My Submission

I see that The Oregonian has a new crop of Community Writers. Wondering what you have to do to become part of the community, I read the bios of the people who were selected. In addition to being a good essayist, it appears the right college degree, owning a business, or being a freelance writer helps.

I do not own a business, and I do not earn a living by my words. But even if my writing skills suffice, The Oregonian would find me of no use. The subjects of my writing include neither politics nor social issues, and will not maintain or increase the newspaper's circulation. However, I know someone who the editors of The Oregonian would find helpful to their community of writers, as his thoughts, profound and provocative, are born from a "rich palette of experience." It is my conviction that, upon seeing the type and quality of his opinions, the editors will understand that his inclusion will greatly increase the level of public conversation generated by their community of writers. Therefore, The Byronic Cat submits his candidate for the next crop.

Captain Ahab

Years in Oregon: Many

Occupation: Captain of The Pequod

Fun fact: While in the middle of a typhoon, as the three masts of the ship glowed with St. Elmo's fire -a warning directed at myself- I proclaimed my defiance to God, and extinguished his reply. I had things to do and didn't need any interferrence.

My Words: [Speaking to "thou omnipotent" in the middle of that typhoon] "Light though thou be, thou leapest out of darkness, but I am darkness leaping out of light, leaping out of thee!"

A Message on the High Seas

Way back on the sixth of this month, our beloved Willamette Week did a story about some singles in Portland. Always my favorite story, I looked forward to this years singles and what they had to say. One in particular, Rose Bottle, got my attention. Big eyes and a heart shaped face. Her crooked smile. The librarian glasses are always a bonus. But my opinion is worthless. I'm afraid that I cannot offer help to either Rose or any of the others. Dating was never my strong point, and, as I am married, I cannot offer any talents or abilities that may be of use.

This doesn't stop my counterpart and I from indulging a hypothetical situation which may, as mythology did for the Greeks, offer Rose another way to relate to her world and consider her situation. So, I'll turn the rest of this post over to The Byronic Cat.

Sincerely,

The Alley Cat

I'm going to quit my job. Gonna tell them to go to hell. Throw a pipe wrench through a monitor. Burn the bridges. I don't need them anymore and I don't fear homelessness either. The American Red Cross just got a new peep, Rose Bottle, and she's providing an "emergency warming center." Booyah! Three hots and a cot!

Okay, seriously, let me say, with that same pretentious manner The Alley Cat uses, that the world of the single person must, at times, be like floating in the middle of the ocean. As my friend Ishmael said, "The intense concentration of self in the middle of such a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it?" I agree, and upon that heartless sea I spied a lonely slender glass object, and within it was a rolled up paper. I retrieved the object, so delicate, removed the cork, and read the message; the solitude of a young rose. What may I do? I'll offer my answer to the S.O.S., and so it reads...

"I want something more long-term. I'm almost looking to skip over the giddy beginning phase..."

It doesn't take a degree in family therapy to know that, with someone named The Byronic Cat, you will rocket, as with a JATO attached to your back, from giddy infatuation to domestic combat in a dizzying second. Don't forget your helmet.

"I used to have [a type], something between nerdy and cocky... but now I'm branching out."

My trunk is thick, and the roots run deep, knotted with dark moods, expanding with joy. At times I flower; at times I am bare. Call me White Ash.

"On a second date, I went to a party with this guy, and he spent the whole night talking to a girl [with] breasts as big as my head."

Oh, the boob thing. At twenty-three, I'm sure they haven't reached your knees. That will do for me, and I never get distracted.

"I do my best to turn on the charm and show why I'm so right for [someone]. [But] sometimes I get so fucused on making the relationship happen that I ignore potentially serious issues. Then I wake up six months later, in bed next to the person, and I'm like, what was I thinking?"

You know, it took The Wife three years (give or take) to get to the point where that question arose, and she's smarter than everyone.

"I'd be lying if I told you I [didn't] start out with a negative preconception of the people I work with. ...a lot of guys on the streets are really kind people... it really opened my eyes. If the guy asking for spare change can be a worthwhile person, then so can they guy scanning your groceries...even the guy writing you a parking ticket."

