35 for the entire lot that I bought. The stuff that I bought didn't put even the tiniest dent in the overall size of this woman's stash - and unfinished garments!

I just know in my heart - 2 sizes too small! - that that poor woman's husband wanted desperately to shoot her in the head, if for no better reason to put her out of both their miseries!

I'm glad that she didn't finish 1% of the projects that she started - because I reaped the benefits, but that woman must have been suffering from some type of internal turmoil! he he

- Michael

Keeping Them There Darkies Working in the Fields

Since school is still obviously in session, I will break it down for you the same way I broke it down for them:

Is the following statement an OPINION / FREEDOM OF SPEECH, or is it "HATE AND BIGOTRY"?

"Them there darkies should be still working in the fields!"

OK. My bad. Technically, that was a trick question, because it is *both*, an opinion and freedom of speech AND it is still hate and bigotry.

The sinister part of supporting Phil Robertson's (and Chic-Fil-A's..... and Cracker Barrel's.... and Salvation Army's) statements as "Freedom of Speech" and an "Opinion" is that they are hiding behind those rights to inflict hate and bigotry. It's plain and simple.

If we're matching each other right-for-right, I have to say this:

"Yes, they have the right to say whatever the Hell they want to say, and I have the right to punch them in the teeth for effecting many important aspects of my life, including insurance and other huge financial areas of my life."

Go, A&E! Making people responsible for their actions, despite the lies and bull crap (cat boxing?) that they try to spew? -

"It's a GOOD THING!"

That man is now treading water like the Titanic swim team!

Some people will be confused as to how Phil Robert's actions - which are NOT illegal - will effect my rights and my $$ - which is VERY legal.  

It's really very simple:  

His bigoted statements can and will effect the minds of those who were, unfortunately, given the right and the authority to vote for MY rights.  

Very easy math:  People are persuaded to believe that gay people are, in generally, "bad" = we don't get their vote, which we need, to protect unions, relationships and financial security that we have had - in many cases - longer than the straight people that are allowed to vote for our rights!

- Michael

A Snip Here.... A Snip There

(Hold on tight....there really is a point to this saga...)

Given that today's weather won't let me out of the house, I'll trim close to 2" off this beard today.  The increasing length is making my beard difficult to style, and it's getting a bit out of control.

Some folk that aren't in the beard 'inner circles' will think "Taking 2 inches off that beard shouldn't make that much of a difference!", when the reality of the situation is that when this beard is combed straight down, even the most casual observer will note a huge difference.  Hold on.... The moral of this Aesop's fable approacheth:

After the snow plows have freed me from my snowy prison, and before I leave my home again, I will style my beard in it's recognizable "up-do" form.  With a 100% assurance, I can guarantee you that not even the most eagle-eyed onlooker would notice that a single hair had been trimmed on my face.

The same can be said for my 1 acre in Ladue.  My significant-other can leave for work in the morning, and while he is out, I can trim the trees and plants on our property.  When trimming and editing is necessary, I can take some CAREFULLY SELECTED 'chunks' out of his most prized Magnolia (as just one example) that is located immediately adjacent to the space that he parks his car.

Just between you and me - and in all confidence, can I just tell you that when he parks his car that evening, and walks into the house, I won't hear a peep about his prized Magnolia being molested.

We have lived in this house 4 years.  Every season, I have to prune / trim most 'green stuff' on our property to keep it in-check.  To date, and as of this writing, he hasn't noticed a single snip.

Why, you ask, "Hasn't he noticed or said anything about your pruning?"

The answer is quite easy and very natural to me, and I wish I could say the same for those that are hacking the Hell out of the plantings at The Missouri Botanical Gardens.

The answer:
GOOD.  JUDICIOUS.  EDITING ! ! ! !

Remember:
My beard really NEEDED trimming, and yet people that see me on a daily basis will never know that a single hair has been touched.

I guess we can't say the same for that wonderful stand of Bottlebrush Buckeye  (Aesculus parviflora) that is located across from the Climatron.






Please note the wonderfully sheltering feeling that one would get as that passed through these beautiful white spires.  Also notice the fantastic symmetry of this space.

Don't jack with me.  I know.... I know.... Bottle brush grows quickly.  You do know, of course, that there is such a thing as JUDICIOUS EDITING that will accomplish both goals of getting this beautiful plant to grow back, and once again be 'bushy' instead of taller and 'leggy' AND simultaneously maintaining the form and shape that Garden visitors find endearing.

So much for endearing, timelessness and stability, eh?


(The 'grassy' knoll where the 4 faced-Buddha sculpture / lantern stood that has been seasonally planted with tulips..... burgundy elephant ears.... SOMETHING.... is a different story, altogether, and a different book for another day.  A couple words to the wise about wasted space and wasted opportunities:

1) Not many people ever died saying, "God, I wish I could see more grass!"
(Please remember - we can get all the grass that our little hearts desire, absolutely free of charge, and in a relatively un-molested state in Tower Grove Park - located right across the street!)

2) I know that most of my readers probably won't see the situation in this light, but I have many very good examples of what sensory deprivation does to unsuspecting victims, and 99.99% of the time, these changes occur slowly, and without the individual's knowledge. (But the changes are immediately noticeable to those that are aware of this danger.)

3) In a all-around point of view, WASTE is a 'bad thing', and should be avoided at all costs.



_____________________________________________________________


'Even as we speak', that is going to become glaringly apparent to the folk at the Missouri Botanical Gardens when I blast them for their latest round of mindless hacking that they have done to iconic and beloved areas of the Gardens.

((:::Almost finished with a blog entry that I am preparing to zing in their direction:::)

As a result of my efforts to maintain detail and to preserve the detail that you might some day enjoy (before it's gone by the way of laziness, watering down, and selling out, etc!), I am well known for being outspoken to these people.

Thusly, I am definitely no stranger to the Vice-President of the Missouri Botanical (Mr. Andrew Wyatt), and I have taken a 'buggy ride' with him in one of their golf carts, doing a one-on-one survey and comparison of 'changes' at the Gardens.

When we finished with our hour and a half 'meeting', I got out of the golf cart, and assumed a shocked look on my face, and quickly looked down at the back of my right calf. My head shot back up as I looked him dead in the eye, and I exclaimed, "Oh, what is that warm, wet sensation that I feel running down the back of my leg?" A confused look shot across his face as I continued, "Oh, now I know what it is! To quote one of my mentors, Judge Judy, 'Don't piss down my leg and tell me it's raining!"

Those people TRULY think I'm crazy, but the only difference between me and them is that I never, ever saw "The Emperor's New Clothes" - and I hop I never will.

(Moral #1 of this Aesop's fable:

If a tree - just as one SMALL example - is still there when you visit MoBot, THANK ME for fighting for it.

Moral #2 of this Aesop's fable:

Git yer buns to The Missouri Botanical Gardens before these sell-out, increasingly lazy, hazy people turn it into nothing more than a glorified walk through an average city park, which, incidentally, we can get free and unmolested right across the street. The threat is very real and at the rate they are going, this outcome is inevitable.

(The small, 10-minute effort that I went through to write this 'book' will not be in vain. I'm using all of it in the blog I'm sending them.

You'd think that pulling wool over a picky bird's eyes would be easier....

This morning, Mr. Ass-Bird is up to his same ole tricks again.

