I don't think there's ever completion. To me this existence is a blend and a blur. Although I'm rather glad there's celebrations for certain things. Again, I made no resolutions. And I will make no predictions too. Well, I'm going to go out on a limb for this one: I predict I will not kiss Hilary Swank in 2009. This is the second time in a few days that I mentioned Hilary Swank in a blog. But, this is the only time I mentioned her this year. Last year (yesterday) for example I saw her in the movie P.S. I love you. For the longest time I was wondering why I was watching this movie when finally I just surrendered and watched it in its entirety. I was in the recline position and thought that I might be lucky enough to fall asleep. But no, I hung in there until it ended.  It left me hanging...as it should. In the end though, I felt glad for the mother. Even now, I'm wondering if she'll ever hook up with that man in Ireland. Eventually a sequel will be made and I may find out. This morning while walking the dogs by the creek I caught a glimpse of a scene so remarkable that I was mad that I didn't have a camera with me. There was this chilly cloud like mist  coming off the creek.  And then I thought, no, this is my moment, my scene, my awe and my gratitude to God. And if I made any attempt to capture it and replay it for you, it would never be the same. So I took it all in. And the air was so cold as it got sucked into my nostrils and filled my lungs I was overwhelmed by this first real recognition of my day. And now I'm glad I was awake to feel and see it. The shift is always on. Reinventing.

                            

Now I'm resting from all I've done today. And twelve million thoughts are still in my head. I needed a yield right of way sign that conveniently flips down on my glasses that allows for the bullshit to pass.It was prescibed .The other day the doctor told me that I'm getting better and it won't be long before he'll be able to take the little yield sign off my glasses. The doctor is not a real doctor as we know doctors here in america, he's more like a shaman or a guru, but I do respect his advice. His name is Otis. Otis grew up in Louisiana and his mom was an exorcist.  Actually,  Otis' mom was portrayed in the HBO series of True Blood. And what was weird was the fact that the actress who played Otis' mom bore a slight resemblance to him. And when I asked Otis one day when he and I were shoveling snow after a storm, (we're neighbors now)  if he ever watched True Blood on TV....he simply said...I never heard of it. And then I said, it's on HBO. And he said....I don't get HBO. And then I told him about the part of the story that had the exorcist and how the woman who played the exorcist had a slight resemblance to him. Was she dark skinned like me he asked. No, she was more like a medium beige. That was probably my sister's daughter. What makes you say that. Well, it's been so many years since we talked....but I do remember her telling me that she was dating a guy by the name of Orson and that she and him had a baby together, and it was a girl. Yes. And yes, look what you have left me. (with)
                               

Do you ever think that you'd like to change the rules? I do all the time, but I never tell anybody about it. New rule #1. Don't tell anybody, just do. New rule #3. Fuck sequence. New rule #2. It's not necessary to apologize. New rule #4. I'm sorry. New rule #6. Pretend that's there's a sequence. New rule# 7. Eliminate 5 from you life. New rule# eight. Plead for the return of five. Fast forward. New rule # 69. Clean up your act. New rule # 70. Be grateful. Old rule minus 50. Punch, slap, kick, stab & hang. Old rule minus 10,000,000,000. Fart in the sky. You mean Kaboom?  Sorta. I have a feeling I won't get an answer from you tonight. Rule # 5 resurfaces. I have feeling too. Rule# 5 rules. And of course, you know the rules by now. dontcha?

                                      

Forgive me my forgetfulness.Today the current issue of the American Poetry Review (APR)  arrived in our mailbox. My first thought was, oh I'm glad, I'll be able to relax with some good reading material when I'm ready. Ten thousand other thoughts and and a few other things take place. I come back into the house after going to the ATM and then  stopping to fill up my tank . Upon my return I notice the APR sitting on the counter. I pick it up, look at the picture on the cover, notice to see who's also featured towards the right of the page, and before I'm about ready to put it down, and leave it for some cherished alone time, I glance and catch the name Lucia Perillo...and I think..I must like her work, otherwise why would her name stop me in my tracks. And then I thought, could this be deja vu....could I know Lucia from another life. And before I could put the newly delivered APR down, I thought...no, she must have been recognized by me because she has something good to say. So, if you would please allow for me to indulge myself, I will read the four poems they published this month and I will comment on whether or not I recognize Lucia from a previously published poem. I'm rather glad that they included her picture, because I really do recognize her face. Ok, before I forget what the purpose of this blog was tonight, let me say that I think I remember why I like her writing. It has an edgy spunk to it.  A little tongue in cheeky, somewhat brave and sure and comic. I  was reminded of a Sheryl Crow song. I would like to invite both Lucia and Sheryl to come to my living room some evening to read and sing to me so I could blog about the experience. If not, I just may attempt to do so without them. I hope not. 