Is not the pathway wide? Is not the door swung wildly open? Between impoverishment and oppressive policies of the state, there is indeed more than enough room, a world of room, for someone like The Byronic Cat. Considering I am half the asshole I used to be, while still holding the same level of moodiness, the amount of room is double! Think about it, I bring in the pay, steady like a rock, I don't lie, and I'm honest. Statistically I have only thirty years left before I die. That means you'll be fifty when you cash in that monster life insurance policy -that's a worst case scenario, of course.

Well, enough of my foolishness. As The Alley Cat mentioned, we are married, and, as we are unbelievably spoiled and so looked after, we are not about to jump ship. And there's more to the marital glue than that. The Wife is the only person we can count on, the only person we can turn to, and the only one who understands us. What I can do, truly, is to make a wish for those who remain at sea, waiting. Don't give up Rose, and don't let go. (Oh, that was so Titanic.)

Tags: An offer for Rose Bottle.

Singing The Blues

I'm going to take some time today to pick on one of my fellow artists; the blues musician. My sympathies for blues musicians can hardly be said to exist.


Maybe I'm cynical, but they always seem to sing such lyrics as, "ain't got no woman," or "since my woman left me." I roll my eyes and say, "give me a break." It's the same as if I got a flat tire and moaned about it even though I have six other bikes in the basement.

As I recall, blues came from a group of Americans called 'black people.' I heard they were slaves for, oh, a couple hundred years or so. Been going on way before the country was a country. After a lifetime of lynchings, beatings, and other odd treatment, they looked ahead only to find the light at the end of the tunnel was a burning cross.

Jeepers, says I, but they did make lemonade out of the lemon. That's the blues. But let me he honest and admit the root of my gripe is not a blues have their roots in slavery thing, it's a moaning about chicks thing; the haves singing as though they were a have not. It's the outright bullshitonomy (I just made that up) of a guy who is not awkward, is not skinny, is not fat -he could be but he isn't- singing about not having a woman while he plucks his guitar, and sends out vibes that are the acoustic equivalent of The Rabbit. (For those not in the know, The Rabbit is a girl toy. Girls turn it on and it returns the favor.)

When I hear someone singing that old "ain't got no woman now" medley, while the women in the joint become spellbound, as if he were Orpheus, and start doing the dirty Watusi, and a few of them give him a wink, well, I have a hard time getting on board his sympathy bus. But like I said, I'm a cynic.

Mathematical Applications

After taking the college COMPASS exam, I discovered I had forgotten all the algebra I learned way back in High School. If I want to get a college degree, it looks like I have a year of catching up to do.

I told this to a co-worker who said, "Hey, we don't use math." For most of us, and that includes me, it's true -and here I am in a technical field. I remember my math teachers telling me, emphatically, that I and everyone else use math every day. In other words, math is like oxygen; math lifts us up where we belong; all we need is math. I'm still skeptical, and I think that we have had enough of things mathematical, but I look to Cambridge and see, that for some of us, it isn't so.

I read an article in Time magazine which reported how, by use of formulas and calculations, Cambridge mathematicians proved Jessica Alba has the perfect wiggle.

I suppose that by factoring such things as Ms. Alba's hip to waist ratio, which happens to be .7, the mass of her gluteal area (for us lesser educated types, gluteal means 'junk in the trunk'), the control exerted by the set of opposing muscles that attach from her hips to her lower back, along with some basic rules about body mechanics, a knowledgeable student of higher math can come up with such a conclusion. Furthermore, I can tell 100% of the Cambridge students, without even looking, that the needle on my geek meter is accelerating exponentially toward a maximum reading, and that the 'researchers' should get a real job.

Anyway, I still believe that, except for people working to build the next Space Shuttle, math is something the majority of us, and the majority of girl watchers, don't use.

Live Long and Prosper

I received another one of those "do you remember the time?" type of e-mail messages. The type that recounts consumer products and lore from "the good old days."