Yesterday, I make from-scratch cooked chocolate pudding. I have 4 egg whites left over after I used the yolks for the pudding.

Conrad's breakfast ALWAYS starts with scrambled eggs - every morning. I cook one egg for him every couple days, and keep it in the refrigerator, giving him a little each morning until it's gone. The rest of his daily diet is varied, but eggs has always been - and will always be - the center of his diet.

I absolutely hate waste - and most people who do it, so I cooked the egg whites in the microwave for Conrad's breakfasts for the next few days. Four egg whites should get him several meals.

The little shit tastes the egg whites, and he refuses to eat them. (After all, they are WHITE and not YELLOW, and he doesn't taste any yolk in the eggs. So, he's naturally going to refuse to eat the whites.)

This morning, without ceremony, I give him the egg whites in his bowl, and I walk away from his cage. His begging and pleading for breakfast continues. After tasting the egg whites, he not only can tell that they look different, but that they taste different, too. He refuses to eat the egg whites.

I know... I know... I can mix the cooked egg whites with Rudolph's (pug) food, and he would love it, and I could cook another whole egg for Conrad.

Oh, no, Hunties. I won't be taken down like that.

I calmly walk over to Conrad's cage, and I remove the offending food bowl from his cage. I search my pantry in vain for yellow food coloring.

African Greys can tell the difference between many shades of color. Birds have the best vision of any animal, including humans, on the planet. Luckily, contrary to popular belief, most birds have very poor senses of smell. They are very sight-based animals. (You never see a bird sniffing each other's butt, and again, contrary to popular belief, if you see a true, obviously undeveloped, unfledged baby bird that has been knocked out of his nest by a storm, you can pick him up and put him back in the nest. His parent(s) can't smell 'human' on him.

Anywho, I realized that, out of two boxed of food coloring, all my yellow is gone.

What to do?

Turmeric to the rescue!



I put some turmeric w/ water in a small bowl, and I take the offending egg whites out of Conrad's bowl, and I place them in the turmeric-infused water. I then let the eggs sit a few minutes to absorb the yellow color. After rinsing them off quickly in water, they have a definite yellow-orange hue to them, but they're not stark white.

(Greys also have a VERY discerning sense of taste. He can easily taste the difference between plain egg whites and a cooked whole egg - and he can even taste the slightly turmeric-flavored egg whites, but that, indeed, is something that he is just going to have to get over - something he's going to have to deal with, because I can't and won't change it.

I nonchalantly put the colored egg whites back in his food bowl, and the bowl back in his cage. RELUCTANTLY AS HELL, he is actually eating the whites. He's not at all thrilled with the situation, and I'm still hearing lots of begging coming from that room, but hey - he's eating his breakfast!

- Michael

My latest Wentzville Flea Market Finds....

Even thought the huge Wentzville, MO Flea Market is open year-round (very early Sunday mornings), for various reasons, I limit my visits to seasons when outdoor temps are tolerable.  My last visit of the season is sometime in October, and my first visit is usually in April.

I wear my own homemade gear to make the early chilly Sunday mornings a bit more tolerable:

  

I go to the Market 3 - 4 times a year.  On many occasions, I have spent not a single dollar, but on several visits, I spent $100, but I rarely exceed that limit.  Through the years, I have found many items that I have been wanting to buy, but I waited for a good deal.

On in the case of shopping do I have 'patience'.  I taught myself, note-by-note, how to read music above the age of 40.  I play at least 6 heavy-handed Scott Joplin tunes every day, along with probably 20 other songs that bring something else to the table, as so to speak.  I play the other songs 1) Because I like them and 2) since I am my own music teacher, these songs teach me various things that I want to learn.

I also taught myself how to knit.

I grow very-non-local tropical fruits and other plants from seed that I have taken from fruit that I get at a local Global Market.

When unsuspecting folk tell me, "Oh, I don't have the patience to do those things!", in doing so, they subconsciously are giving themselves this 'wild and wooly' power AND making a lousy excuse to be lazy.

I respond, "I am the most impatient Son-of-a-Bitch that you will ever meet.  I have no patience AT ALL.  'Patience' are for lazy people that sit around and wait for something to happen.  'PERSEVERANCE' is for those of us who cuss a lot - then, we get the job done!"      

ANYWHO.....

From the same man that I bought my original 20 control panel glass light covers, I the same found a small bucket full of these glass control panel light indicator covers (??). I bought a total of 35 of these little gems - for 10 cents a piece.  I paid $3, because he gave me 5 free.  They are in red, green, white and yellow.
I have a friend that is turning the original 20 pieces into a choker similar to the one that I wear in all of my profile pics.

I don't know what I'll do with these 35, but I'm sure they'll get a new life as a piece of fabulous jewelry or a sculpture, etc.




I also bought a "ChromAharP" (that's the way it's spelled on the 1968 insruction manual!) instrument.

Yep. That's just what I need - another musical instrument!  Even though the same company is still in business today, these little beauties are still being made and sold today.  We paid $40 for this one, which is a very good price when compared to eBay prices.  I do need to replace a couple strings, but that's not a major issue.

I play my xylophone and now this 'ChromAharP' to make me think about the music that I'm playing, rather than just to play a keyboard off the top of my head.  In this manner, I teach myself MORE about music - and more about myself.  These two instruments make me stop and THINK.  Doing things that make you REALLY think builds physical brain.  Really.  It does. (No, not those little tidbits of information that make you say, "Oh, I learned something today!"  That's a cheap cop-out, folks, and it does little to nothing to actually make new neurons connect in your head. Doing things that force you to exercise your brain will, in fact, build new and better brain matter - and it will make more efficient use of the brain matter that you already have.


We got three pair of nice, wooly winter socks from the famed 'Sock Lady' for a total of $6.  #2 for a pair of sock isn't a bad investment.

I know.... I know... Another thing that I need to take up space in our home is another hat, right?

I couldn't resist this one.  The other 3 hats are worth somewhere around $1,000.

I paid $10 for this 'Resistool Beaver 4X' cowboy hat. This one will be my "I really want to wear a hat today, but it's too damned hot' OR 'I'm just going out of the house for a few minutes, and I don't want to go as "full Michael" today - type of hat.  The same hat is running from $45 - $150 on eBay.

We got a bit of decor to add to "That 1960's House" that we live in.

This piece is easily 4' x 4'.   The guy that sold it to us said he had 20 - 30 more like it in his garage.  I can't help wonder in which manner were they originally used, but, it does add a focal point to our great room.  Our price:  $10


We live on a 1 acre plot.  I do have a standard push lawn mower, but there are several occasions through the mowing season that I have a small strip of grass that needs to be cut - but the rest of the huge lawn does not.

This is particularly true of the space around my two small raised beds, and the grass around my potted plants, such as my 4 Pumelo (huge citrus) trees and my fig tree.  The grass in the vicinity of these pots gets overspray from when I water the pots, and it grows more than the grass in the rest of our front / back lawns.

This new, 'old-fashioned' reel lawn mower does the trick!  The guy that sold me this mower said his sister bought it,and used it once.  These things are - new - at Home Depot, for example, for $89.  The sharpening kit is an additional $15.  I got $104 worth of merchandise for $30.  "That's a deal!", considering that I would have happily paid the full price at the store - because I really wanted one of these mowers.

