Sedition and the State of Life

"What manner of life is this," I ask,
"That entreats Wisdom without
Experience?"

"Death It is.
Death:
to Honor; to Piety;
to Justness and Propriety; and
yet Vile
Not to Self."

What is Valorous ceases
to exist in the animation of the
Living Dead:
afraid of Accountability's burden.
lazy reasoning.
unkempt Existence.

Numb to Their own reality:
slumbering unto Their demise,
They are deaf to deliberation...
but not otherwise
Dumb.

Pat the Fly with Window and Bamboo

Well, it seems old Pat, here is a bottle fly.

Hexapoda > Diptera > Calliphoridae
Calliphora vicina Robineau-Desvoidy, 1830

Many (if not most) bottle flies are SHINY, with metallic hues (mostly blues and greens, though bronzes exist also).

Not so with Pat. Dull, dull, dull...

Nope...couldn't be tormented by a shiny, colorful bottle fly; had to be a dull one. /sigh

USS New York

Northrop Grumman photo
Motto: "Strength forged through sacrifice. Never forget."

I would love to see this. And it would give me an excuse to go to NYC (which is my favorite city [of those I've seen] in the world).

Maybe I'll start looking for a rideshare. I'm sure hotels would cost too much and YMCAs will be full, but maybe I could couchsurf.

It's too bad NicKara won't be here in time to tour it.

Off the Handle. On the Wall

Okay. Now, everyone stay calm...

There's a fly in my house.

And not just any fly. It's a rather pesky fly. And HUGE. And, believe it or not, it's NOT a horse fly. This appears to be a "common" housefly. (To be fair, however, I cannot catch the darn thing for proper identification.)

This fly swallowed the woman who swallowed the....etc. I swear by it.

Oh! Did I mention it's a rather large fly?

This fly is SO big it could scare an elephant. In fact, that infamous mouse that goes around scaring elephants (you know, Bunny Foofoo's cousin) could use this fly as a primary means of transport. THAT'S how sizable this fly is.

If it would be still long enough, I could get a photo as proof, but, well, it's busy doing what flies do (namely flying [and being a pest]).

After much rumination, I've concluded that this fly must be robotic, originating from MIT (or some other smart place). And, since it's hanging out at MY place, I figure it's also a flunky. A punky, flunky fly. Either it couldn't get a good job spying somewhere significant--where stuff actually happens, or it's a test fly. A testy, pesty fly.

Of course I can't dissect it to prove this to you, as I cannot catch it. Every time I try, it flies off (and I fly off the handle [I want this fly dead, but intact]).

I thought that, since it's apparently determined to stick around, I should give it a name. But I can't decide what to name him/her.

And, of course, as soon as I DO name it, s/he'll be gone.....

Ohhhh....I know!

It's name is Pat!

Maternal Tenets and Rebellion

Universally, moms are the dutiful agents responsible for the indoctrination of the prudence necessary to prepare us for the perilous combat of life. The precepts so generously granted us are called canons. The term canon(s) is actually an aberration of the word cannon(s), symbolic of their purpose in our lives as metaphorical battle shields designed to deflect life's fusillade.

Opposing this maternal custom of instilling wisdom are equally-zealous, ungrateful offspring whose allegiance is to the careless disdain of motherly tenets. Unfortunately, this disregard can yield catastrophic results.

To illustrate the potential detrimental impact of this heedless behavior, I have composed a hypothetical scenario. I have consciously selected a universal tenet in hopes of helping a more diverse audience. Please consider the following Maternal Tenet Rebellion scenario, keeping in mind that this could happen to you.

It's Monday morning. You were up late last night, and you have had less than five hours sleep. Because you did not hear the deafening blare of your alarm clock soon enough, you're late to work again--this time on evaluation day.

Hurriedly, you brush your teeth, put on deodorant, and relieve your bladder simultaneously. As your cat emphatically brushes against your last clean towel, you remember that you're out of clean work clothes. You quickly retrieve last week's wrinkled suit from the laundry basket and leat it to hang in the slower while you don your undergarments. Against your better judgment, you decide to sport your somewhat antiquated, ventilated pair of underwear. You chuckle as you dismiss your foolhardy choice by rationalizing, "Hey, they don't call 'em breaches for nothin', right?"

Sound familiar? Well, friend, you just unwittingly overstepped the undergarment etiquette boundary. Or, perhaps it wasn't inadvertent--perhaps you deliberately committed this rebellious act, scoffing not only at your mother, but at all moms and what they represent. If this is the case, you have quite possibly endangered yourself and others.

As you recklessly dash through the house, you relentlessly discard motherly precepts, all-too-aware that, someday, one of them is going to snare you; you're pushing your luck. Abandoning all nutritional tenets, you grab a doughnut, some coffee, and (for lunch) a Snickers Bar. You roughly pat the kitty on the head, yell at the dog, and run for the door. Your refined meter is hardly interrupted as you trip on last month's newspapers while dodging the bombardment of hot coffee from the cup you so precariously placed on the entertainment stand.

