Sex, Death, Rock-n-Roll- and It’s Eternity In There


I never really made it a point to contemplate the paradox of sex and death.  Perhaps someone ten years (and more, sadly) removed from the enjoyment of carnal pleasure isn’t qualified to comment, but I still live, breathe and dream. I have desires whether I can act on them or not.

The French have a way of making things that can sound vulgar in English a little more mysterious and exotic. A ménage a trois doesn’t sound as bad as a threesome, even though it means exactly the same thing.  So while calling an orgasm la petite mort (the little death) can seem a bit melodramatic and bordering on morbid, it is certainly apropos.


These things usually hit me when I least expect it, if not in unbidden memories, then in dreams.

Old Dr. Freud would be having a heyday with my dreams.  The things I find myself embroiled in (in dreams, that is) that would leave me shocked and mortified in the waking world are beyond the pale.  Which may be why they are safely relegated to dreams. The things I imagine are just too impossible for reality, and I will not attempt to chronicle them here.

dream after dream

Yes, Dream. After Dream (the Journey album) is awesome.  My dreams are just bizarre.  And rated X.

Many years ago, Stephen King wrote a short story called The Jaunt. It was about a scientist who discovered a virtually cost-free way to teleport people through time and space.  The only problem is that living things would die shortly after being “jaunted”- unless they were put under anesthetic.  At the end of the story, the man telling the story to his children awakes in horror as his son went through the Jaunt awake- and the son had aged by decades and decades and gone quite mad, before he dropped dead.

Before the son dropped dead his last words were, “It’s eternity in there.”

Of course The Jaunt’s version of eternity isn’t a positive one, so it’s probably not the best illustration of that moment where time stands still and the universe is simply two, but it’s a similar concept.  There is a dimension beyond time, for good or ill.

bennyhill cupid

When I was growing up I was given the impression that sex was The Ultimate Sin and the only thing worse than utilitarian procreational-only married sex is murder. It didn’t help that Mom is old-school Catholic (and I mean pre-Vatican II) and Dad is more or less a lapsed Regular Baptist. Both of their traditions will drill it in your head that you are better off dead than to have sex and enjoy it.


Yes, Christians are hypocrites, just like everyone else.

Good “Christian soldiers” are allowed to have sex only if they are married to each other, the lights are out, the only position is man-on-top missionary style, they only do it because they’re trying to make a baby, and they aren’t allowed to enjoy it.


We did what?  For that? Why?

Since I never really had a desire to go out and kill people, (at least not a desire to kill anyone that overrides my fear of arrest and inevitable incarceration) then for me, sex was the only “mortal sin” that had any allure to it.  And it had a LOT of allure to it when I was younger.  I freely admit it. I just had a really hard time finding suitable, complicit males.  That was probably a blessing in disguise, and nature’s way of chlorinating the gene pool to some extent.

ride with hitler

I’m not into carpooling, because I’d rather “ride with Hitler” than with the friendly neighborhood serial killer. I like having my car all to myself.

My son doesn’t get the sex=mortal sin concept because I made a conscious effort not to represent it to him that way.  My mother may have given me the “dirty duty” speech, but I didn’t pass that along, except for comedic effect, when he was much, much older.

The more a parent makes a “forbidden fruit” sound absolutely vile and horrible, the more likely the offspring are to run right out and try it to see if it’s as horrible as Mom and Dad contend.  As much as possible, I tried to give him the rational approach to life, as in yes, sex is good, but with certain boundaries.  Such as “try not to bang ex-strippers,” “wrap that rascal,” and “avoid venereal diseases.”


So where did they get it?  The dance hall?

There is good reason for caution in the pursuit of all things amorous. The 1980s taught us that the anti-sex crowd had a point: sex with the wrong partner can kill you.


I guess once they give you AIDS, retribution is sort of pointless.

For centuries humanity has known the fear and shame of venereal diseases, and the possibility of a lifetime of pain or even an untimely death for a moment of pleasure are quite real.

Even given the potential risks involved with sexual congress, I don’t think I can agree with the lights-out missionary-position sex-for-procreation-only crowd.  I do believe in caution in guarding one’s body as well as one’s heart and spirit, but not in total denial.