I love my little flea market finds!  We live 35 miles from this flea market.  I get my bod out of bed at 5:00 AM on days that I want to go to the flea market, and I am headed on down the road by 5:45 AM, so I can get a parking spot in the parking lot, rather than "parking way out".  I get to the flea market at exactly 6:30 AM.
I believe the vendors can start selling by 6:00 AM, but, depending on the time of year / season, you can be shopping in the dark at 6:00 AM.  6:30 AM is early enough for me, and even so, I see lots of people pouring over tables of goodies with a flashlight at that time of the morning.

When we pull into the parking lot at 6:30 AM, it's 1/4 full.  (This is a big parking lot!).  If you wait until 6:45 AM - 7:00 AM to arrive, you won't find a single available parking space in the entire lot. AND... if you don't shop early, you will see the smart 'early birds' carrying the stuff that you REALLY wanted to buy past you as they're taking their goodies to their cars, to return to the Market to continue shopping.

So - there I am.  At 6:30 AM.... in 'full form' (hair on the face washed, moussed, hairsprayed and blow dried  into place... eyeliner on... great fashionable clothes - hat on the head, pushing my granny cart! (And... I have to feed and potty 3 picky dogs and one very mouthy parrot before I can leave the house!)

You will never regret buying a good quality hand cart. Within one or two shopping seasons, you will regret buying a $20 cart when one of the wheels falls off in the middle of a flea market shopping spree!

"The sweetness of a good deal is long forgotten while the bitterness of poor quality remains."

I bought this cart for $79 at The Container Store - after the wheels fell off my $20 cart.  I hand-made the bag that fits perfectly inside to keep stuff from falling out! (a lot of people use an appropriately-sized cardboard box in the bottom of the cart for the same reason.)

- Happy shopping!

Michael
 

"Why are you wearing girl's shoes?"

Just yesterday, I was climbing the outdoor human Habitrail - the "MonstroCity" at the St. Louis City Museum.

For more info https://www.citymuseum.org/ , or Google "St. Louis City Museum" for more images.

A little (8 yr old!) girl: "Why are you wearing girl's shoes?"

Back story:
I have very few pairs of shoes.  To make a long story a little longer, I was born with an oddly clubbed foot (as opposed to 'normally clubbed'! )  My foot didn't point out laterally or inward - medially, as 'normal' clubbed feet do, but, instead, my foot pointed straight up in front of me, in the shape of a safety pin. I have a surgically reconstructed foot that - before it was all said and done - had an accidental maggot infestation.  My foot has been put through the ringer.  Shoes are made for people with predictable feet.  At least one of my feet will not be appearing in anybody's crystal ball any time soon.  My man-made ankle does not reside in the same space as a normal ankle. Mine is a little closer to the floor, and a bit more forward on the foot.  Thusly, nearly any and all shoes will rub the wrong way, and depending on the resilience of the shoe's material, I will have a bloody blister on my ankle (the side of my foot that is medial - closest to the center of the body) within seconds, minutes or hours.  When I wear dress shoes to funerals, etc, I have to wear 3 - 4 socks on one foot AND several Band-Aids on my ankle so I won't be limping in pain before I get out of the house, and to avoid bloody blisters that seep through my socks.

Anywho.... For that reason, it is difficult for me to find a pair of shoes that I find 'friend' instead of  'foe'.  I wear toed socks that I hand-knit year-round with sandals, with the exception of during the few deeper winter snows that the St. Louis region may or may not get.  Even so, I usually wait them out, refusing to leave the house even to go just a few feet to the mailbox until the snow has melted off all sidewalks, roads and parking lots.

If I absolutely must get out of the house before the snow has adequately melted, I have a pair of Zoe thick-soled Doc Marten shoes that I can wear if we have only a couple of inches of snow on the ground.  If the snow is deeper, I do have a pair of snow boots, but in the 12 years that I have owned those boots, I can count the times on one hand that I have worn them.

I also have a pair of shoes that I wear when I ride my bicycle, and when I explore the City Museum (wearing sandals to that attraction would mean definite foot suicide!)
These shoes were purchased from a mall store - the "Journey" shoe store.  They are MEN'S All-Star Converse tennis shoes.

Please note the available 'Men's' sizing:

Yes, they are Hot Raspberry pink glittered men's shoe.

(Those of you that know me on a personal level will readily admit that if I wanted to wear a pair of 8" stiletto platform Lady Gaga-inspired pumps to a local mall at 3:00 PM in the afternoon to do some shopping, I'd do just that very thing with no hesitation.)

Years before I knew the most famous drag queen on the entire damned planet - RuPaul - I used her mantra:

"What other people think of me is none of my damned business."

(Translated:  What they think is a problem in their head, and in their own self-imposed prison.  It has nothing to do with me or my head.)

I asked this little girl - sporting a very safe / tame Page Boy haircut, "Why do you think that my shoes are 'Girl's shoes'?

Her answer, "Because they're pink!"

(Mind you, her parents were standing immediately behind her during this entire exchange.)

I asked her, "Then what color are boy's shoes?"

Her answer "Blue!"

My response, "Then, pink is for girls, and blue is for boys?"

Her response (with such an authoritative, "I'm smarter than you" look on her face that definitely would make you want to pop her upside her head!) :  "Yep!  Those are girl's shoes!"

(About that time, her parents knew she was going to lose a battle against someone old enough to be her grandfather, and they said to her, "Oh, honey! I love those shoes!  Men are wearing pink these days!")

I looked at the little girl (who, thankfully, was wearing a blue top!), "Then, if that were true, do you know that you're wearing a boy's shirt?"

Girl: "NUH UH!" (Translated:  "No, I'm not!")

Me: "It's blue, isn't it?  You said yourself that pink is for girls and blue is for boys.  You're wearing a boy's shirt!"

At that point, I decided that she was already filled up to the top by her starchy parents, and that it would take more power than I had and more energy than I ever wanted to devote to her cause to make her more malleable, and to enjoy the world as-is, rather than try to run it from her own little corner of Ladue, MO. (We were in downtown St. Louis, but - you will have to trust me on this one - I KNOW THOSE PEOPLE LIVE IN LADUE!"

My final statement to her was:

"You're much to young to have already collected the number of double standards that already you possess!  But - in your short years, you have really worked hard. You've already changed yourself from a free, malleable and creative mind to a controlling, self-imposed prison!"

I then looked up at her parents and said,

"Congratulations!  When she grows up, she'll fit right in with the rest of the Republicans!"

Then - I went on about my way, exploring the fantastical St. Louis City Museum, freeing my mind and my body then more than I did before.

- Michael

Good for you, Honey!

Mark and I were shopping at a local Schnuck's grocery store (old Ladue, MO ladies get horny, too!)...

An obviously well endowed gentleman turned in to the isle that we were in, and this gent's blessings were apparent, most likely, even to Helen Keller.





There was an old woman in the same isle.  She looked down at his...er....stuff... and she gasped slightly.  At the same time, a young woman walked around the corner of the isle and joined him. 

The old lady (probably in her 80's) walked up to the young lady, she fervently patted the young miss on her shoulder, and the only thing she exclaimed was:

"Good for you, Honey!  Good for you!"... and the older lady went on about her business!

I almost wet myself right then and there in a grocery store!

 I had to sit down in the deli until I could get the tears out of my eyes from laughing at her honesty and frankness.

- Michael

That's What the Dr. Said!

Hold your breast - err.... I mean... Your Breath! The ensuing saga isn't short, but it's worth reading. At least I think it is.

