A juvenile raccoon fell through the ceiling into my bathroom.
I keep the bathroom door shut, so no kitties were harmed (or terribly interested) in the making of this anecdote.
* If you're into that nature bs.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Angry White Boys
They really haven't done it well since early 2000's - and, I'm an angry white boy, so I should know.
Two of my favorites from that period recently popped back into my mind.
First, The Hives, because Mimi brought up modern prophets and I am furious because, when Rowan Williams showed his true colors, nobody ever listened to me that the man was trying to make his empire. He's leaving because he knows his covenant's dead, and he can't be Englishy pope, leaving destruction in his wake.
And, secondly, The Vines, because I'm just so happy that Williams' is gettin' the hell on after December. I give him the sacred Southern blessing: "Don't let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya."
"She never loved me" makes me think of Williams and his anti-American spiel, while "Come here, I'll take your photo for ya, I'll drive you around the corner, you know you really oughta move out to California," makes me think of his serpent-song to episcopal egos.
However, there's a caveat. I always liked The Vines - even more since finding out Craig Nicholls has Asperger's (though saddened that that came out by using it to escape from just punishment in a trial; we are neither moral incompetents nor situational idiots, just different) . . . BUT . . .
. . from my own experience, drugs and being an outsider go together while never mixing, and you wind up driving off those who accept you as part of their world.
I'm kinda glad I never watched Letterman in those days.
THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS
Two of my favorites from that period recently popped back into my mind.
First, The Hives, because Mimi brought up modern prophets and I am furious because, when Rowan Williams showed his true colors, nobody ever listened to me that the man was trying to make his empire. He's leaving because he knows his covenant's dead, and he can't be Englishy pope, leaving destruction in his wake.
And, secondly, The Vines, because I'm just so happy that Williams' is gettin' the hell on after December. I give him the sacred Southern blessing: "Don't let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya."
"She never loved me" makes me think of Williams and his anti-American spiel, while "Come here, I'll take your photo for ya, I'll drive you around the corner, you know you really oughta move out to California," makes me think of his serpent-song to episcopal egos.
However, there's a caveat. I always liked The Vines - even more since finding out Craig Nicholls has Asperger's (though saddened that that came out by using it to escape from just punishment in a trial; we are neither moral incompetents nor situational idiots, just different) . . . BUT . . .
. . from my own experience, drugs and being an outsider go together while never mixing, and you wind up driving off those who accept you as part of their world.
I'm kinda glad I never watched Letterman in those days.
THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
Fantastic News, and Bad News
Fantastic news first:
Lisa, at work, found a stray kitten. Lisa's husband is allergic to cats, so, she had it given its shots, checked out, treated for a mild respiratory ailment, and . . . I have a new baby girl. Her name is Katrina.
The other cats had bullied the poor little thing, and Lisa and I were both concerned about how she and Katzie would get along. My little gentleman came in, and, sure enough, she hissed, spat, growled. Katzie responded by looking at me, looking at her, and, without a sound, left and went to the next room. After about 45 minutes, he came back, same results, same response. She hid. He left her be, just occasionally coming to take a look, then leaving. I resolved to live with uneasy truce, as long as no outright fighting started. Saturday, lying in bed, I heard thudding and the sounds of quick-moving paws - Oh, crap . . . they're fighting was the thought. A few minutes later, Katzie comes through like a streak, the closest equivalent to a manic grin I've seen on a cat, and Katrina bounding after, hell-for-leather. A few moments later, Katrina comes through, Katzie chasing. A few minutes after that, two cats climbed on top of me and went to sleep next to each other. Since then, Katrina has alternated between following me around and following Katzie around. I've not seen my boy so happy in a very long time. It may be that Katrina looks much like Miutu, but somehow, I don't think so.
Bad news, I'm in a funk. Not to say I'm not delighted with Katrina, but that I'm feeling very useless, very much alone, and very . . . pointless. This is a far more dangerous state of mind for me than outright despair. A brilliant mind (yes, I know, but I am very bright) locked up in a state of total social and ambitional (see, I just maded a word!) incapacity. It is this that often makes me doubt God's goodness - why make someone like me. It seems a taunt both to me and the world around me.
Of course, a great deal of it is that I allow myself to believe the lie that money has worth, and, as I have none, I am worthless. I could, I think, if I could just break through this autism-jammed brain, end that money economy and misplaced value - much to the regret of mediocre men whose only attribute is money, but, ultimately, to their greater fulfillment as the great men they could be. It's infuriating to see, clearly, the society that could be, should be, and would be to the betterment of all . . . and be completely incapable of realizing it beyond words, and generalized words, at that. It's the anger that I feel for these parasitic men, projected from my own anger at myself for being unable to help them change and see reality.
I hate it. I hate me for it. I hate God for it (at times).
Lisa, at work, found a stray kitten. Lisa's husband is allergic to cats, so, she had it given its shots, checked out, treated for a mild respiratory ailment, and . . . I have a new baby girl. Her name is Katrina.
The other cats had bullied the poor little thing, and Lisa and I were both concerned about how she and Katzie would get along. My little gentleman came in, and, sure enough, she hissed, spat, growled. Katzie responded by looking at me, looking at her, and, without a sound, left and went to the next room. After about 45 minutes, he came back, same results, same response. She hid. He left her be, just occasionally coming to take a look, then leaving. I resolved to live with uneasy truce, as long as no outright fighting started. Saturday, lying in bed, I heard thudding and the sounds of quick-moving paws - Oh, crap . . . they're fighting was the thought. A few minutes later, Katzie comes through like a streak, the closest equivalent to a manic grin I've seen on a cat, and Katrina bounding after, hell-for-leather. A few moments later, Katrina comes through, Katzie chasing. A few minutes after that, two cats climbed on top of me and went to sleep next to each other. Since then, Katrina has alternated between following me around and following Katzie around. I've not seen my boy so happy in a very long time. It may be that Katrina looks much like Miutu, but somehow, I don't think so.
Bad news, I'm in a funk. Not to say I'm not delighted with Katrina, but that I'm feeling very useless, very much alone, and very . . . pointless. This is a far more dangerous state of mind for me than outright despair. A brilliant mind (yes, I know, but I am very bright) locked up in a state of total social and ambitional (see, I just maded a word!) incapacity. It is this that often makes me doubt God's goodness - why make someone like me. It seems a taunt both to me and the world around me.
Of course, a great deal of it is that I allow myself to believe the lie that money has worth, and, as I have none, I am worthless. I could, I think, if I could just break through this autism-jammed brain, end that money economy and misplaced value - much to the regret of mediocre men whose only attribute is money, but, ultimately, to their greater fulfillment as the great men they could be. It's infuriating to see, clearly, the society that could be, should be, and would be to the betterment of all . . . and be completely incapable of realizing it beyond words, and generalized words, at that. It's the anger that I feel for these parasitic men, projected from my own anger at myself for being unable to help them change and see reality.
I hate it. I hate me for it. I hate God for it (at times).
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
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