I like not knowing who god is. It makes things wide open. I don't have a problem with atheism or agnosticism either. Who the hell am I to buttonhole god into a definition. And yet, I believe in god. Or better yet, I believe in goodness, which is probably an offshoot of god. I don't believe in magic though, which is weird, why wouldn't I? I'm not one for hope, but overall, I'm quite optimistic. A lot of times I feel as though I'm a man of little faith, but I pray daily. God forbid that I'm a hypocrite. I can keep a secret and I can lie with a straight face. Which is weird too because there are times I'm telling the truth and I'm being accused of lying. Although, you can trust me. I don't steal. But I would, if I had to. I'm honest that way. I'm a catholic and I will die that way. And why not, because that's the way I was brought up. I like Mary in all her guises. I like a lot of the saints. I think it's cool to believe in saints. I think it's cool not to too. I would like to see Mary Magdalene in a tutu. And then, when she and I were done dancing after a few glasses of the second round of wine, I'd ask her to remember a lot of my friends who have asked me to pray for them...or their concerns. And we would both pause in our debauchery and kneel down beside the bed and we'd pray and pray and pray to god only knows who, while knowing our intents were honest and true. Well, I really can't speak for her. Although why not, she is a part of me. And the child too. God bless....god bless.

Curtail. If you were about to take on a filing position you'd have to know that e comes before c except after maybe. Simple things like this are having difficulty being figured out nowadays. No one is to blame. Who's got the time for figuring. I must. I am working towards a blog. I went out this evening with the bride and the bride to be and the mother in law to be too and a couple of other daughters and a future son in law too to sit and eat and then check out the upper level of the restaurant as a possible place to hold a wedding reception. The score is two to who knows what. Julie and dad were strongly opinionated towards no. The bride and daughter two were favorable and the bride to be and the mother in law to be and her son were not in the car with us on the way home, so who knows. I suppose you never know for sure. It has been said so often, that there's two sides to every story. Probably so, if it's you in solitary confinement, and even then, it's been recorded that there's such a thing as multiple personalities....and now I'm wondering if any other of those personalities could have another personality too. Actually, it's true. We do. Where else could this come from. It's not possible for one to do it alone. I just did, I just did, I just did. Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap clap, clap clap clap. Curtain down. Clap curtail. Bow and another bow. That was great wasn't it? Yeah, but I didn't get it. You will, you will. Curtail. Curtain down.

This morning I stood outdoors with the county executive, the town supervisor, the commissioner of senior services and a group of other folks to tout the fact that the county of erie was presenting some vans to three different senior service departments in various towns.These vans happened to be presented in the Town of Cheektowaga, a town that I represent as a legislator. Generally I don't like to attend press conferences, but today I figured I ought to because I missed the last conference that the county executive called, because of a conflict.I usually stand in the back because I don't like to be called on to speak at these affairs. Today the county executive turned around and called on me to say a few words.Two other people already spoke on the issue. I got up and said something like this:  I remember when I was 18 years old and our mantra was this "wheels are dates." Now, for people in their 60, 70 & 80's, wheels are still dates, but the dates are with doctors, dentists and proctologists. I am glad that we as a county are able to provide this service. I got this snapshot emailed to me this afternoon by the executive's assistant. This evening our family went to a neighborhood restaurant for a fish fry. We had to wait for a table so we stood by the bar and ordered a drink. My son says...dad look. I look on the TV and notice I made the 6 o'clock news. I said to my family, geez, that guy looks familiar. I was already in my dungarees. This is our second night in a row that we supped at a restaurant. It's not a norm for us, but fish frys in Buffalo are somewhat a tradition on Fridays...and our son will be heading back to school on Tuesday, so why not indulge.