There is a certain distasteful and soul-killing element in the “friends with benefits” mentality, just as there is a distasteful and soul-killing element in the outright rejection of something that is a gift and a blessing in the proper context.

When the person and the moment is right, surrender to that universe of two.  Savor, enjoy, revel, and live, and thank God for that rare opportunity.

It’s eternity in there.

“Normal?” – Not My Relatives! Wanna Pet My Kid’s Skunk?

steve-o and astro

Yes.  It’s a skunk. Yes. It is sleeping atop my offspring.

I am more of a dog person than anything.  I like cats too, and I have cats, but to me there is nothing like the relationship one can have with a dog.

I have no idea what got the POMC started in on skunks, other than he really doesn’t connect with cats, and he’s somewhat freaky about dogs. He was dog bit rather severely when he was nine.  His right hand might look normal now, but that dog chewed it up like burger meat and he has permanent nerve damage.  Dogs have pretty much given him the creeps ever since, which really sucks.


He had ferrets in high school, much to my mother’s disgust, because ferrets have a funk.  Even I can smell ferret funk, which means they must smell pretty nasty to most people.  Odor aside, they just never really thrilled me much.  I’ve heard them described as “cat snakes,” which is about right.  Dinky, sneaky little bastards as far as I’m concerned.


In the skunk’s defense, he is de-scented and the only thing about him that really smells is his shit.  Skunk shit is nasty, nasty, nasty.  The skunk himself, however, is very clean and doesn’t really have a smell to him.

Even so, I’d rather deal with a dog or a cat.  Skunks have sensitive digestive systems and special nutritional needs. They have to have their food specially prepared (sort of like feeding a toddler) unlike a dog or cat who can eat prepackaged dog or cat food and be cool with it.  It’s also a real pain in the hiney to find a vet who will deal with skunks.  Their anatomy and physiology is nothing like dogs or cats, so the vets that will work with them generally cost up the wazoo.

exotic vet

Most vets don’t want to see anything that isn’t a cat or a dog.  I can’t say I blame them.

Skunks are a vector for rabies in the wild, which is enough to scare off most people from owning them.  However, the truth is that the only way for any mammal to get rabies is to be bitten by something with rabies.   Domestic, captive born skunks don’t have rabies, and won’t get rabies unless something with rabies bites them.  Captive born and kept indoors, skunks are just as safe to keep as a pet (and not a rabies risk!) as an indoor cat.


Harmless as Jezebel? I don’t give my indoor cats rabies shots because there’s no way for them to get bitten by something that’s rabid.


The dogs do get rabies shots because a.) they go outside and therefore in theory can be bitten by something rabid, and b.) state law requires it.

I am one of those weird people who can really go off on bizarre tangents at times.  I bought – and read with fascination-  this book some while back- Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus..  It’s a compelling read on a rather off the wall subject.  I will have to let the illustrious offspring borrow this one if he’s in the mood for some enlightening late night reading. Of course my tastes in literature are mostly non-fiction (science and history) and often tend to gravitate toward the macabre.

I don’t think I have one “normal” relative.  Not one.  My son passes for normal most of the time, but they are all certifiable.

Mom is probably the one that’s the closest to the cuckoo’s nest- she’s bi-polar with a heaping helping of anxiety, OCD, and extreme naïveté to go along with it.  Jerry is a laundry list of fun beginning with adult ADHD, Helpless Man syndrome, and ending with a rip roaring case of what I call “functional drunk.”

Dad’s gotten a lot more fun since he’s gotten old. It wouldn’t surprise me that like his own father he decides now that he’s 70 years old that, “I’m not old. I’m middle aged.” Nobody had the heart to tell Grandpa when he turned 70 that it was highly unlikely he’d see 140, but he did live to be 91.   I guess it’s all about your attitude.

There’s a phenomenon with some older people where their frontal lobe (the “traffic cop” of the brain) sort of wears out and doesn’t screen one’s conversation as thoroughly as it once did, or probably should.

So Dad, who used to be rather tight-lipped and taciturn, has gotten rather cheeky as he ages.  His oh-so scathing commentary is starting to remind me of my grandmother and great-grandmother (ironically my mother’s mother and grandmother, go figure) and it’s a hoot. It drives Mom nuts, on the rare occasion she actually gets the reference and/or the double entendre. I’m glad that most of the time it goes over her head, for her own sanity and well being.