The e-mail reminisces about artifacts like Burma Shave, green stamps, television sets with channel one on the dial, phone numbers with word prefixes like "Ancestor 4-1801," and the day they invented the chimney. Sooner or later, the price of gas comes up. That's when our elders, still able to remember these things after so many eons, lay a hand on their chest, roll their eyes, and say, as though they had been pinched, "Oooh! Twenty-Five cents!" They recall how far they could go, in their Buicks and their Oldsmobiles, and the many places they could see, all because gas was so cheap. As the men say this, they look up to the ceiling, as if the prices might still exist, somewhere up in the firmament.

Change can be tough, and change can be a little frightening, but we at The Alley have a message of assurance for those who have lived, and continue to live, a very long life.

I don't care if gas was twenty-five cents a gallon. Today, in the Twenty-First Century, it is now over three dollars a gallon and rising. Get over it. Get on with your life. Abraham dealt with the changes, as did Moses and Methuselah, so don't expect any special treatment.

Have a nice day.

Advertisement For The Alley

I've noticed a recent trend in corporate advertising. I'll join in.


The most important thing we deliver here at The Alley doesn't come from our usual topics.




By thinking Green, The Alley Cat and The Byronic Cat improve environmental quality and reduce their fuel consumption.

There, this site is officially on board with Madison Avenue.

Local Fish Wrapper Makes Good

Portland Oregon, if you didn't already know it, is the finest city in the United States. Portland has many things going for it, but I have never considered the local newspaper one of them. However, the editors have come up with an idea that got my attention.

The Oregonian has assembled "an eclectic group" of community writers who will be featured in future Sunday editions. In other words, people of diverse backgrounds who have never had anything to do with The Oregonian voicing their opinions in The Oregonian.

How eclectic is this group? I'll point out three of them: a former agricultural scientist from India, a political science professor from George Fox University, and a "southern Idaho Mormon cowboy" (Hello! My cat hair is standing straight up!) turned religious skeptic. That last one already launched a shot across the bow saying, "I will not be guarded or measured in my opinions." Yawn. It takes more than that to rattle this old culture war vet.

Out of all the writers, there is one in particular that I will be looking for. Her name is Lillian Mongeau, a twenty five year old from Hood River who boldly states, "My generation is better educated, less prejudiced and healthier than any American generation that has come before us. Our women dominate the universities, our homosexuals can come out safely, and our teeth have fewer cavities."

Oh how I love brassy young writers. Bring it on baby. Bring it on.

I Got This E Mail From My Sister...

That would be my sister who sells Nikken products. I won't link to them, lord knows what kind of multilevel marketeers will descend upon The Alley if I do. Sister never stops pitching the sale. I call her 'the infomercial'.

So I'm looking through the email and there's one from the Lance Armstrong Foundation, and it reminds me of the day she asked if I have his email address. She needs to tell him about Nikken. I'm sure that everyone who rides a bike has access to Lance Armstrong.

Actually I do have Lance Armstrong's email address. We both ride a Trek, have some Bontrager tires and some Nike shoes. Having the right things in common produces one hell of a bond. Take the following correspondence as an example.

"Glad to see you're on a Trek, Alley Cat. Good choice."

"It's not new. In fact it's over twenty years old..."

"It should be a new one."

"I have a new bike, the Cervelo."

"That was a mistake. Nobody gets to the podium on one of those. How's your training?"

"I rode some this week. Forty miles here. Forty miles there. Little bit."

"Right. That's how you win. A little bit. That's how you overcome. Poking around."

"I have to go. Time to hit the road."

"And stay away from drugs."

We're almost like brothers. Don't tell my sister.

Dinner With Mania

Had some dinner tonight with family. Unless you're from Mars, you probably know the topic was Harry Potter. If you are from Mars, you should have brought your heat ray to the restaurant. You could have set it on fire, and that might have changed the subject for a while.

I really can't remember the last time I saw mania like this; everybody is talking about Mr P., and knows all about the characters and the school. And here I am, a Star Trek geek (Trekker or Trekkie? I don't know, but there is a difference). I can tell you within five seconds which episode you are watching. Sometimes I don't need to see the screen, the sounds of The Enterprise, the music, or the dialog are often enough. And I haven't watched Star Trek in a long while.

I'll rattle off a thing or two from the top of my head.