         

If you're a leg person, would you be turned off by funny looking shoes on those legs. Be honest. Honestly I can't say. Well, he's another one for you, suppose you like tits, descibe the tit you love the most. I like it when they're ridgid. As opposed to a stiff leg right? Yeah, I don't like a stiff leg. And what about you? I seem to like the buttock. And you? I like lips. So suppose for a moment, you run into the perfect set of lips and there's something about the teeth that you just can't fall in love with. And you, that enjoys the contour of buttocks, what if the lips had a canker sore, and even though you are enamored by the butt, you know you eventually would like to do a little lip to lip...but, the canker sore just simply turns you off.  And what if, another part had an ugly part to it. Is this where unconditional love comes into play. Or is love more than tits, cocks, lips, teeth and asses. And rogue. And what about roque. Here, try this. I don't like it. Have you ever had it before. No, but I know that I would not like it. I still love your legs. I love your legs too, but your toes....don't you think we should do something about the fungus? Fungu. Hey be careful now....my grandmother was Italian. Well, bafa fungu. I think you have it wrong. I think it should be ma fa fungu. It doesn't matter...will you marry me. I suppose I could...how big did you say your dick is? Which one?  Oh?  ....   .... Yes, let's marry.  I'm glad you're open for this...yes..let's do.



                     

I like edgy and I like spunk and I like in your face. But I also like smooth, funk and an about face. Turn around, so to speak. Gosh, I love smiling. I just did. I have a remedy for funk. When I wake up ( I was going to say in the morning) and realize that I'm in a funk, I rush to a mirror and I make myself smile. I'm practicing it now. But I'm not in front of a mirror, I'm in front of you. Smile...God loves you. Did you know that God has buck teeth? They're the wax ones. Not that that would matter, I would love God regardless. But I'm going to stop talking about God's teeth because this all seems too familiar to the blog about the legs etc. from the other day. Well, there may be a possibility that there's some unfinished business going on here tonight. And it will have to stay unfinished. The bride came home and she's enjoying some supper and conversation with our son. I'm within earshot and have become a semi-active participant. A lot of stuff that I was thinking about moments ago went poof. Maybe that's good. I really hope that God does have buck teeth. (and not the wax ones) And I want to see if wax buck teeth still have the same taste that I remember. And then, I want big red wax lips on green Tara. And I want to see how that tastes too. And the bride has cleaned her plate and I wonder if she'll go for seconds. No, she eats like a bird. Is that a wax pecker? No asshole, it's a beak. Is it wax? No, it's wane.

I enjoy taking a bath with a few drops of essential oils or a couple scoops of aromatic salts...rosemary was a mistake. The bride got home early that day. I smell rosemary, what are you doing in the tub with rosemary you pervert you? Well, I can explain. I was yearning earlier for some roasted chicken and I remembered we had this big fat hen in the freezer and when I went to pull it out, it slipped my hands and fell on my foot and I immediately thought that I better soak it in the tub. Yeah, what about the rosemary then? Well, once I was in the tub I figured I should bring the hen in here with me to help it thaw....and  then, I reached over to my pants and pulled out my cell phone and called our neighbor rosemary here to help me get out of the tub and I asked her if she had any rosemary would she be kind enough should bring it with her too. So, why is she naked with you in the tub. I'm pretty sure she was naked when I called her, but she thought my call was an emergency, so she ran over immediately. But why is she in the tub? I"m not sure how this happened ...she may have slipped on some patchouli oil....you know how liberal I am with that  stuff when I wanna soak...and she may have slipped and fallen ...and...and... I'm not sure...I may have hit my head when she fell. Now I just realized that I could never be a mystery writer. I mean really, do you think rosemary would've walked over to my house naked in mid afternoon. Especially since frank & al are always out. And what if they did see her walk into my yard with her clothes on. What happened to the clothes. I give up. I was born naked and I still can't handle the truth. Maybe at another thyme.