Mom has her own special brand of near-senility which is even more creepy than my Dad flipping off traffic.  She has always gravitated to the mega-weird parts of Catholicism which is downright scary, but the older she gets the more she watches EWTN, goes to Mass and Confession, and is grabbing on that rosary.  Normally I would say religious disciplines would be a good thing, but she gets Really Weird with it.  She thought that if she left EWTN on all the time full blast that the POMC would see the Catholic light and become a priest.  Never mind that he’s pretty much agnostic and really creeped by “men in dresses.”

To top that off, she’s also blithely ignorant that it’s really, really gauche to ask someone who is a confessional Lutheran and who has done a lot of theological and spiritual soul searching to come on down to the Catholic cathedral to venerate some dead saint’s bones.  Apparently the Catholic school she went to didn’t teach too much about Martin Luther, the 95 Theses, and the Reformation.

I had to decline the bone-gazing and necromancy out of conscience, but as far as she knows I declined because I had to do laundry.  I’d rather tell a little white lie – though I really did do laundry- than go through a detailed theological dissertation on why I don’t venerate saints’ bones.  I don’t need to hurt her feelings.

Even the POMC is borderline OCD. His car and motorcycle both are testament to that.

Both of my sisters could be called “castrating bitches,” due to the fact that they both can run a man like a railroad.

And here I sit with my own frailties and funky wiring.

Time Passages, Necessary Evils, and Random Mental Excursions


birthday shit yourself

Or not.  Preferably not.

I don’t want to change any more shitty diapers in my life. I did enough of that when my illustrious EX mother-in-law decided to let my then-20 month old son go through an entire box of graham crackers in an afternoon.

Suffice to say that the graham crackers pretty much didn’t do much to prevent my son from partaking in the “evil” of self-abuse, (face it people, all boys masturbate whether they admit to it or not,) but they did much to make him shit like a horse for a week straight.

Tall Stack of Graham Crackers

Tall Stack of Graham Crackers

Once you’ve had to power wash your kid, Clorox his jammies and the bed sheets every day for a week because he wakes up with the entire bed  coated in used graham crackers that have made their way down the good ol’ Hershey Highway, the whole hosing-shit-off-bloody-everything routine gets extremely old. I did have a number of choice pejoratives for my evil ex-mother-in-law, but in her defense, her head never was screwed on quite right. Suffice to say she was never left alone with the POMC again.  To this day he is scared shitless (oh, what a relevant metaphor!) of that harpie, even though he was only three the last time he ever even saw her.  If she’s still alive- and if only the good die young she’ll live to be 900- she’s well in her 80s.  As long as she stays away from me, I truly don’t care where she is, how old she is, or what she does with herself.

I can’t imagine changing diapers for any of my adult relatives.  Though it may sound callous, if you can’t make it to the crapper or wipe your own ass, the nursing home is calling your name.  I’m weird enough about people touching me, let alone having to touch other people in ways I don’t even want to contemplate.

I understand that the people at the nursing home will have to hose off your carcass from time to time, but 1.) they are getting paid to do it, and 2.) they have a ready supply of disposable gloves.

pink rubber gloves

I was probably the only child who was grateful for a teacher or parent’s admonition to a group of children to “keep your hands and feet to yourself.” Anything that will keep the little snot spewers from fingering me or violating my personal space is a good thing.  When I was growing up, people usually only made physical contact with me to slather nasty things on me, throw live stinging insects in my hair, or to kick my ass.  I am wary for a reason.


I can’t tolerate itchy, inflexible or binding clothing against my skin.  Ever.  I still have bad memories of 70’s polyester and those God-awful pantsuits Grandma made for us out of that stuff.  Grandma was a fantastic seamstress, but if you create clothing out of fabric that is more like Teflon  than cashmere, it’s not going to be comfortable.  Mom would add itchy lace socks and turtlenecks to these pantsuits and I literally got welts all over from both the friction and the heat generated by those purgatorial ensembles.  70’s polyester was HOT as well as being inflexible and itchy.  It did NOT breathe.


Lord, deliver us from these horrible garments!

I can’t move my LEG!!!