Eventually, you wisely observe Mom's maxim to "always put your best foot forward," by performing the most spectacular sprint of your lifetime on the way to the car. Your car tires brutally violate the pavement as you depart in a whirlwind of dust and flying pebbles. On the highway, you impatiently curse everyone around you; after all, it's their fault you're late, and you're the one who pays road taxes for the specific positions these people are occupying. You skillfully embroider the traffic, using your vehicle as a threaded needle.

Unfortunately, however, in your haste you neglected another of Mom's preparedness rules: always have a traveler's sewing kit handy. You, my friend, just ran out of thread. Blinded by your frenzy, you failed to allow sufficient space between your "threaded needle" and the car in front of you. Thus, your prompt brake application is futile. Your perforated undergarments now serve as more than cross-breeze gear; they are now also very functional sieves.

Minutes later, you are harshly awakened from your abysmal slumber by the annoying wail of your alarm clock. Adrenaline courses through your veins as you become cognizant of your situation: you must be late for work! You slept too late again! Darn! However, as the alarm clock volume steadily increases, you gradually recognize that what you're actually hearing is sirens.

the paramedics arrive to assist you, but you, upon realizing your horrible underwear dilemma, are captured by a sense of obligatory compassion on behalf of your family. You therefore attempt to adamantly refuse medical treatment, determined to bequeath to your family the only thing salvageable--their dignity. Fortunately, the well-trained paramedics are prepared for this common situation; they spare your life.

Although defying motherly precepts rarely yields anything of significant impact, progenies who utterly refuse this maternal wisdom are foolish. A mother's teaching is intended to help us endure life's battles. Recognizing the insight of a mom, and applying her precepts can prolong your life. Rebellion against maternal tenets can be deadly.

1997 essay

Celebration

Skyshine Sundrop
SPLASH!
Green Tickle-top
YellowCRASH!

Toes stained
happy-day green
Frolicking giggles on
twilight’s eve

Fragrant sounds of children’s eyes,
Sparkling voices as eve draws nigh

Calming whispers in breeze-caressed ears:
Cricket bells ring
Brook’s gentle singing
telling the tale of bedtime near

This Is the Beat It Generation: Palin's Bailin' and All aTwitter

The Bassics

Tal.....




.....and





......


'Nuff said.

Dawdle's Dormancy

If you've read my list Tastes of Things Like These (and Other Things Like Beer) (right sidebar), you might get the impression I like many things culinary, and you just might get the idea that I enjoy high-quality beer. Maybe. I mean, it's subtle, but it's there.

In the past I have brewed beer and it was mediocre, but passable as beer (read: it was better than Coors®). As a bionerd I loved the microbiology behind the brew, and the cook in me enjoyed making and consuming my own handiwork. As one tending toward perfectionism, I was never impressed with my creations, but as a creative person I certainly enjoyed the process and, often, when there's a long project and puzzles to solve, I thrive.

Anyway, along came Mancub (and later an auto accident) and my lifestyle was forever changed. I had to simplify my life, and in the process I lost a few of my beloved hobbies (and I was Hobby Queen, lemme tell ya). Well, sadly for me, brewing was one thing to go: no more large glass jugs or (200) brown bottles, boiling wort, testing specific gravity, etc. for me.

Well, thanks to this wonderful new(ish) product, that dynamic recently changed. I started home brewing this month. It's a simplified process in which the recipe is mostly set (so I miss out a bit on the creative part [though there's room to play there]), as the kit includes extract and dextrose (for wort). This seems a good compromise for me: less storage required, less shopping for ingredients, loads of time saved, less mess, etc.

Because the storage containers are PET (bottles and a "jug" [it's a keg]), and the extract is pre-made, I didn't get my hopes too high--I expected the results to be anywhere from sad (wimpy, beer-flavored water) to something reasonable that I could work with (e.g., a light honey lager). I was wrong.

I got impatient and opened a test 1/2-bottle on Saturday to see how it was progressing. Monday would have been the earliest I should have opened the beer, and about 2 weeks after Monday would have been the optimal timing for the conditioning phase. Opening the beer early as I did could/should have, in theory, yielded a light beer with low alcohol content: a wimpy lager (like those you find in the coolers at some picnics [the ones that include KFC® and Lays® as primary fare {no judgments: there's a time and place for most everything...}]).

Upon opening the tester, it was immediately apparent that this beer was going to hold its own in flavor complexity and body. It was shockingly tasty. I was...well, shocked! (And much relieved!) I had more that night with dinner and a movie, followed by some WoW socializing, and on Sunday I had some with lunch and dinner. I decided I better stop there, though, and put the remaining brew in the fridge to mature (and later savor).

Well....I opened another bottle last night, as I was eager to enjoy this first home brew (esp. after a 10+-year dry spell ["dry" being relative to home brewing, I mean]). I was just too excited about this.

I stayed up rather late, imbibing my new effervescent creation and doing Scarlet Monastery runs on my shadow priest (it's a WoW thing...). I got a couple levels and some "phat lootz" before falling into a leaden slumber full of travels to tropical island paradises with coconut water, snorkeling, and erm.....yeah...moving on...