                                                     

One time after my father finished painting a picture and he asked me what I thought of it and I walked over to it and got a look at it from about a foot away from my nose, my father immediately asked me why I was standing so close. He said, you should be looking at it from this far away. (approx 5 ft away) And I said to him, right now I don't want the full picture, I want the details, flaws and all. And my dad said, you're not being fair to the artist. I really never gave that episode any more thought except for tonight. And I don't really think it stopped me from ever getting up close and squinting at things I care to get an understanding of. Although I'm grateful that I've never searched for the end of the rainbow. Right now I'm thinking Keebler not Lucky Charms. Question: is a leprechaun an elf? And what's more believable...paint on a canvas, chalk on a board, dots on a tv screen or stuff floating around in a brain. OK, step back, step back, step back....haven't you ever seen an accident before. Yeah but this one looks different, I see some tragic flaws. Step back, step back, step back. Freud would have a ball with this I suppose and so would Karen Horney too.  Tom....STOP!!!  Be serious for a moment. OK. I just got back in from walking the dogs. Is it cold?  What...I can't hear you. I said....is it cold out?  Twat you say, I cunt hear a word you're saying. Dad...is mom home...put her on the phone. Mom, what's wrong with dad?  How would I know, this is his blog. No, it's really mine...step a little closer.

Last evening near 5pm I was swinging through Sugar Road that divides two cemeteries. To the left are the Poles and to the right are the Germans. Make a right hand turn down Pine Ridge Road and go a little way and you will see the Jews. But I was not interested in the dead last night, it was the setting sun that summoned me. It said pull over, capture me with your camera. How could I not listen to the sun, so I did. And now, just having returned from my semi annual doctor visit I am wondering what it was about where I was last night that made it so special. I now think it was a moment in a place where I felt that peace dwelt. But how could that be. Peace is never in the past tense. Peace is now. Peace is Polish, peace is German, Peace is Jew, Peace is regrettably forgettably me. Peace must be Gaza and Afghanistan too. And peace was Memhis in 1968, and in vietnam too, when I first heard the news. When I see and feel peace I feel it's where I'm at and it's where I belong and for that moment, I am so happy I could cry.  So I have to capture it and recapture it...like now. Peace.

Renee Zellweger would be beautiful and wonderful all the time. I won't be picking on Renee tonight, but I happened to catch a glimpse of her puss earlier and it stuck in my mind. What a word...puss. By the way, you have a sweet and wonderful looking puss. Your skin is so soft and smooth. While yours is so blemished and rough. I hate my skin. Well, I kinda like my skin because I know a lot of people have told me that they like my skin. And, my skin is rather nice, but I'm actually not so sure about my pores. And then, there's those smile and frown lines too. And that mole, I think I'm going to have it removed. But I love that mole. Yes, you just may, but I don't. Well, if you do that, I"ll just cut off all my hair. And I'll buy you a brush. Well I won't need one then. Is this your way of saying it's over. No, it's my way of saying I don't know where you're taking this tonight. So, you're not going to give me the brush after all. In a perfect world, that's probably correct. Hello...hello....hello. I'm sorry, the number that you have called.... Honey, will you throw the towels down the chute, I want to get this laundry going before ER comes on. What the hell are you doing down there anyway for so long. Just trying to sort these socks.

My first attempt at computing was with a commodore. I didn't understand the damn thing and it sat in the corner of our dining room for a long time collecting dust. I felt guilty about bringing it into my home and pretty much ignoring it for the most part. We have a piano that we don't use, but I don't have any guilt feelings about it sitting in our dining room collecting dust. We have knickknacks on it, the printer for this dell laptop that I use daily, a couple of plants and a whole bunch of other stuff that generally doesn't get cleared until we know that someone might be coming over for a visit. Anyway, the second computer I brought into my life was a big old clunky classroom user friendly style Mac circa 1989. And believe it or not, there was no such thing as instant messaging back then. Emails took overnight to be delivered. But, I was still excited to be able to hear from someone from as far away from California...in the morning. Now though, I use a Dell and it suits me well. I love blogging on Gaia, but just the other day, my kids invited me to be their friends on Facebook. I don't understand Facebook, but I must have set up an account a couple of years ago and my kids knew my email address so they shot me an invite and I caught up with it on my AOL mail. When I received the email I thought at first....what the hell is this, and then I rememberd hearing about facebook. It was easy to log on because I pretty much keep the same password for everything I do. At times a little thing pops up on my screen to tell me that the password I chose is pretty weak...but I type in fuckyou again and it usually allows me to enter the site. Every now and again, another little pop up surfaces and tells me that I must use a combination of letters and #'s for my password and I type in : fuckyou2...and away I go into cyberspace. Things are so much easier since my commodore days.