Even denim was problematic back in the day, as you pretty much had to drive over a pair of jeans, then wash them several times in flaming hot water with bleach, then dry them for a few hours with some marbles thrown in for fun. Otherwise the skin-tight (no spandex…) denim would be so crunchy and rigid that breathing was almost as impossible as bending at the knees, or sitting.

80s jeans

Just Don’t Bend Over.

Another drawback of 80’s clothes is that you had to iron just about everything, including the (usually) cotton oxford shirts.  Cotton breathes, which is a plus, but those oxford shirts are a bitch to iron.  Of course, not liking itchy or crunchy things, I was never a big fan of starch.

Enough With the Size 2 Models, and Persistence Is Not Always a Virtue



I think “she’s” a chick.  Maybe.

Just a thought to share with the purveyors of apparel and fashion designers out there:

The average woman who buys your wares is NOT completely flat chested, is NOT  6’2″, is NOT 100# or less, and does NOT wear a size 2. Many thirteen year old BOYS fall into those categories (of being flat-chested, tall, and super thin), and I understand that many men called to the fashion industry aren’t exactly straight, but please, remember who your customers are.

Just because that dress might look good on a thirteen year old boy, (or on my 24 year old who’s about 6’1″ and maybe 140..but don’t get any ideas, because he doesn’t swing that way) that doesn’t translate into looking good on the average 40-something cougar with a body ravaged by time and stress and childbirth.

average woman

Here’s what real women look like.  Heads up, boys. Meaning “boys,” as in “Boy” George, I presume.

The average woman who buys your wares DOES have these things springing from her chest area called breasts, otherwise known as tits, fun jugs, bazongas, hooters, and/or boobs.  Those of us with rather large things springing from our chests need to wear an item of clothing known as a BRA, not as a decoration, but as a functional support device, preferably one with suitably wide straps so as not to leave divots in our shoulders, to keep those things from hitting our knees as we perform our daily functions.

This being said, sleeveless garments of any type are generally not acceptable for the meaty-armed set unless they look good worn with a t-shirt underneath.  Please try to bear this in mind when designing and marketing clothing for and to us.


Notice how pencil-thin her arms are?  This woman has never unloaded trucks, manhandled unruly toddlers, or even picked up something as light as say… a fork!

Also, dresses should come in lengths other than “just below the butt-crack” and “3” past the feet.”  Either I buy a dress that is so short I have to wear leggings or tights with it or give the general public a free show that they really don’t want, or I end up chopping and hemming just to keep from stepping all over the son of a bitch.  I’m 5’4″, dammit.  Neither extreme is a good one, boys.  How about a dress that hits me just below the knee?  No butt-crack exposure, and no tripping over it.  That would be nice.

mid calf

Now, how about something like this in a size 12- that doesn’t drag the floor?

My grandmother made a lot of her own clothes.  She was a far more accomplished seamstress than I am, although I can do the basics.  I have two of the dresses she made for herself back in the 1950’s, which fit me relatively well, even though she had a bit more ample chest than me and I’m a bit taller than she was.  I don’t have time to make my own clothes, and I don’t have a sewing machine (that was one of Grandma’s things that my oldest sister- who has never sewn- made off with before Dad could hide it.) Otherwise I would.  At least I could have dresses made to the proper length, with sleeves, and with enough shoulder and boob room.  In a perfect world… all the clothes would have been made in the 1940s.

1940's dresses

Not just dresses, HATS!  I love hats- and I’m not afraid to wear them!

Steve-o has always displayed the propensity for wisdom beyond his years.

Yesterday he pointed out to me that persistence isn’t always a virtue.  Sometimes persistence is the manifestation of obstinate and perverse stupidity.  Of course, his perspective on persistence and vexation is colored by being the father of a three year old. Sometimes it takes her (my three year old granddaughter) awhile to realize that throwing fits and screaming will fail to achieve the results she wants.  In the three year old’s defense, she’s not stupid. She is beginning to understand when “no” means “no” and when it is unwise to push the issue. That’s a skill that a few more adults need to get- before I throttle them.

stupid burns

Oh, yes, it does.

If I tell you that I can’t get you something, it’s because I can’t get it for you.  It’s not because I don’t want to.  It’s not because I haven’t tried.  It’s because what you want isn’t available for me to get.  Get it through your skull.  If you feel it necessary to keep ordering the same thing I’ve already told you myriad times is not available, discontinued or otherwise non-existent on Planet Earth, your persistence in requesting the impossible has become a form of stupidity.