When I was in my early 20's, I made a fool-hardy attempt at 'quitting caffeine.  You see, genetic heart disease runs in my family, and I thought I was doing my heart a favor by eliminating caffeine from my diet.

Two days after my last cup of coffee, I went to the Emergency Room with a particular migraine that was so bad that the nurse in the ER had to put me in a separate, very dark exam room. They put me in a Geri chair (old person's nursing home chair!), restraining me so my flailing wouldn't injure myself, put an ice pack on my forehead, and she told me that 'The Dr. will be in soon to see you." Keeping the light OFF, she closed the door as she left. When Dr. came in the room to see me, he forgot and switched on the overhead light in the room.



I am here to tell you; Linda Blair's projectile vomiting had nothing on me! From across that small room, my spew hit the ER Dr. right in the chest. He went running back out the door. He came back in a few minutes later - wearing a new, white lab coat - and carrying a small pen light.

He learned that there was a reason that I as sitting in the dark.

Migraine + light = projectile vomiting.

He finished his examination using that pen light. Occasionally, the sill man got too close to my face with that damned pen light, and my instant heaving told him that perhaps, he should move that tiny - but bright! - light farther away from my face before I made his new lab coat look like another Jackson Pollock painting!

All of those events happened because I thought I was doing myself a favor and and I should quit caffeine.

After TWO Imitrex (Migraine) shots, and another 2 hours of observation, as I walked out of the exam room, the Dr. pointed in the direction of the hospital cafeteria and said, "Go. Get. A. Cup. Of. Coffee. Now."

HOWEVER.... that does seem to be the pattern in my life.

My Dr. urges me to keep bicycling, because that is the only exercise my body will allow me to do (long story!)..... She knows I can't wear a bicycle helmet because it causes the psoriatic arthritis in my neck to act up, giving me severe headaches. She gave me the "OK" to bicycle without a helmet, saying, "You can't stop bicycling. Your legs will do down-hill quickly. Please keep bicycling - but PLEASE BE CAREFUL!"

and.... I have psoriasis. Seven yrs. ago, I had over 300 lesions the size of half dollars - on my legs alone. I had not seen the skin on my elbows in 20 years, and my stomach was one huge bloody, scaly mess.

(NO.... !!!  You don't have 'just the right cream for that!', either.  It's a genetic autoimmune condition - and lies in every cell in the human body for your entire life.  At best, any cream on the damned planet will turn this stuff from a red, dry, scaly, itchy mess to a hot pink, shiny mess - but creams can't eradicate it.  I can't possibly relay to you the number of times people have looked at my lesions - before tanning - and said, off the cuff and without additional thought, "Oh, you need to use lotion!" or "I have the perfect cream that you need!"  I just look at said individual, roll my eyes, and I say, "Oh, really?  If there was a cream that would totally eliminate psoriasis - which is a genetic condition, and it's DNA code lies in every fricken cell of the human body, then there would be a line around the block at every pharmacy on the damned planet!  Such a 'miracle cream' does not exist!"

Do you, dear reader, think they got my message?  I think not.  :) )




The medicine that the dermatologist wanted me to use is $600 / month, and it is extremely toxic to the liver. He told me to 'put rubber gloves on, and then put this stuff all over your body!" My answer to him: "WHY THE SAME HELL USE GLOVES? TOXICITY IS TOXICITY!"

He answered me, "Your only other choice is to go outside as much as possible. If you don't have that much time to spend in the sun, go to a tanning salon. If you don't have time to go to a tanning salon at least 3 times a week, buy your own tanning bed."

For two years, I spent $70 a month for a membership to a tanning salon. Faithfully, I drove 3 times a week to tan. Within two weeks, every lesion I had on my body was *gone*. My skin was 100% clear.

That was 7 years ago. Spending the money, taking my time to drive to the tanning salon, etc, quickly 'lost any original charm that it might have held', and I bought my own professional-line, full-size tanning bed.


I don't mean to be grody, but Psoriasis is a genetic condition that will attack any area of the skin 'where the sun doesn't shine.' When I'm in my tanning bed - every day - I have to remove the plugs from my ear piercings while I tan, AND, for the first 15 minutes of the half hour that I spend in that tanning bed every day, I have to *SIT* on it.... you know... to tan 'where the sun doesn't shine'!

Otherwise, I will get psoriasis lesions THERE - if you know what I mean.

(During the St. Louis franchise of the annual World Naked Bike Ride, I have never been more glad than I am at this moment to have a genetic skin disease! There are a *LOT* of pasty white people that are naked on bicycles, and because of psoriasis, I don't have one square inch of white skin on my body.

I had to make a choice: 1) Look like a leper or 2) Look like George Hamilton and Moses' love child.

I chose the 'George - Moses' thing. It looks better on me!

Now..... If I could only find a Dr. that tells me to drink and smoke!

:D

- Michael

Say CHEESE! Re: My smile and why you seldom see it.

Re: My smile and why you seldom see it.

Yes, it's a small book, so hold your breast - I mean your breath, brace yourself, and read on:

During my *entire* grade school AND high school experience, I absolutely and positively loathed 'picture day' to the point that - honestly - I damned near had panic attacks on every picture day of every school year that I ever attended school - from Kindergarten through 12th Grade.

In an on-again and off-again fashion, my mother would yell at me (as she was so good at) for 'not smiling' in my school pictures AND she would yell at me for smiling in my school picture poses! 

It was to the point that when my class' pictures would return from the school photographer, I would hide my large envelop for DAYS in my school desk or in my hall locker, and lie to my mother, telling her "My class' pictures haven't come in yet." (Even though both my brothers brought home their pictures on the same day!)

Ultimately, I knew that I was going to have to face her, and I bit the bullet and brought them home. 

My mother would yell at me 1) If I smiled in my pictures. and 2) If I didn't smile in my pictures. 

The sub-plot of this saga is this:

I will NEVA, EVA "Smile" when somebody has me pose for a pic and says, "Smile!" or "Say Cheese!" I won't do it - so don't ask me to. When I WAS forced to smile when posing for pictures, my smiles looked horribly contrived and fake. Horribly. 

I strongly advise any and everybody that wants a picture of me smiling to snap that shot when I am completely unaware that my pic is being taken - when I am smiling naturally. THOSE smiles, my friends, are absolutely beautiful. I get my share of compliments on my beautiful smile when I am out and about - especially since I have a mouth full of dentures. (I've had full dentures since I was 29.) Compare and contrast that to the contrived smiles that look twisted and wrong. Just wrong. 

The above 2 pics are examples of smiles that were caught off-guard. In the photo with Mark, I was setting my camera on 'auto', and posing - with no smile - for my own 'selfies'. I have 10 seconds from the time I click the shutter button until it actually takes the pic to get my pose just right. Mark stepped in and squeezed me about 1 second and a half before the shutter automatically snapped. I was laughing at his antics, thusly, the smile was organic and not contrived. 

In the above pic, I was 18, and had been out of high school only a few months. For ONCE in my life, I wanted to pose for my own pictures the way *I* wanted to pose for them. Before I even got in front of the camera, I told the photographer at the front desk of Olan Mills, "Don't say "Smile", because I won't do it. Don't even try it. If you want a natural smile out of me, start telling me jokes. Tell me something FUNNY! THEN - you will get the smile you've been looking for. When you do - don't tell me when you're going to click the shutter - just do it!" He did just that. He started telling me jokes, and I started laughing, because he was actually funny. 