This morning cutting through the path that takes me to the open meadow by the creek I thought I should snap a picture with my cell phone so I could possibly use it for this evening's blog. I did...so end of story. The truth is, I don't much care for the snapshot. I don't know what it communicates. It doesn't speak for itself. I was about to delete it and then I thought....maybe something will come of it. The tire up against an old rickety backyard fence is a big fat old bald racing tire. It's been there for years. I often wonder why someone doesn't throw it out. I wonder too, how it got there...who put it there, and when it was on a car racing around somewhere did it ever get the checkered flag. In our town, you can't put old tires out to the curb on trash days, because they don't pick them up. It's a rule...no tires in the trash. When I get new tires put on my vehicle, I'm always asked if I want to save my old tires. I say no, and I know that I will be charged an extra two dollars per tire for disposal. But, one big fat old tire up against an old rickety fence...now there's a mystery. I don't even know who lives in the house up front. I know that someone mows the lawn in the summer, but is it the person who lives there...I don't know. But, it's really not about the other person, it's about me. Me wondering all the time why someone would leave a stinky old tire up against a fence in their backyard. To me, it just doesn't belong. Isn't that funny. It's not even my yard or my tire...it's just my world, according to me. And now, I'm sucking you into it.

I was going to blow off blogging tonight, but I got a little tired of hearing about hope. I think I gave up on hope in the 80's. It had nothing to do with any president, but I started to dislike the idea that I should hope that things would get better....even though the place where I was at was pretty ok. But that was for me, certainly then, my hope would be for those who were not as fortunate as I. And that's where the misunderstanding always crept up. To simply hope that things will get better is bullshit. So I quit hoping and started to live more in the present. Help out here and there as best as I could. But, on a small scale it helped incrementally but it was hardly enough to be able to recognize any noticeable change. I felt good about doing good, but started to lose hope that hope was worth hoping for. And yet today, I seem to have a glimmer of hope. And then I think, maybe I should have some faith to go along with it. But I lost my faith in 1969. So in essence, I lost faith first, and then I lost hope...so what's next. Last night my dog died. But it wasn't my dog really. It was the family dog. And it really wasn't a family dog, it was a dog that somehow happened to our family. Like everything else that happens. And that's the key point. What makes it happen. Is is sufficient enough just to say...I want peace. I don't hope that it would be that simple. But I leave you my peace regardless.

I'm not sure if this is true or not, but it doesn't matter because it's been true to me for so long that it probably is true. Beeshoo our dog that passed into another realm the other day is the topic for tonight. I'm mourning. I told this story before, but I will retell it tonight with a few different words. Every time a story is retold it has to take on a new twist. Our puppy was born in August of 1994. He was the proud son of Beta. Beta had given birth to five puppies. But this one particular puppy (Beeshoo) got quite listless after about three weeks. We thought we were going to lose him then, but we scooped him up and shuffled him off to the vet. The vet said he'd have to keep the pup for a couple of days and feed him intravenously and shoot him up with some antibiotics to see if he could save him. My wife then said, if he lives, we'll have to keep him because no one will give him the care that we will. And of course he lived and we kept him. We had names for each of the puppies and we called this one '"cow"  because of his markings. But, when we knew the cow was going to stay with us, I said to the bride, we can't call this guy a cow because he's more like a little bull because he has a dick. So, I called my friend Daniel who has a command of the Polish language and asked him if there's a Polish word for little bull. And after a long conversation (Daniel is never short) he came up with the word biczu.  And that became the cow's new name. I just changed the spelling of it when I took him to the vet and the woman behind the desk asked me what is the dog's name. I  had to come up with a phonetic spelling that would make sense to most....so thus was born Beeshoo. And Beeshoo became other names too. Beeshy....beesheela...and my favorite...peeshoe. This was an extremely territorial terrier. When visitors came to our home and left their shoes or boots on the landing, Beeshoo would come on over, when no one was watching and pee on them. This was his home and he just had to mark his turf. Just remember this when you feel the first few drops of rain.