So what is the definition of stupidity, friends?  Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.


At least my offspring has a clue.

The Wonderful World of Online Reviews and Other Assorted Subjectivity

black flag
I never realized just how entertaining Amazon reviews can be.  I went trolling online for reviews on a perfume I’ve been thinking about buying.  I like fragrances, even though I have to take a French bath in most colognes just to smell them at all. The only ones I can enjoy in slight doses are the really, really strong ones such as Liz Taylor’s Passion, Esteè Lauder’s Youth Dew or Opium.  I really like all three of those fragrances, although I don’t dare wear any of them, because Jerry says they all smell like a combination of “nursing home” and bug spray.
So in my quest for more subtle scents, I check out the reviews, and stay away from the Dollar Store knock off shelf.  I have been assured by more than one person that the dollar store shit that is supposed to smell like Chanel No.5 (and it does- to me) really smells like a combo of Black Flag and drain cleaner.
I did find an eau de toilette I found intriguing called Dahlia Noir by Givenchy, which I am going to try in spite of this review-
All I can say to this one is that I’m glad that I’m not “Dave’s” old lady:
2 of 3 people found the following review helpful
 on November 18, 2014
I got this for my lady friend. It covered up her stink real nice.
“Dave’s” review notwithstanding, his comment reminded me of something Jerry would say, which sort of swayed my decision toward buying it.  I am a believer in stringent personal hygiene, and I’m pretty uptight as far as observing stringent personal hygiene practices at all times.  I shouldn’t have a “stink.”  Even so, hygiene practices aside, one can’t be too careful about one’s olfactory impact upon others when one’s sense of smell is pretty much transitory and unreliable at best.  So I do like to indulge in wearing a sensible and pleasing fragrance- just in case.
I’ve never been the outdoors type, and I hate to be dirty or to sweat.  So I’ve never really had a need for Vagisil, but if I did, this is the most glowing review I encountered:

18 of 20 people found the following review helpful

By Geekier than thou TOP 1000 REVIEWERVINE VOICE on August 28, 2004

Style Name: Original Size: 1 Ounce (Pack of 1)

It smells like burning fur, but who cares? If you’re out in the middle of the woods camping, or on a forever road trip and you haven’t had a chance to change your drawers in a day or two, chances are, your unmentionable areas are gonna get itchy. Some areas are more sensitive than others when it comes to persistent itching and scratching. Vagisil allows you to temporarily relieve the itch so you can concentrate on driving or sleeping instead of scratching your parts off.

Remind me to never put myself in a position where I don’t get to “change my drawers” and hose off at least from the waist down, Every Freaking Day. Some areas were never meant to be scratched.  If my nether area were to itch so bad I can’t drive, I think it’s time to see a doctor, not time to run out and buy some over the counter cream that smells like burning fur.
Too bad a gauge like this doesn’t really exist.
I have been accused at many points in my life of being highly subjective in my assessments, which is a bit ironic considering that I tend to be logical and pragmatic rather than emotional and flighty.
Perhaps those assertions are based on the fact that I can have rather narrow parameters for passing a judgment or making a decision.  I make up my mind very quickly, and usually based upon the information I have on hand that I deem relevant at the moment.  I’m not one to hunt and peck or hem-haw around. The only disadvantage to that is that unless I make a conscious effort to do otherwise, I can be very closed minded and unwilling to try new things.  I know that a love of the familiar and a desire for order and routine go hand and hand with the way I’m wired, (oh, the joy of navigating the autistic landscape!) and sometimes I have to purposefully override familiarity, order and routine in order to learn anything, or to do anything fun.
I think rigid would be a better word to describe my decision making process than subjective. 
mutter museum2
I realize that my tendency toward rigidity makes spontaneity almost impossible. The older I get, the more difficult spontaneity gets.  I’ve been meaning to take that day trip to the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia. It’s not necessary for me to take Steve-o with me, which is good because his schedule is nearly impossible (although he would thoroughly enjoy it.)  I’m not afraid to travel alone, and have done it before, so what’s the big deal about a 500 mile (one way) road trip?
Yes, I would need to book a motel room as well as make my admission arrangements in advance. I would have to see that Jerry takes care of the dogs for a couple of days.  They have survived being alone with him before.  I’m really good at trip planning, and this one wouldn’t be terribly expensive… so why haven’t I done it yet?
True, I have never been to Philadelphia.  I am concerned about crime, such as carjacking, rape, robbery etc. because those things happen in densely populated urban areas, but crime is just as statistically likely to happen right here in central Ohio.  Granted, I know the times and areas to avoid here, but would the additional risk of being in an unfamiliar urban area be statistically significant?  Probably not.  I have traveled alone in the rural South which is statistically safer- but if you were to be a crime victim somewhere down in the hollers, let’s just say your body and/or your car may never be seen again.
I need to shut up and just go. The medical oddities await.