On the show Beat the Geek, the Star Trek geek and his opponent were tasked to name as many Star Trek devices as they could. The geek won by a gizmo, but he was wrong. He named (don't expect me to get the spelling right) velouvial dampers. No dude, that's a Star Wars tool used to repair the hyper drive on the Millenium Falcon. See the end of The Empire Strikes Back. Was I the only one who caught that?

How about metallurgy? There's Murinite, which comes from the Rigel Colony. In A Wolf in the Fold, the handle of a knife, used as a murder weapon, is made of it. The blade is made of Boridium. Poor Scotty is accused of murdering two Argelian women and Lieutenant Tracy with that knife. In case you haven't been on shore leave, let me explain that Argelius is "a planet whose inhabitants are as peaceful as sheep." Yup, direct quote there.

There's castrogidium. Sounds corny, but it's tough as nails. This is used as a shielding on the outposts along the Romulan Neutral Zone, although the Romulans blasted through it with a newly developed plasma weapon. Too bad the contractor who built the outpost didn't know about Neutronium. It's phaser proof and probably plasma proof as well. Might make a good bicycle frame if it's not too heavy.

Neutronium, a blueish material, covers the exterior of the Doomsday Machine (also the episode's title), a super weapon from another galaxy that slices up planets with a force beam. Sensor scans show the beam is composed of "pure anti-proton". How was it stopped? Kirk flew the USS Constellation into the mouth of the machine and detonated the ship by way of an impulse engine overload. And did you get the subtle answer to man's possible doom by his super weapons? It's not a bigger club, but a change from within. That was like, total Vulcan wisdom there.

I could go on, but you'll want to turn that Martian heat ray on me. I'll conclude by saying that even with my extensive trivia data banks, I felt bested by the students of Hogwarts.

True Sh*t 6: Interview With The The Byronic Cat

I had to participate in a mock interview with The Wife the other day. It was an assignment for some kind of drug counseling class. She explained that I was to play the role of an addict and she would be my counselor. The Wife would record the session and turn it in to the instructor for an evaluation. I didn't get a choice as to what my addiction was.

I'm told that I am a meth addict and I am promiscuous. I guess I turn tricks for money, so I must be between 'before meth', normal looking, and 'after meth', the sore ridden getting close to death look. I don't care how crazy-horny someone is, post meth is not marketable, so I decided I was mid-meth. I got into character and off we went.

One question asked how would I alter my sexual pracites to lessen my exposure to STDs. What actions would I choose and which would I refrain from? A potential answer was sex without exchanging fluids. I think, "That won't pay well. If they don't spurt today I won't get any money." I don't circle that option.

She's talking about Hepatitis C, and I ask about the others. What's the difference between Hepatitis A, B, and C? She stops the tape. Oops! Did we not study that? I did get exposed to A or B at a restaurant (forgot which). Twice. So if I turn tricks, I could get all three, right? Got to know your ABCs.

She told us about the methods of preventing the transmission of STDs. One involved placing sandwich wrap over a woman's vagina. I found it hard to believe. And what a mood killer that has to be. I'm not a guru on sex devices, but I'm telling you that if I tear off a sheet of Glad Sandwich Wrap, my trick will be up and gone before I set the box down. Hard to keep the jokes at bay too. Will she stay fresh and excited longer? If I see a bold color beneath the wrap, does that mean I got a good seal? It was hard to keep a straight face and stay in character after that one.

You'll have to excuse me, sugar. Got to put on my fishnets and hit the streets.

True Sh*t 5: So Help Me, George

A long long time ago, I can still remember how some occasions made me smile. Sometimes a young girl gave me a chance, we would go on the floor and dance, and maybe I would be happy for a while.

That occasion often took place at an establishment called the Copper Penney, over on SE Foster road. I saw a lot of interesting things on the dance floor. Sometimes someone would really look foolish. That would be me on occasion.

One night, a young and distracted girl danced with me. She kept looking around at something behind her. It was her behind. Something wasn't right. I tried to keep in step with her twists and turns, wondering, what's she looking at? Finally she turned her butt to me and pointed at it, "Does this look right to you?"

I had to stop for a moment. I was young but had enough sense to know one thing; that was dangerous territory. I replied, "You look nice." It satisfied her and we went on dancing.