The shutter snapped. The rest is history. I will not, however, smile on command for posed pictures. In fact, as you can see from my profile pics, I have learned how to turn a 'stern' face in to an art form. 

When people approach me at events and functions, and Hell, when they approach me every day in WalMart, malls - even the grocery store - for a pic, without exception, I give them a ready-made, stern-faced pose. I have mastered that one. And it works for me. 

Actually, posing for *every* profile pic that has my very familiar stern-faced pose is very easy and effortless to pull off.  This is how I do it with predictable results every time:

1) I have my camera on its tripod.  
2) I have my lighting already set up.
3) I click the 10 second timer on the shutter.  I know exactly how many warning beeps the camera will give me before snapping the pic. 
4) I get my body into the position that I have planned.  
5) I usually have just a couple seconds to spare, so I look DOWN at the ground until I know the last beep / second is up.  THEN, I quickly look up and directly at the camera lens.

In that fashion, I don't have time to pull a contrived or posed look.  I don't have time to get my face 'set' in that "Come on, damn it! Click the shutter!" pose.  "Mr. Stern Face" arrives at the party a fraction of a single second before the shutter clicks.  Even though it's a serious face, it has a natural, organic quality that I couldn't hope to achieve if I stood there with a silly grin plastered on my face, waiting for what seems like an eternity for that damned shutter to do it's job and to end my merciless suffering.  he he he

This is the results of that small effort:




- Michael

I won The Battle of the Non-fertile Zucchini Plants

The area we live in is famed not only for it's snooty people, but it is also well known for it's poor soil quality and heavy shade - and abundant, damaging - HUNGRY! - vermin, including, but not limited to: rabbits, squirrels, voles and hordes of chipmunks and more deer than you would believe that would care to venture this close to the center of a major metropolitan area.  

Vegetable gardens in Lade, MO (St. Louis burb) are virtually unheard of for many social and economic reasons (most residents choose to buy their produce from the market, and / or hire a professional gardener!

Combine the vermin and poor geological factors, you end up with a lot of Ladue, MO  (and Frontenac, Town & Country, etc) well-groomed lawns with plantings that are especially and specifically selected to be unattractive to vermin that get a weekly visit from a hired, well paid, professional lawn care company.

That doesn't leave much hope for the rare Ladue home gardener guerrilla vegetation vigilante, does it?

Most plants absolutely hate the Ladue soil and heavy shade, but I do have a few that love this area.  Oregano will grow vigorously, as will Curry Plant (a straw flower relative, and not actually 'curry') will grow happily if it is given a sunny, well-drained slope.  With bare minimum lighting requirements, I can get most herbs to live happy and prosper less than 5 feet from our front door.

The only way I can get a tomato to SLOWLY mature to a complete and finished stage is to completely surround the plant with both green mesh fencing AND thick layers of very fine black bird netting.  In fact, I keep every plant that is not in a tall pot surrounded by both methods:  The black bird netting and the green plastic fencing.
(I am a living testament that a chipmunk will eat a tomato much more efficiently than a much larger squirrel!  A squirrel will take the tomato, eat half of it, and leave the rest to rot beneath the tree that he just scampered up.  Not Mr. Chipmunk!  He will eat the whole damned tomato!

While most people believe that a chipmunk is a 'ground squirrel', they are the most clever, adept climbers.  You can stake up an unprotected tomato plant, thinking that if you get the developing tomatoes high enough off the ground, they will be safe from vermin.  Rabbits. Maybe.  But ALL the vermin that I previously listed till readily eat a huge tomato vine right off at the bottom, where the vine meets the ground, and leave the entire plant to die.

(You don't know how many times I have prayed for owls and hawks, and proportionately to those prayers, I have heard and seen both owls and hawks in our area!)

Both chipmunks and squirrels can easily climb up a staked-up tomato plant, and you won't have a single tomato - not even green ones - left on the vine.  I have even heard chipmunks scurrying up our drain spouts, only to see them peeking over the lip of the gutter from our rooftop at me.

Because of piss-poor natural lighting conditions and even worse soil conditions, I bought and assembled two 4' x 4' raised beds from Home Depot (foolishly thinking that the raised beds would not only solve the poor soil conditions, but that it would also deter the voles and the chipmunks.  Nope. They said to each other, "Ok, look!  daddy added on a second floor to our house!", and they very adeptly tunneled up and through the raised beds, completely bypassing the green plastic fencing and black bird netting.

Back to the squash:

I reserve one of the 4' x 4' raised beds for squash plants and patchouli (yes, the 1960's - 1970's fragrant oil!) plants.  

Due to heavy vermin attacks, I don't get many squash that survive to maturity, but I have had several large, mature butternut squash, a couple acorn squash, and a few huge zucchini to grow to a fully mature stage.  I have also successfully crossed a zucchini and a butternut to get a "Bikini":

A Butternut squash (left) a Zucchini (Middle) and my home-grown "Bikini = Zucchini x Butternut"  on the far right.
The Butternut and the "Bikini" were grown on the same vine.  When cut open, the 'Bikini' is all Butternut inside!

Add caption

This year, however, we have a new complication added to the bad growing environment.

When I went to the Missouri Botanical Garden this past Wednesday to do one of my weekly trips, I noticed a young lady that was gently pulling back the leaves of several squash plants in the Kemper Center Home Demonstration Gardens.  It was not difficult to tell that she was actually looking for something.  She was on a mission.
I asked her, "Are you looking for mature fruit / squash?"

(First and foremost, I was completely blown away by the fact that this young lady - less than 25 yrs old, and looking VERY cosmopolitan / hip would even know what a squash plant was, much less care about whether or not that it was producing viable fruit.)

We both noticed that that particular plant did have a couple maturing spaghetti squash on it.

She confided in me that she had planted some squash plants *from seed*, and that to this point, she was getting only male flowers - and no female flowers or maturing squash.  She lived in an area with much better growing conditions (better soil, better light and no vermin) than we live in, and she was still having the same luck - none at all - that we were having with our zucchini plants.

For the uninitiated, I was raised in the country my entire childhood, and until I moved to the 'big city' on my own.  I don't remember a single summer growing up that we didn't have a garden, and I will spare you the even longer story that it was my duty to work in those gardens every year that I was physically capable of doing do.  I planted   I cultivated.  I harvested. I also can't bring to the forefront of my memory a single season that we didn't have a bountiful crop of both HUGE, mature zucchini AND thousands of male zucchini blossoms (and male pumpkin blossoms!) that are great when dredged in a cornmeal (or flour) batter and deep fried.  Sprinkle on a little salt and VOILA!  Lunch or supper!

Anywho, the moral of that chapter in this increasing book is that I know my way around a garden, and that I am no stranger to growing anything in a midwest garden.

THIS YEAR:

I bought three "Black Beauty" zucchini plants that were already several inches long (the plants - no fruit yet) when I planted them.
I also planted the seeds from a couple of my previous year's crosses.  I fertilize weekly - and I fertilize well.  The lack of fertilizer is not a problem in any of the plants that I parent.

As of this writing, on any and ALL of my squash plants - both the purchased plants and the ones that I planted from seed - have produced nothing but mature MALE flowers.  It took me a couple weeks to realize that I actually do actually get an occasional female flower (with the swollen base (ovules) beneath the flower), but this flower, oddly enough, will never mature enough to open as it should, and after a couple days, the the entire structure will wither and die away.