I Have No Patience Left—– An Open Letter to the Instant Gratification Generation


Like a good number of techie-type people, I generally operate more efficiently (and with a lot less stress) when my interactions with fellow humans are simple, brief and (most importantly) few and far between.  The older I get, the less tolerance I have for doling out tedious and lengthy explanations.   The pisser is that it seems that the older I get, and the thinner my patience gets, the more stupid (and hence more needy of tedious and lengthy explanations) those around me seem to be.


Perhaps it sounds hard-hearted and/or arrogant of me to point out that the average person is as dumb as a post, but it’s a hard truth.  I’ve said it before, and if I knew who came up with the phrase I would credit it, as credit is due: “Intelligence is a constant, the population is growing.”    Unfortunately, there are days when I just don’t have it in me to smile and explain the same thing thirty different ways just so that I might have a chance of relaying some tidbit of necessary information into some dullard’s thick skull that he/she might or might not retain for more than five minutes.

It probably doesn’t help that I work in a business in which I have to engage in tedious explanations all day long.  I have to explain to people why this goes with this, or why you can’t use that with that, or that such-and-such is discontinued, which means it is no longer being made. Discontinued means what it is you’re looking for is not available (unless you find someone with used or old stock) and it will never be available again.  Please get that through your thick skulls, people.  There’s a reason why you can’t get all-weather floor mats for an ’86 Chevette.  It may have something to do with the fact that if there were a surviving ’86 Chevette in Central Ohio, it would be very unlikely to still have floors.  Deal.  Better yet, move up into the 21st century.

onion nuggets

These just didn’t have the appeal of chicken nuggets apparently.

Either that or they hadn’t come up with the hot mustard sauce yet.

The problem with having to tell people that they can’t always get what they want, is that unlike MIck Jagger and company, I have to listen to the asinine reactions of the instant gratification generation when their desires are unable to be fulfilled.  All Day Long.  it wears on my brain.

Another thing that wears on my brain is the upcoming contingent of warm bodies emerging from (so-called) institutions of higher learning.  I’ve said it for years that political correctness is poison, and that there will be hell to pay for mollycoddling and insulating kids from anything difficult or challenging.  Face it, in the real world there is no medal for 12th place.

12th place

Not in my world.  Or yours, either.

Now that particular dirty bird- the concept that one is “special” simply due to being vertical and metabolizing valuable oxygen-  is coming home to roost, and it’s really sad.  Now we have people getting all butt-hurt over any kind of controversy or discourse- and people who are unwilling to accept the truth when it’s right out in the open, if that truth reflects the fact that there are inherent inequalities between people because let’s face it, life ain’t fair.


Hypothetically, I may have had a life’s goal to be a center in the NBA. (No I didn’t, but this is a hypothetical scenario.)  The only problems with that goal are the realities: 1. I am as white and Anglo-Saxon as a person can possibly be and live. 2. I have physical motor deficits. 3. I’m female. and 4. I’m 5’4″.  Rather than lament that I can’t be a center in the NBA due to forces outside of my control, is it not in my best interest to choose a vocation that is better suited to my biological reality?  Why should I feel compelled to change my biology or to whine and cry that it’s not fair that white, uncoordinated, short females (who really aren’t even interested in basketball) can’t be centers in the NBA?

College campuses are no longer institutions of learning, where debate and open thought are encouraged.  They have become centers of artificially inflamed outrage over everything from perceived racial slurs to “gender inequality.”  Hmm, last time I checked, “race” is something different cultures pretty much made up. There’s plenty of different ethnicities and colors, but only one human race. There are generally two sets of human genitalia, and you either have one or the other.   It’s pretty rare (and not usually natural) to have both.