That was one time I avoided putting my foot in my mouth. Now lets fast forward a few years. Here we are on YouTube. Look at this here...

LookaHere

It's Amber, and we the viewing audience are asked to look at a few things. A tat, slathered with a moisturizer, a bump, and a T Shirt that says ROC. Wait a minute. It's ROCK. The K wasn't in view. Yes, I see the whole word now. Oh my...

This is where my mind's alert systems come on, and my fingers, held over the keyboard, are under good guidance. George Bush Sr. whispers, Nah, won't go there, wouldn't be prudent. Once again, I recognize where I am and respectfully back away. We say "Nice Tat" and leave ROCK alone, lest we get one thrown upside our head by way of Canada.

Between The Raindrops

Are the people in Pendleton afraid of the Federal Government, or are they just curious? I drive a company rig when I come to town. I'm not bringing my old Ford. They sent me here, let Them provide the transportation, I think it's policy anyway. The locals see the plates, they see that I'm a stranger, they don't miss much around here. They take two and add two more and they go ah ha.

"Is that your vehicle out there?" When we witness something that connects us to The State or The Federalies, cars become vehicles.
"Yes it is."
"You work for the government?"
"Yes."
"What work do you do?"
"Stuff."
"Stuff?" They slit their eyes, "What kind of stuff?"
"Government stuff. Company stuff." My reply is dry, like Jimmy Hoffa's sunbleached bones lying in the desert.

Okay, I don't answer questions that way. However, I did hear this from a guy at The Plant. After seeing 'the vehicle' day after day, he began to ask around.

"Every day when I get to work, it's here. Then, when I go out to leave, it's gone."

That's right hoss, I'm one of Them. Don't ask, 'cause I don't tell. I walk between the rain drops and I watch from the shadows. I'm like that puff of smoke rolling out from the Grassy Knoll, you ask yourself, did you see something, but I'm already gone.

Breakup Day

While prowling the Internet, I read about National Breakup Day. It's June 2nd, but my gears are already turning. I'm going to do something about it now.

I don't have a girlfriend and I had better leave the wife out of this, so I'll just make something up. You know what I'm going to do? Just for fun, I am going to break up with the sex bloggers I've read. All three of them. That's what I'll do. I'll compress them into a single persona and say goodbye. They won't even notice I'm gone. There. The person is quickly coming into focus. I see her. It's time to lower the boom...


I'm sitting at a booth in a Shari's restaurant. A trucker sits at the counter, sips his coffee, and stares into space. He wears a thick jacket and a cap. Although I can't see the front of his cap, I'm sure it's advertising a heavy equipment company. A waitress huffs at the cook who hands her a plate full of food. The place is quiet, but inside I'm anxious. I have bad news for someone. I hear the door open with a low boom, and Tina (I'll call her Tina) comes in and the air changes. It gets heavy. It's something I feel when I see someone who's day is about to be ruined.

She takes the seat across from me. Her black hair falls around her shoulders, and her skin has a glow. She's always glowing.

"Hi. How are you?" I'm already starting to cower.

"Hi."

There is no other way to do this except to jump right in.

"Honey, I've been reading you for about a year, you know, and I have something to tell you."

She smiles and sits calmly with her hands together resting on the table, fingers interlaced, and her cool blue eyes are looking into me. When she looks at me like that, I feel like I've come to a battle of wits carrying a plastic squirt gun.

"I just want to say that this isn't about you. It's me. I know you have it together..." She lets out a little moan, rubs her head, then she chuckles.

"I had four orgasms in a row, and during the last one I banged my head against the bedpost. Now I have a headache" She looks up. "I'm sorry, go ahead."
"Yes. Well... Four? What were you doing?"

That was a dumb question. What did I think she was doing? I see her lying on her bed. A bed with a large walnut headboard and two big posts on either side. A beast of a man is on top of her, smoothly going in and out, her legs are up in the air on either side of him, with each stroke they wave back and fourth like a whip antennae, the bed rocks and creaks, she grunts and smiles, and she's glowing like neon. Am I jealous? Perhaps a little.

"I was playing with myself. With my vibe."
"Oh." I feel a little better. "You said you had four?"
"The batteries ran down."

