oh, you're still here?

Wow. Still this blog exists. I wish I could be a blogger. Maybe when I grow up. Maybe someday.

This charming charlie

I'm saddened this tumblr blog is being removed after barely a month. Combining morrissey/smiths with the peanuts. Perfect. And it's ending too soon. But you knew it couldn't last. Legal reasons. Petty reasons. You knew it wouldn't last. But it was nice while it lasted. Brilliant. And in apparent closing fashion, she exits stage left with a nice little fuck-you post to the suits in a new post after being shut down. I wish the best to this artist. Such a great idea. She'll have more. And we'll all be fine. Pity the suits. Heaven knows they're miserable now.

Sigur Ros

We saw our favorite band tonight. Sigur Ros. To say it was beauty beyond words would only cheapen the magic. It was impossible. And I'll leave it at that.

Welcome back. He muses to himself.

I somewhat casually realized that I began this blog mostly for myself, for my own amusement, about four years ago and have proceeded to casually neglect it for more than  the past two years. That and I fancy long sentences. Who knows why we start blogs. And why we abandon them. Because we have something to say and then we don't. I read something once about the quantity and/or percentage of blogs begun/forgotten. I don't recall the source or specifics but the numbers were large. So I'm no different.

But I am now typing with two untrained thumbs on my wi-fi but not-new OS phone. Since two years ago when I most recently abandoned this little blog, I have a different job, a fledgling business, a third perfect child on the way, and an overall sense of being closer to where I felt I should be by now. But, it's just a blog. A blog for me. By me and for me. I'll pass on twitter, mostly pass on tumblr and facebook, and have no use for google plus. So we'll see what happens.

slo mo

I often whine and mumble and complain that time goes too quickly, just as my clairvoyant mother said it would the older I get. Being in my mid to late thirties, I don't particularly enjoy the idea of time moving too quickly. I'm not certain what's occured the past fifteen years to take me from twenty three to my current dilemna of this thirty eight business. I've never felt that old. And I recognize that thirty eight is not really at all "old". Nevertheless, time moves quick and I am often guilty of not looking around a while and appreciating it, which only makes it move that much more quickly.
So this morning it was rather odd that things seemed to be moving in slow motion for me. Water out of the faucet - rather the slowness with which I ran the water. But I had to. I was running water from the Brita filter and the thing kept popping off the faucet. So I had to run the water very lightly. A step beyond a drip really. Then the coffee brewed much slower than usual. Not sure why. The ceiling fan seems to be moving in slower circles above my head. It's already about 82 degrees and I'm a delicate flower that wilts in the heat. The Betta fish aren't even bopping around with their usual verve. Plus I'm wearing my Union City All Stars band tee, above the name it reads "a little slower". Sunday morning. Coming down.

the nat'l futbol leeg (NFFL)

So, so sick of the NFL talk. Lockout, canceled season, spoiled imbeciles arguing over their toys. Both sides of the argument hole up in luxury hotels in various cities - a new one every other week it seems. Cameras everywhere. They're working so hard to hammer out a deal. They're just going at it, trying so hard and working so diligently. Assholes. The lot of them. I don't care about the upcoming pro football season. I really don't. Ray Lewis said without the season there would be an increase in crime. That's absolutely true, though in a different way than how he meant it.

Play, don't play. I don't care and I hope multitudes of football fans - which I cannot personally claim to be - come to that conclusion. I realize there are many issues of great importance, matters of consequence. I get that. But strip away all the tiny and endless details and it's a matter of millionaires and billionaires arguing over their money. About nine billion dollars of it. They can't figure out how to split nine billion dollars. It's a bit sickening.

What would be really sad - or funny if you're a nihilist - is to see these children have to work for a living. Even for a week. A day. Work a real job. Read a book. Do a good dead. Do something thankless and meaningful without the cameras. See, I'm pissed now and over-generalizing. That's wrong, I know. But facts are there. Millionaires and billionaires bickering like spoiled brats over the best way to spend nine billion dollars. Sickening.

words matter...

They really do. Words are not so much quantifiable. They can go on and on and lose meaning and honesty. But words matter. I was just reminded of that so simply. Reading comments of strangers, comments on a short, sincere blog post an old friend wrote about the recent devastation of his hometown. His words meant something. Yes, he's a writer and a good one from what I've imagined, and somehow just know, but this was not fiction. This was remembrance and history and emotion. Not filtered. It meant something to most who read it. Words can do that. Words matter. Choosing them wisely, with great care, great expectation, that's another topic for another day. They can come quick and hard, soft and benign. However they find the page, they can stop a storm. Words matter. They just do.