Hype. How about the super bowl. Do you watch the game for the commercials. Who's playing this year and where are they playing. I'm a fan. Pittsburgh will destroy Arizona...care to wager. Define destroy. They'll win by more than 13 points. You're nuts. Leave my nuts out of this. This is Arizona's year. Did Obama carry arizona. What does that have to do with football. I'm not sure. So you're saying that because blue collar Pittsburgh overwhelmingly supported Obama in the November election, their team will prevail. Well, there's a lot more too it than that. Oh yeah, what's that. Well for one thing, there's three guys that play for Arizona that actually have close ties to Pittsburgh. That doesn't matter, I'm still not changing my prediction. Place your entire savings on Pittsbugh and lay the points. What if I lose. Don't worry about it, eventually you lose it all anyway. It's easy death. What if  I went the other way I put all my money on Arizona. You will still lose. But what if  I go to heaven. Don't bet on it. Why's that. If you're not here now, what are you betting on. Oh, I think I get it. Don't think.

I'm more frustrated than playful tonight. I ran out of batteries for my camera so I couldn't snap any pictures today for this blog. And I ran out of snapshots in my photo album, so I couldn't pluck out anything from my pictures folder. So I got off my butt, unhooked my cell and snapped a picture of  a pair of socks that happened to be sitting on top of a loose leaf binder that was sitting quiting doing nothing on top of our dining room table.  What's weird though is this habitual existence of mine. It's almost as though I can't blog until I have a snapshot that I feel is suitable and topical for use. I mean, why couldn't I just blog tonight without a photo or a you tube tune attached to it. Simple, it hasn't been my habit lately. You would think that a dumb simple adjustment like that would be easy...but no, an agitation was created. And really what's so crazy about this is not only the fact that I'm even thinking like this to begin with, but I'm actually sharing it with you too. But it's not going to stop me from talking about it. I'm going to keep spinning this yarn until it begins to make a little sense to me. I don't know if this is true or not, but I do enjoy repeating it. It's about how a pearl is cultivated in an oyster by agitation. Supposedly some sand gets stuck in the oyster's craw and the oyster churns daily to get rid of this agitator but to no avail. Eventually through this churning process there is this build up of sand, oyster shell and muck which results in a miraculous pearl. I'm not sure how many pearls oysters produce at one time, but one is really cool and ten or more would probably be suspect. But, who am I to say. Now, I'm wondering....what tune should I attach to this blog. Please be surprised. Here...have a cigarette while you're waiting...




        

I need tangibles. I need to see the wounds. On rare occasions word will suffice. It has nothing to do with trust. It's just me. But, who else is there, except for just me. I'm the judge and jury for just me. I make and break difficult cases all the time. At times there are coincidences and we agree. But it has more to do with me than it does for you. How would I know any difference. I really don't know you. And if I would say, that I know you like a book, that would be a lie. And vice versa too. But that's fine with me. Is it fine with you too? It doesn't matter. Not that what you're thinking doesn't matter, but this is a futile discussion. I can only know  you through how I perceive you. You can tell me this and that and I can nod my head & nod my head in agreement, but that doesn't really let me enter your head. You are the sole owner of what's going on in there. And of course, I'm not even sure if that's true or not....maybe you're a robot and someone else is in control. I've heard you say...the devil made me do it. I laughed...we laughed. Who is this evil devil? I know evil exists I see it all the time and I avoid it at all costs. To a point I suppose. But it's my definition, so I can live with that. Live with what you moron? See what I'm saying...you have to be on guard all the time...otherwise, some wise ass comment sneaks in. That never happens to me. It doesn't? Are you sure. Yes. And that's the beauty of it all. The mystery...the unsureness of your relationship to anything other than you.  Angels devils included & your politically correct significant other too.