What the Hell is up with that?

A couple days ago, I had my fill of non-maturing female flowers, and I decided to take action.  (Remember the "Bikini"?  I love garden freaks!)  I took a pair of scissors out to the garden, and I cut open a non-maturing female flower.  I took one of my African Grey parrot's molted feathers, and I transferred copious amounts of pollen from a male flower to the immature female stigma that I had exposed. I know that there is a reason why flowers open when they do:  They are mature and ready to open.  A flower whose parts are not developed for the next stage of reproduction will not open until those parts have properly matured.  But....had grown impatient from losing so many female flowers that wouldn't mature and they wouldn't open under their own power, so I decided to take action.

The parts of male and female squash flowers

Even thought the stigma had not reached a fully matured state, I was going to give the flower a helping hand.  I hand pollinated an immature female flower. 
(Much to my astonishment, the next day, the few remaining parts of the flower that I hacked with scissors the day before actually opened the next day! Cut and hacked as much as it was, the remaining parts of the orange corolla opened as much as it possibly could, and in addition to my hand pollination,  bees were visiting this flower, too.)

Just this morning, I noticed that the swollen ovules had developed into a tiny zucchini.  How big it will actually grow remains a mystery, but, one way or another, this little girl is going to grown into a full-fledged woman! he he he

This is how she looked this morning:

Note the small, unopened flower and dying ovules above this developing zucchini.  ALL the other female flowers on every squash plant in my garden - this year - died before developing in the same manner.

(You can also see the remnants of the flower that I hacked to get to the female stigma.)
Stand back! I have scissors and I will use them if I am forced into action!  :D

I will hack every one of these female flowers if that's what it takes to get a full-sized zucchini.
- Michael

Keeping in contact.......

I've worn contacts for 28 years.

Actually, I'm blind in my (left eye in my pictures), and I only wear one contact. No eye surgeon in STL will do surgery on me based on ethics. They all tell me that if something goes wrong with the surgery in the only eye that that has vision, my vision could be screwed up forever - so they won't do it.

(Likewise, they also say that they shouldn't prescribe me a contact, and that I should wear glasses to protect my eye from damage that could leave me blind. Have any of you EVER seen me in glasses - even though I own a pair of $$ Fysh glasses? Nope. And you never will.

Fysh Frames:
http://www.bing.com/images/search?q=Fysh+UK&FORM=HDRSC2

Anywho - I can wear a contact wrong-side-out for an hour before I realize that 'it just isn't riding right', and I take it out and fix the problem.

(But then again, I have also had a piece of potato chip fly up and stick in my eye for an hour before I looked in a mirror, and saw it wedged in he corner of my eye!....

...and there's the story of the day that I thought I lost a contact while I was putting it in.... I have NEVER lost a contact in 28 years. I looked all over my bathroom for that damned thing before I got a new contact and put it in. FOUR days later, I was walking across a parking lot, and I thought I had a bad stroke. I suddenly saw eight of everything. I managed to find the door to my apt, and when I took my contact out of my eye, I had TWO in my eye, one on top of the other. Apparently, I never lost the first contact 4 days earlier. It slipped behind my eye, and decided to make a surprise appearance as I was walking across a parking lot. (I'm glad that it didn't make that appearance when I was driving down the interstate just minutes earlier!)

My prescription is a +5.5, so you know that these things aren't thin and easy to hide! he he

- Michael

Servanthood: Dedicating your life to somebody that never deserved it in the first place.

True suckership is servanthood.

I'm putting the interests of ME at the center of my decisions, and others can go do thou likewise.

When I was 19, I realized that "When that times comes, I will be the one to do the dying for myself, because nobody else can or will do it for me.  Those people that thought I should live my life for THEM, instead of FOR ME will be glaringly and obviously absent at that moment. 

In like fashion, I am also going to be the one to do the living for myself. I will not let anyone even attempt to do that for me, either.  Those people that can't and won't die for me will not be allowed to do the living, or to make life choices for me, either.

A month ago tomorrow, I had to drove to Hannibal to bury the #1 music mentor in my entire life. I have known this man since my birth (45 years), He was 12 when I was born.

To make a long story a lot more longer and tedious, we lost contact of each other in adulthood when his family moved from Hannibal to Chicago, where he had a Hammond organ business (both selling them and playing professionally) - for about 15 years - but became reacquainted and close friends again 15 years ago.

In adulthood, he had long, platinum blonde hair. and was a loud, boisterous little shit. I **very** incorrectly assumed that, like myself, he was at the helm of his ship, controlling every aspect of his life, and doing a good job of it.

In 2008, I made the trip from STL to Hannibal to go to his grandmother's visitation and funeral. This woman was the one that planted the music seed in my friend's mother (her daughter), and in Phil, himself. His grandmother was also the minister's wife. I remember when she rocked me in the cradle in the church nursery, and when she rocked me when she held me in her arms when I was 18 MONTHS old. I remember those moments because I felt a warm love from her that I never got from my own mother / family.

Anywho, back to Phil. I went to this man's grandmother's funeral in 2008. We were in the funeral home, and walked several feet from his grandmother's casket. His mother (her daughter) was standing at the head of the receiving line, at the head of the casket.)

In passing, and as we were walking by - SEVERAL FEET AWAY! - I casually mentioned some superficial gay issue that was so trivial that I can't even remember the subject of the actual conversation. (and if I have memories back to when I was 18 months old, memories made in 2008 are recent history!)

As soon as I made that light comment, Phil whirled around on his heel, looked at me, and quickly put his finger to his lips and hissed, "SHHHHHHHH!" at me. I was momentarily confused. I whispered back to him, "WHAT???? What did I say that was wrong?" He answered me back, "We don't talk about that (being gay.)"

I stopped for a moment in my tracks, letting the reality of the events that just occurred sink in my skull.

I'm fairly quick on the draw, and not more than a second of time passed before I grabbed him by the arm, and I yanked him in the hallway of the funeral home, and I let out this acidic hiss:

"Oh, Hell to the power of NO, Phil! You are a 50 year old STRONG man with your own business and your own life, and you STILL have not told your mother that she can love you for WHO you are, or she can go straight to Hell?"

That was just the tip of the iceberg, as I quickly found out.

This VERY GAY MAN actually got married. To a female - when he was much younger. He has a daughter that is almost 30, and 2 grandsons.

Was his 'wife' at the funeral of this family matriarch?  No.  Was his daughter?  No.
In fact, the first time in my entire life that I had ever seen his wife was at his OWN funeral.

Another clincher:   Phil's #1 worry was that he would die 'alone, at home, and that nobody would find his body for days or weeks.'

I have a very important question / interjection:

"How does one die 'alone and at home, an nobody would fine your body for days or weeks' when one is 'married', with a wife 'at home?'

The answer.  While I believe that they were truly legally married, this entire fiasco was a 'cover up'.  It was a bad, put-on front.  You see, his family is very religious (ALL of them are First United Pentecostal people that went non-denominational, but they still harbor the evils and the bigotry that comes along with being past-Pentecostal.