My eyes flutter and I rub them with my fists to make them stop. I get back on topic.

"Well, I need to, uh, I need a little more, umm, what I mean is," I slap my hands down on the table, "I'm missing the other things, normal day to day things..."

She squirms briefly. I pause for a moment, then I go on.

"I know it's crazy, but I look for..." I notice something's changed. At least I think it has. "Wait. I'm sorry, but, your boobs, has something happened to them?"

"They're the same as always."
"I thought something was different."
"Nope. Same as always. See?"

She pulls her top up. They jiggle as the bottom of her shirt passes over them. Her breasts have big rings around the nipples, and I feel as though they are looking at me. She pulls her shirt back over them and I fearfully look around. My god, did anyone see her do that?

"No bra today," She whispers and her eyes widen. "I set them free."

"Free. Okay. Um, I was saying..." My forehead is beginning to hurt. I have to close my eyes. "What was I saying? Yes. I'm changing."

Her dark hair has come over her shoulders, and She runs her hand through it. With her hair going down her back, I see something on her neck. She notices that I see it, and looks at me with raised eyebrows, then takes the napkin from the table and wipes it off.

"I got a pearl necklace earlier today. It was nice. It came from a package my neighbor brought me." She really pursed her lips and flared her eyes when she said the word package.
"The neighbor?"
"He said he meant to give it to his wife, but he felt it looked better on me."
I'm jealous again and say nothing, I just slowly nod my head.
"I think he's sweet." She shrugs her shoulders. "I'm sorry, I keep interrupting you. Go ahead."

I've been sitting in her presense long enough that I'm starting to feel shaky. It's something I can't help. It starts in my hands and jumps into my chest and I've got this little shake going on inside me.

"Honey, I'm not trying to put you down, we're different. I need something more, and you, well, you just write about sex."

The waitress startles me when she walks up to the table and asks us what we'll have to eat. I worry that she heard what I said. I tell her I'll just have a strawberry lemonade. Tina shakes her head and smiles. The waitress leaves.

"Don't you think of anything besides sex?"
"Sure." She's leaning on the table. Her arms are at her sides, and they make her breasts well up beneath the cut of her top. "But who cares about that?"

She sits back then immediately rises a bit out of her seat as though she's been pricked by something. She holds her hand out to stop me from saying anything more, then reaches behind her, into her pants. She's holding herself up, fishing about, then she pulls out a shiny stainless steel object and wraps it up in the napkin then puts it down next to her on the seat. I crane myself up just a little to look at it.

"Don't let me forget that."
"Uh... Sure."

I try to ignore that thing. The waitress comes back with my strawberry lemonade. She barely slows down enough to set it on the table, and continues on. I wait until she gets to the other side of the restaurant.

"Did you take that out of..?" I see her nodding.

One corner of her mouth curls up a little, then she suddenly comes out of her seat and grabs my lemonade, and I draw back as though she meant to strike me. Her face is close and she brings my glass to her mouth, lowers her head, keeps her eyes locked on mine, and takes the straw in her mouth. I watch her lips close tight around the straw and her cheeks pull in as she sucks the strawberry lemonade inside. I watch her throat move as she swallows. She sets the glass on the table with a loud smack and sits down on her unoccupied bottom.

"Great things can happen down there."

I feel as though a huge fist has knocked me to the mat. A moment of silence passes. I gather myself together, like sweeping up the pieces of a broken plate. Got to get all the little pieces.

"I just have to ask, are you always aroused?"
"Maybe. What's wrong with that?" She looks at my glass. "I should have ordered something to eat."

She notices there is a whole strawberry in the lemonade, fishes it out with a fork, and holds it in front of her by the stem. It dangles before her like a tea bag. Her tongue slips out from between her lips and rubs the bottom of the strawberry, then she tilts her head back and bobs it in and out of her mouth a few times before closing her lips on it. I hear a tiny pop when she pulls the stem off.