 

                                                         

I like the phrase...nip in the air. I've probably used it a lot more than ...nip it in the bud. I think I have taken many nips off the bottle, but not as much as I have talked about the nip in the air. Tell a kid nowadays that's it's nippy outside and he'll probably think you're fucking nippy. Anyway, it's pretty fucking cold outside and I'm glad I have the wood stove stoking. I refuse to wish for Spring. And I don't even care to catch a snapshot of Michelle Obama in a bikini. I'm sure though, a paparazzo has less conscience than I do and I'll see a tabloid shot of her in a bathing suit while waiting in the checkout line of my local supermarket. I'll say Michelle won't don a bikini, but the photo will be doctored so, that it'll look as though she does. She has a lot more sense than Brittney Spears so I doubt she'll ever put on a two piece. At least not while tossing a Frisbee on the white house lawn with her daughters. Of course I'm being absurd. Did I have to tell you this? No. I usually don't. But today I have a feeling that I'll have an unexpected visitor to my blog and I don't want them to think I'm picking on the new president's wife. Or the office. Or the paparazzi, or the bikini makers, or the tabloid makers, or the managers of the supermarkets displays or the nip in the air. Not to mention Michelle.(she is her own person)  I like it when there's a nip in the air, especially when photographers are out there catching it all for us to take in. Such a spectacle all the time.

I promise that I will never tell you that I'm tiring of you and I have to leave. I promise I won't say it's not you, it's me instead. No, not me, I'm in it for the duration. I totally misunderstand falling out of love. But I don't understand why I misunderstand. Unconditionally. Who feeds us this bullshit. I could almost blame Jesus, but maybe it was his translator that fucked up. And the same goes for Buddha too. & mother Teresa said something in Italian while she was on her deathbed and that's something that's being misconstrued too. Some have said that she uttered: I wish to hell they have a bathtub in heaven... and then she died. Wasn't that rather presumptuous. I always liked Mother Teresa...she's one of my heroines. I pray to her all the time while I'm in the tub. I never hear from her. I never got any response from the dead.So, that's why I'm trying to get a private audience with the dali lama while he's alive. I've tried mental telepathy but it's not working. I may have to write him a letter. Dear your excellency dali lama: I saw you when you were in Buffalo at our University. I was in the bleachers with my daughter. It was very windy that day and from where we were sitting, you looked as though you were an inch tall. I almost caught your aura, but it got caught up in a gust and swirled out of my reach. But it's not about me, it's about you. I felt sorry for you that day. You looked tired. And rightly so because you continually have to jump from time zone to time zone and move from gathering to gathering with your dharma intact. I don't know how you do it. But this is what I'd like to find out and this is why I want a private audience with you......?  A few days later I received a post card personally signed by the dali lama. It was handwritten and it said:  Dear Tom, I'm sorry I had to depart  Buffalo on such short notice. Your city was magnanimous and hospitable. I was so tempted to eat the wings, they looked so scrumptious...I just had to leave. fondly, dali.

Down go the mean old germs. You'll wonder where the yellow went. Jingles are there to drive you crazy. Hurt in a car...call Mataar. call 444-4444. say it 4 times in a row. four four four, four four four four. For what the fuck?  The Jeopardy theme song. I sometimes think I'm smart but I'm willing to say that maybe I get the final answer correct less than 10% of the time. But I have to admit, jingles catch me. I'm caught by the rhythm and tune of them. I whistle jingles all the time. I'm actually glad I can whistle a tune. Randomly (now) I plucked out a tune from my head and I whistled...I like to be in America. Next came Bali Hai. I also like to whistle stuff from Godfather part one and part II. I don't do a whole lot of vivaldi, but I've done some chopin in my life. Killing me softly, the Roberta Flack version catches folks all the time. Young and old. I like young and old tunes. Remakes....remixes w/o bastardizing the original intent. How would you know what the original was? One knows. And that's where the secret of wisdom lies. The seat of all knowledge is not your ass. I know that was a dumb thing to say, but I just had to use it. Forgive me more than 7 times 70.  Now at this time, I would say, it's time to leave...but no, shouldn't there be some closure? I wish I had a jingle for this. I'm still trying to figure out where the yellow went.  We all live in a yellow submarine, but I'm whistling the yellow brick road song.