I about shit myself when, at the graveside, Phil's brother listed ALL the surviving relatives during the committal service, and was several sentences away from that train of thought when he FINALLY remembered to mention Phil's 'wife'.  The brother said, "I want to thank Tilly, his wife, for standing by his side all these years!"  My sister was at this service with me.  I whispered in my sister's ear, "She wasn't standing by his side!  She was standing across Chicago, because they never lived together!  It took Andrew several sentences past the listing of the family before he even remembered to include her!"

Why did Phil's brother forget to mention Phil's wife?  Because she was a 'wife' in name, only, and was there only to serve as a cover-up because Phil was gay, and this family is chock-full of bigots.

I was, and I still am, floored beyond belief.

Granted, this man had HIDEOUS health habits.

(Further proof that he was a gay man lies in the  few next sentences.)

You see.... Phil was the blackest white man you have ever seen.  From the age of 9, he played VERY heavy, multi-national-award-winning black gospel music in an all-white Pentecostal church that had never heard a single note of black gospel music in their entire lives.  Phil was arguably one of the best gospel organists in this entire country, and most likely, in the entire world, for that matter.

Along the lines of playing all-black gospel music, Phil LOVED black men. When I say LOVED, I am talking about in both a very physical AND a relationship / romantic sense.  I have proof of that fact that I good taste and decorum will not allow me to write in this space, so you will have to trust me on that one.

Not only did Phil think he was a black man, but he also lived like one.  If you have ever heard his organ playing style, you would admit that the influence is 'thick and undeniable'.  Phil was also a non-denominational minister.   If you ever heard him preach or sing, and you closed your eyes, you would be most certain that you were listening to a LARGE black man, rather than a small, white man.  Not only did Phil play like a black man, but he also sang and spoke like a black man, too.

Phil smoked.  Heavily. Sorry, folks. It's the truth.

The only physical exercise that he EVER got was sitting on a Hammond organ bench.  

And, if there was ever a part of a diet that is associated with black culture that is bad for you, Phil found it, lived it, and loved it.  I'm talking about much more than 'soul food', which he loved and relished, I'm talking about fast food, and tons of it.

There is one HUGELY important factor in Phil's death that his 'loving' family never considered:
(I am a nurse, and I am a damned good nurse.  I have 20+ years of astute observations under my belt.)
Granted.  Five years from now, Phil would have died from the heart attack that did actually kill him - in the parking lot of a tanning salon! - as a result of his hideous health habits, and ignoring what he was doing to his body.  He would have been in his 60's, rather than in his 50's when he died.

** IN A VERY REAL SENSE, STRESS KILLS! **

This is jus a tiny fraction of a list that contains major life stressors:
* Minor violations of the law
* Major holidays
* Vacation
* Major change in number of family get-togethers
* Change in eating habits
* Major change in sleeping habits (a lot more or a lot less than usual)
* Taking on a loan (car,etc.,)
* Major change in social activities (clubs,movies,visiting,etc.)
* Major change in usual type and/or amount of recreation
* Major change in church or temple activity (i.e.. a lot more or less than usual)
* Major changes in working hours or conditions
* Changes in residence
* Changing to a new school
* Trouble with boss
* Revision of personal habits (dress manners, associations, quitting smoking)
* Major change in living condition

Living your entire life as a huge lie, just so your 'loving family' won't alienate you is a huge stressor that, by far, trumps any and all on the above list.  As was clearly demonstrated in Phil's case, living such a huge lie will knock many years off your already miserable life. 

Phil died at the age of 57 due to a hideously cat-boxed lie.  Period.

I will agree with you:  It was PHIL'S responsibility to 'politely' tell every member of his family:

"I can love whoever the Hell I damned well please.  I can be physically attracted to whoever the Hell I damned well please.  I will not make excuses for who I am or for what I do.  There will never be any need for me to do that, so don't wait around for it."

"What I do in my bed - or in my entire life, for that matter - is none of your business or of your concern.  I am not a "What", I am a "Who". You will love me for WHO I am, not for WHAT I am.  I don't want mere 'tolerance' out of you, either.  'Tolerance' means, "I don't like what you are doing, but I will deal with it, in order to keep the peace.".  No. I can do you one better than that.  If you are going to be in my life *at all*, you are going to absolutely love me for who I am.  I don't want to burden you with 'tolerance'.  Get the Hell out of my life, and get the Hell out now."

"While we're on the subject, where the Hell do you get off thinking you have the authority to judge me at all?  More than just a little pompous and self-important, are we? Your life is no more valid or authentic than my own life, and the fact that you think you have been given a position to just, put down or persecute people for living their own lives just might lower your own life a peg or two."

I am proud - nay - down-right THRILLED to love and to live my life to the fullest extent that I see fit.

You are not welcome nor allowed to do so for me, so get the Hell out and get the Hell out now!"

(Trust me. The liberation that follows is the most cleansing feeling that will ever flood your soul.  I did the same thing to my entire family, and like Lot's Wife who is in that Bible that those people think they have the right to hurl at me, I have never looked back, for fear of turning into a pillar of THEM!  It worked for me!)

EVEN THOUGH.... Phil had the responsibility for setting those fools on the correct course, they should have had the wherewithal to NOT be royal jackasses and tell him that he is going to Hell for being a gay man.  He was gullible and vulnerable, and they took advantage of those huge weaknesses that he harbored and allowed to grow quickly out of control.

Come, now, people!  Which do we think will send you to Hell the quickest:

1) Living an HONEST, AUTHENTIC life that is based on LOVE for another individual or

2) Wasting your entire life while fabricating lie after lie and living an ENTIRE lie until the day you die, thus living miserably until the day you die. (And usually having a separate relationship with a person who you were INTENDED to be with in the first place, thus 'stepping out' on the fake relationship that you constructed as a cover-up.

(You do know that I could go on for another couple chapters of this 'book' on #1, but, in the immortal words of Sophia Petrillo from The Golden Girls.... "But, I digress."

To recap:

I will not live nor die like Phil did.  I have heard SO many people comment, "I love Phil!  He always spoke what was in his heart and what crossed his mind!"

The truth:  UH.... NO, HE ABSOLUTELY DID NOT!

I have also heard people say, "Phil was such a strong man!"

The truth:  NOPE.  NOT TRUE, EITHER!

(How the Hell strong exactly was he, when he wouldn't even allow him to life a fair, justified life, and in fact, he lived it for others, which ultimately killed him?)

Again...."When that times comes, I will be the one to do the dying for myself, because nobody else can or will do it for me.  Those people that thought I should live my life for THEM, instead of FOR ME will be glaringly and obviously absent at that moment. 

In like fashion, I am also going to be the one to do the living for myself. I will not let anyone even attempt to do that for me, either.  Those people that can't and won't die for me will not be allowed to do the living, or to make life choices for me, either.

It is a very sad fact, indeed, that **I** lived the life that Phil preached.  **I** practiced his preaching.  He did not.  I live happily.  He never did.  Was his sacrifice worth it?

If you answer 'yes' to that question, you need:  God, Jesus, Allah, Ganasha, Shive, Krishna, Rama - somebody, damn it! - but the help you need is beyond the scope of my skill set!

(The really scary part of this deal is that I know at least 5 very gay men that are in 'straight' marriages, or they are very gay men that call themselves 'straight'. All 5 of those people are truly and obviously as miserable as miserable can get, and most of them ooze that miserableness onto anybody that is unfortunate enough to be close enough to the afflicted individual to get some of that nasty ooze on them!)

- Michael 

"You can't hit me, because I'm a girl!"