I wonder what they’re pissed about now.  Most places have a “mystery gender” bathroom somewhere.

My first reaction to the “ooh, everything offends my precious little self,”  is, “what kind of horse shit is this?”  Then I remember my grandfather mocking the hippie generation for “going off to find themselves.”  His contention was that you shouldn’t need to “find yourself” if you’re sitting right in front of your face.

smell balls

“The Emperor’s New Clothes” is one of my favorite Aesop’s Fables.  I’m dating myself in admitting that I ever read such archaic children’s literature (today the Aesop’s Fables collection would prove far too “damaging” to impressionable young children and their precious little self-esteems,) but there were some valuable life lessons in those stories.  There were important lessons in those stories, such as, “the world doesn’t revolve around you,” and “actions have consequences.”

The emperor (and I’m not just referring to Obama, but the fact that someone of his level of extreme ineptitude and overwhelming vapidity is in a position of power and influence is an ominous sign of the times) has been stark raving naked for a long time.

Let’s call the truth the truth, and clean up the political correctness bullshit before Orwell’s visions become fulfilled in their entirety.

The Nexus of the Crisis, and the Origin of Storms


I wish I would have thought of the title line, but it’s actually from a song by Blue Oyster Cult (later covered by Metallica) called “Astronomy.” It’s probably a good thing I don’t have (and I certainly don’t need, nor want) access to the psychotropic drugs that were available in the mid 1970s, but people came up with some hella cool song lyrics while stoned on that stuff.  Now it seems the pop stars and rappers are more worried about whether or not the words rhyme, and/or if cop-killing and sister-raping can be successfully included in the story line.  Apparently today’s drugs just don’t motivate good song lyrics.

I like that old psychedelic stuff.  The song lyrics, that is.

I found last Saturday’s short hiatus and respite to be most energizing.  I love it when I can turn off the world for awhile, and I need to do it a lot more often than I do.

Tonight I have to do something rather distasteful, although it does involve a short solitary road trip (that part of the adventure should be pretty good.)  I have probably at one time or another told the story of my grandmother’s twin sisters – the ones who, when my great-grandmother died, were about 70 years old. The both of them were rather eccentric, and their tastes were largely indulged, as they were both married to relatively wealthy men.  I never really liked either of them very much, but I acquired a little bit of contempt toward them when they got in a fist fight over my great-grandmother’s paltry belongings.


70 year old twins duking it out over a bunch of worthless old lady kitsch is a little bit over the top.   I’ve walked past better stuff at garage sales.  Great-Grandma was not a wealthy woman, and she didn’t need a lot of stuff.  None of her stuff was particularly valuable.  Neither of the twins needed any of that stuff.  It was about possession and control.  I was never close to either of my great-aunts, and after that I never really wanted to be.

Witnessing that little melee convinced me that I never want to fight over dead people’s stuff, even if it’s really good stuff.  My sisters will cannibalize my parents’ stuff, should they both outlive my parents, and they will fight over it, though the oldest one will ultimately end up with everything she wants.  If I am still alive, I won’t be there to stand back and watch.  They can have it all.  My Dad had to hide a lot of Grandma’s stuff- as well as all of Grandpa’s WWII medals and other memorabilia- to keep my oldest sister from taking everything.  What she wants, she takes.  Unless she can’t find it.


The only reason I don’t drop dead is that I don’t think my son can stand the visual of my sisters fighting over my bras and underwear.

The older twin (I think she was 98) finally went to the Great Beyond last Saturday, and the calling hours are tonight.  I can’t take off work tomorrow to go to the funeral (OK by me) but I at least have to show up at the calling hours to keep my mother from having a coronary, and so Dad might have one sane person to talk to.  Mom’s relatives are downright weird, and they are the huggy-kissy type which is positively nauseating to me.  But politeness dictates.. so I will show up.  Briefly.  Very briefly.

I wish funeral homes had drive-thrus.  I don’t think the idea would catch on in Ohio, where people make a really big deal out of funerals and wakes, but I wish that at least that the one I have to go to tonight had a drive-thru.  Sign the book and get the hell out…

drive thru funeral