As I drifted off I had a vague sense of concern that there was only 1 liter of beer left. The problem with that was that I had promised a friend he could try some upon his return home Friday and, well, this was very tasty stuff and it was only Monday! /GaspOf"Oh no!WhatamIgoingtodo?!" /sleep

After traveling the world and having a most amazing time, I stumbled my way into the kitchen to discover 1/2 a bottle of beer sitting on the counter...opened...with the lid off...and....a few minutes later...another 1/2 bottle (lid ON [thankfully!]) sitting by the desk, tucked into a basket....

I am Dawdle.



Kyle, dude, ya didn't make it back for the veggies and, I dunno what happened, but I apparently deemed the avocado as ripe...or getting mushy. I ate it. Sorry, man.

On An Unnamed Non-Profit Foundation, False Humility and Ego

Picasso's on my mind today as I look at his cute, framed face and reflect on how things went "down" his final year and my rushed trip to California to release him into the arms of a loving friend.

A friend who has a full home, but always manages to make more room for visitors or those in need. A friend who would let me visit my poochie-pie whenever I wanted (or could). A friend who, upon hearing of Picasso's age-related struggles with incontinence and walking offered to take him without hesitation. And a friend who, when asked if she should talk to her hubby first simply said, "Naww....he's even nicer than I am, so don't worry!"

I still struggle to believe what transpired.

Last August I was scheduled to drive out to Westminster and relinquish my dog to a rescue . The night before the scheduled "delivery" a friend checked in to see how I was doing; I said I was slowly coming to terms with things, but still very, very depressed. I had been with Picasso since his puppyhood--13.5 years. When asked where he was going, I named the .

A few minutes later, the friend IM'd me with a comments essentially stating that might want to look at a specified link containing Picasso's "biography."

I would list it here, but I'm not sure if I should (although it's public property, etc., so I could [You may find it somewhere within this posting, however.]). Suffice it to say my reaction was, "......!"

Within the contents of this supposed biography were comments regarding an abusive, neglectful environment and a dog that was starved and never exercised.

I was absolutely shocked and hurt, and wrote the organization a letter stating such and clarifying some things for them. I received a fairly quick (forwarded) response back requesting a particular person (who turns out to be the Director) address my comments on the biography. I then waited until morning, when I received, basically, a brush-off dismissal and excuse regarding a policy which encourages staff to create drama in order to evoke compassion on behalf of the pet. They consider it poetic license.

Now, except for the fact that I had already provided them with a reasonable history a couple days prior, AND the fact that, on its OWN, our story was tragic/dramatic ENOUGH (sans embellishment), the response would have been sufficient. That is had it been applicable and not in direct opposition to what they had actually done (lie), and in total agreement with what I had requested to begin with (provide the unmitigated, sad truth of our life in its current state). These were not embellishments--they were outright lies.

I wrote the again, providing an accurate account of my pup's history and our circumstances. Within the letter's content were comments addressing the fact that I honestly did not sense this was intentional on their part, but more a matter of information being passed around verbally and getting distorted upon reaching its final destination (similar to the "telephone" game many of us played as children).

I had no issue with them citing a specific incidence of my disabled child mistreating Picasso (Mancub kept smacking him in the snout and pulling on his tail [poor puppy--he was so patient and gentle regardless]) if they felt it absolutely necessary, but this is NOT an abusive, neglectful home environment, and, when I told them I could no longer buy the expensive brand of food for Picasso, I merely meant he was still on a rice-based diet, but that it wasn't organic, with special oils and supplements, etc. I simply could not afford to spoil him as much as I had for 13 years; we were in survival mode. And I had been VERY clear about ALL of that information.

Several times.

Anyway, I requested at the letter's end that they please write an accurate biography. Then I waited.

And waited.

I received nothing from them, but I did receive a multitude (about 7+) of phone calls from a "friend" (the one that set this all up to help) interceding on the 's behalf. Said person was convinced that I was wrong to be concerned about character defamation and libelous comments in light of the fact that my dog needed a home, and, so, said "friend" reminded me that this was not about me, but about the welfare of Picasso, so, "who cares what they think of you?!" Blah, blah, friggin' BLAH!

Wrong answer! As the parent of a disabled child I have enough awareness to realize that the environment of special needs children is carefully watched (and sometimes even monitored). These falsehoods could (however unlikely) actually be extremely detrimental to my family and our future. And, had I merely "accepted" them and handed over my dog, I would have effectively been in agreement with the comments if I did not at least attempt to address them.

In the end, I wound up with a threat that:

• based on the 's "evidence" they were adamant that Picasso was mistreated and they would report me to animal services if I did not relinquish him to them in the morning.

~and~

• the could not guarantee they could "save" Picasso in such an event, as they would not necessarily be informed regarding the pound in which he would be dwelling.

Is it just me, or is this WAY out of line? These people are such egomaniacs that they were willing to have my dog sent to the pound and be euthanized just to teach me a lesson?! I find that nothing less than appalling!

They present themselves as humanitarians.

Scary world.