"I'm sorry. I'm not paying attention."
I can only shake my head, "Perhaps it's a new kind of ADHD."
"Are you going to punish me?"
"Punish?"
"For playing with my food and being rude. Maybe you should send me to my room without any supper."
"I thought you were hungry."
"I think I should get a spanking for being rude."
"I'm trying to tell you something."
"And I'm trying to tell you something. I'm telling you that I'm bad and you should spank me for it. You should tie my wrists with a white silk scarf, then bend me over something, like the end of my couch, pull my pants down and spank my bare butt with your hand." She brightens as she says that.
"I'm not going to do that."
She pouts. "Okay."

We're silent, and I look at her again. Her skin has such a smooth, even tone. Her cool blue eyes have a light in them like looking at a crystal or into a kaleidoscope; the light shifts and twinkles. Her arms are graceful and her hands have long fingers that look so gentle, and I know they feel cool and soft. Even when they're grasping someone who is moving back and forth over and into her, I'm sure they still have a softness. Her hips are round and a bit wider than her waist. There's something so right about that. It attracts something deep in me, something primordial, and I want to cling to her hips. I look at her breasts, round and big, and say I'm not a boob man. Their size doesn't matter. Just give me two. I look at them and she looks at me, gently biting her lower lip and smiling. She subtly begins to move around in her seat, twisting her shoulders left and right. Alright. Fine. I'm a boob man. By now I'm so weak that at any moment I'm going to fold up. That's when she reaches across the table and her fingers touch my wrist and a bit of my energy returns. She's focused on me.

"So, what were you going to say?"
"Nothing. I'm okay now."
"So you'll stop by and read me now and then?"
"Yes."
"You're okay?"
"Sure. Like I said, it's me. I just need to get it together."
"Good." She's happy and pats my hand.

So much for break up day.

My time is nearly over...

My vacation is nearly spent. I don't wan't to go back to work. Who does? I would rather be retired. Some people say retirement doesn't sound good to them because they'll become bored. Bored? What's wrong with them? There were two days this week where I never left the front porch, except for food and a potty break. Let me say something to the 'bored' people: My worst day sitting on my front porch having coffee, reading, writing, and watching the squirrels is better than my best day at work. Gotta go, I have a very tight scedule, and I may have missed my power nap.

I went through my photos yesterday and found pics of friends long gone. I sure miss those days.

Being like you know who

While searching for images of preachers for the next blog, I found an attractive young lady’s image with the title “me, right before preaching.” A pretty young lady who preaches? Curiosity lead me to a young Norwegian Christian. She made the usual statements like “fitting into God’s plan” “surrender my life to Him” and “become more like Jesus”.

Two things came to mind. One: is she so “on fire” that she can’t have a partner and enjoy good regular guiltless sex? It's a guy thing. Hey, God made us and God made sex and God gave us what is arguably the most powerful urge we have. The good book says if you burn with desire, get married (and have some). Some of us get the impression that doesn’t apply to us. So if she doesn’t have her sexual head on backwards and is easy to live with, I see a big “GO”. Yes, I know, I’m married. I’m just thinking out loud. Hypothetically, you understand.

Now to the second point: being more like Jesus. Back in the day, I remember a lot of introspection, studying, analyzing and scrutinizing by others on that subject. I’m glad I don’t hear it anymore. Now, with a clear head, maybe I can sum up, quickly and in plain English, what it is to be more like Jesus. If you don't want to be like Jesus, or believe in the mythology of Jesus, that's fine. I'm not much like him either, but the points below are worth a look.

Don’t be a control freak. Don’t be a bitch, and I am not using the word in a gender specific way. Don’t treat women as inferiors. If you’re accusing someone of being something, make sure you’re not that something. Don’t be a hard ass. Don’t be angry (in the out of control way). Don’t be unforgiving. Don’t be vengeful. Don’t be lazy. Don’t consider yourself entitled to anything other than death and a kick in the ass when you do the above. Don’t be a primadonna. Don't be stingy. Don’t forget to call your mom once in a while. If your parents are guilty of any of the above, don’t hold a grudge.

Part of knowing what to do is to know what not to do. So, when you don’t do what you shouldn’t do all that is left is to do is what you should do. Do you see that? Sure you do.

BTW, I chose the opening pic by way of my smart-ass sense of humor. Jesus ultimately represents Armegeddon or the end times and, of course, he's The Bomb! :D