(The 'Trailery" girl that I speak of isn't in this pic - this pic was taken 2 years earlier, but I am in this pic, and the correct principal - Mr Donald Baumer - is in this pic.)

There's a necessary and discernible difference between 'strong' and 'attitude'.  One should never be used as an cover-up or exchanged for the other.

A easy, magnified example:

In 1978, I was in Oakwood Elementary School, Hannibal, MO.

I'm not much of a (physical) fighter, because I am a weak, gimp, because it's Hoosierish and barbaric, and from the moment that I could think for myself as an infant, I made a pact with myself that I would make every attempt possible *not* to turn out like the rest of my family, which I have successfully accomplished.

Anywho, When I was in grade school, this Hoosier / Hooker looking, loud-mouthed girl approached me while we were playing in the cafa-audi-nasium (Cafeteria / Auditorium / Gymnasium) during a recess break.  I'm sure that this young 'lady' is still steeped in her trailerish squalor because she was wallowing so deep in it then that it would take a deliberate and strong, sustained effort to climb out of that society, and to make a respectable human being out of herself that not many people are willing to turn 180 degrees, and run in the opposite direction.  (Unlike Lot's Wife, I did such, and I never looked back, for fear that I would turn into a pillar of THEM.)

("Hoosier" in the St. Louis vernacular, not the Indiana usage  Scroll down to "Hoosier in Missouri":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hoosier)

Also keep in mind that, during this little exchange, the principal of the school was standing less than an arm's length from me and this young idiot girl.  

At any rate, Hoosier girl walked up to me and exclaimed loudly:

"You can't hit me, because I'm a girl!"
(Note that I never, ever did ANYTHING to this ill trained bottom feeder.)

Without missing a beat, I answered:

"Do you want to give it a whirl? I won't hit a woman... I won't hit a girl but I will readily attack a bitch!"

Still, with this look of justified entitlement on her face, she slapped me across the face.  

(The only other person I ever hit while I was in school was my older brother, because he was a jackass then, and he's an even bigger jackass now.)

With the only strong arm that I possess, I pulled back my left fist, and punched her squarely in the forehead.

That punch made her 'a bit dizzy', when she fell, she landed - lucky her! - with the back of her head on top of the principle's shoes!  

Principal Fredrick Baumer look down at the sleeping beauty that was using his shiny shoes as a pillow.  She had a large, red goose egg on her forehead (The red kinda clashed with her parrot blue eye shadow, but I digress.)

With one hand, Principal Baumer yanked this fool off his shoes and, with one hand on each shoulder, steadied her wobbly self in front of him until she could open her eyes, and look HIM square in the eye. 

The only response he gave about the entire ordeal to this girl was precious and priceless:

"Now, young lady.  I do believe you actually DID learn something in school today!"

And with that authoritative push that he was so well known for, he turned her body in the direction of the hallway, and shoved her off in the correct direction.

There is still a difference between "strong" and "attitude".

I'm still strong, and this person probably still has an attitude.

- Michael

"Oh, Ma'am! Excuse me! You don't understand! I'm Father Fox!"

While we are on the subject of self-important religious fanatics:

I, personally, don't give a damned who you SAY you are.  Instead, I DO give a damn about your actions.

When I was working at Home Depot as a cashier, I had a day off - and I was standing in a check out line as a customer.

I wondered what was taking so long to ring these people out, because I knew the cashier personally, and I knew that she usually worked much faster than that.

I was the 3rd person in line.  There was a small lady that was basically going off on the cashier. Mind you, she should have NOT been yelling at the cashier for a misunderstanding on the price of an item, which was the customer's fault in the first place.

 HOWEVER....}
I could see the front end manager walking towards the scene, but before she got there, the collared priest that was standing directly behind her (who thought he had had enough of her cursing) clutched his chest and said:

"Oh, Ma'am!  Excuse me!  You don't understand!  I'm Father Fox!"

This little firecracker of a lady snapped her head in his direction, and, without missing a beat, in Linda Blair-style, she spewed in his direction:

"I DON'T GIVE A GOD DAMN IF YOU ARE MOTHER GOOSE!"

It was at that moment that she realized that she was going to have to shift into overdrive.  Until the front end manager reached the scene of the incident, this little upset customer then divided her wrath between the shocked priest and the unfortunate cashier, equally cursing them BOTH out!

I was standing behind them, cackling like an entire hen house! What a gem!


- Michael

The Power of PEE!

The Power of PEE!

Last night, while attenting the Air & Art Festival in the clean little St. Louis 'burb of Webster Groves, MO, I had 2 beers.  By *no* means am I an active beer drinker, but I do like to have a beer or a glass of wine while schmoozing.  

Even though this event was less than 8 miles from our home, I decided to use one of the available Porta Potties before I left the venue.

I had used one of these facilities a couple hours earlier in the evening, and I noted that for such a large crowd, the waiting time in line wasn't more than a couple short minutes.  There was an adequate number of potties per attendee.

When I approached the bank of 15 potties (and there were probably a total of 45 for the entire venue), I headed straight for one of the johns before I noticed that, had I continued, I would have been butting in front of an uncomfortably long line.  Because I had not seen a line earlier in the evening, I wasn't expecting a line to be formed at this time, either.

I noticed my own faux pas before anybody had a chance to speak up and say something about my error, and I politely stepped to the back of the line.

And I waited.... And I waited.  After an uncomfortably long wait, I noted that out of the 15 green and red 'occupied / unoccupied' indicators on the doors, *all* of the indicators were 'red = occupied', with the lone exception of the first and last potties in this string of 15.  The other 13 pottied had the red 'occupied' indicator showing.  

Anybody that has attended functions with strips of these potties will know that you usually can hear the doors of the potties banging at a consistent rate, and the waiting line continues to creep slowly forward.  

On this particular evening, only the first and last door saw any action at all.  The 13 doors in the middle had NOT MOVED in the 10 minutes that I was standing in line.  

After making a few comments such as, "I have seen MUCH longer potty lines at Mardi Gras move MUCH Faster!", I decided to take action.  Why the Hell the other 15 people in front of me didn't do something about the situation before I arrived sure beats the Hell out of me!

I was dressed in my normal garb.  I told the man standing behind me, and the sheepish woman standing in FRONT of me, "Hold my place in line!  I'm going to check doors!"

They laughed to see such a sport! (Remember:  I'm a nurse - I've seen every shape, size and color of everybody's everything!)

I went to the strip of potties, and I skipped the first potty. I knew a small girl just walked into that one, and it was being used as it should be.
FOR THE NEXT 12 potties, I opened the door WIDE, looked inside, and exclaimed to the waiting crowd behind me, "Unoccupied!  NEXT!" (opened the next door)... "Unoccupied! Next!", and I continued the process for 12 doors.  I knew the last potty was being used approperiately, so when I got to the 12th EMPTY potty, I flung the door open and said, "Occupied?  Nope!  This one is MINE!"

The waiting crowd gasped, then laughed - and then lunged forward to claim their potty.

Hindsight being 20 / 20, I firmly believe that, in a moment when no one was looking, a prankster turned all the indicators to 'occupied', just to watch the people staning in line, holding their pee!

Why will I forever be the first person that 'gets it', and exclaims, "Nope! That Emperor STILL ain't wearing no clothes!" 

GEEZ!  Such Sheeple!  :D

- Michael