Humanity in One Picture

Damn. I've never seen more beautiful skeletons. Their skulls come together as a Valentine Heart. You have to wonder what their story was. But it's probably the same as everyone else's. You reach out for what you love, and it dies with you. Also, you get famous when you're dead for 5,000 years. Sometimes I think God made people just to screw with our heads.

We don't know their skin color, religion, political allegince or faveorite football teams. They're just the distilled essance of humanity -- elegant lines of calicium emerging from the earth. Sometimes I wish we couldn't see what seperates us, but see that we're all the same. Would we really discriminate and shoot at skeletons that look just like any other skeleton? Knowing the human race, probably!

In other news, I sold a poem about my late Uncle George who fought in World War Two, came home and shot himself. It will appear in a future issue of The Custer-Hawk Gazette. That's two poems now. I wonder what they'll look like in 5,000 years.

Do I Smell Smoke? Better Rosin Up the Bow...

Well, it's official. We're screwed. Even the White House admidts that global warming is real now.

So how does the government react? By trying to ban trans fats. Not by making big businesses change their ways, or banning unnecessary car trips or recyling--no, no, that might harm the economy. Heaven forbid.

It's our fault the planet will most likely be a burnt out conder block by 3000. So instead of trying to do something about it, let's just go on a diet and save some cash. Yeah, that'll do it.

Folks, all the money ever printed won't buy us a new planet. Why do we still persist in the lie that we're God's gift? The human race is an evil species--we're responsible for the death of everything on this world. And we don't care. God trats this planet like a loaf of bread. "Hmmm, fancy some toast--oh, yuck! It's got all human mouldy! Well, got to toss that and get another loaf."

If we really cared about the planet, we'd take people who are suffering, such as in Darfur and put them to sleep. What's the point of saving them and educating their kids if they're only going to grow up poor, starving and crammed together on a cinder block? Killing all of our kids would be kinder than what we're doing now.

Yeah, yeah, I know--shut up and pass the fat-free donuts.

Let's Stop Horse Racing Now

Barbaro died today. I am glad his owners tried to save him -- that's what a racehorse owner should do but rarely does. But I think the American public is hypocitical. Thousands of race horses die every year, in far worse situations than Barabaro's. Even being a Kentucky Derby winner can't guarantee that the horse won't be slaughtered for meat.

Racing Thoroughbreds are magnificent, fragile babies that can barely support their own weight, let alone that of a jockey's. They run until they literally implode, because we ask them to. The entire gene pool is derived from just three stallions. Funny how no one wonders about what that might do to generations of animals.

These animals are bred for speed, not to survive. What are we DOING? Winning a trophy should not be so high up on our priorities that we condem millions of horses to misery. I've got a feeling if the situations were reversed, the horses wouldn't do it to people. They're not that greedy.

I used to worship horse racing. Football fanatics had nothing on me. I knew statistics, bloodlines; collected books, movies and artwork about racehorses. As a kid, I'd daydream about having my own racehorse.

Then, as I got older, I grew up. Seeing Charismatic being overtrained for the 1999 Triple Crown made me afraid to watch a race he was in, for I knew it was only a matter of time before he'd go down. And he did. And no one said boo. All they wanted to know was "Who do you like in the next race?"

It appalled me. I'd wasted years of my life on a sport that cared not one whit for the very animals it needs. I shocked my family and friends when I no longer watched races and wanted nothing to do with them. But I love horses more than what I looked like to others.

And I've never regretted it. I learned about other things, like paganism. The money, land and tracks of the racing industry can be used for better things, like building homes for the homeless, sheltering abandoned animals or becoming halfway homes for suddenly unemployed racehorses.

And the Thoroughbreds won't even mind if their breed goes extinct. The only ones who would mind are people.

That's One

All hail T-Zero! they are officially the first publication to give me money for the privelege of printing my stuff. They've accepted one poem. I'd thought I'd be dancing around the house with joy, but I'm EXHAUSTED. By the way, I can't print the poem here because that would screw the deal up, so you just have to wait. The funny thing is that I wrote the poem when Pony had to spend the weekend at the Emergency Vet's. So perhaps she'd trying to help earn her keep. This poem might bring in enough for one can of dog food. (That's more than I usually get!)

I've known for a while that I am a writer, but it would be nice to actually get PAID for it. It takes a lot of false starts to find out where you're going It would've been nice to win the $250 million Powerball Wednesday night, but this is a good consolation prize from God.

Now to try and convince other editors to publish my stuff...

Suicide Bomber Roll Call

There certainly seems to be a lot of suicide bombers out there. I guess, theoretically, they'll eventually all blow themselves up and that'll be the end of them.

But until then, why don't we do the same thing? Hey if something ain't broke, why fix it, eh? We could gather up people in our society no one would miss, tell them they have the only chance they ever will get to be a hero, load them up for bear (except we tell them it's surveliance equipment -- heck, we could even knock them out and stick a nitroclycerin suppository up 'em), parachute their asses into some group that needs blowing up...terriorst training camps...death squads in Darfur...the Eurovision song contest...and then when they're in, push a button and blow the whole kittenkaboodle to dust. We get rid of two problems at once, then.

So who should these heroes be? Glad you asked:

• O.J. Simpson: We all should love our enemies. What better way by blowing them up in the cause of freedom?

Pat Robertson: Let's see if God will raise enough money to save him this time.

• The night manager at Lancaster Kmart who shot me with a BB gun trying to kill a small brown bird nesting in the artificial Christmas trees. 'Nuff said


• My ex: He'd do it for a beer. I wish I was kidding.


• The Geicko Gecko: This creature is the AntiChrist. There's a 666 somewhere on his head. Let's save the world by blowing up this thing.

Birds and Maybes

I'm bumpin'! (Not quite buzzin' and not quite bumping--hense bumpin'). I've finally gotten feedback from an editor instead of just the ususal rejection form letters! They want me to rewrite and resubmit the three poems I sent to The Writer's E-zine/T-zero. That they took the time to reply makes me feel there's hope yet

I just hope I don't screw up the rewrites! Just my luck, eh, if I get "Hmmm--this was better the first time around. What the heck did you do to it? Drive over it with a lawnmower?"

I've also got a maybe from Equine Lifesytle. And, of course, there's still that "maybe" from GrendelSong. All of my fingers are crossed. I'm typing telekinetically here...or is it the other way around?

If and when I get published and get paid for it, it will either be proof my personal Raven God exists and gives a crap about me, or the sign of Ragnarok (and you thought it had been cancelled).

If none of these pans out, perhaps I can blame this on Peter Gabriel. Why not? Honestly, this is a guy who was 25 years between KIDS, so any retaliation from him (now there's a happy mental image) won't come until I'm pushing up daisies (which is going to be really something to see, because I've left instructions for me to be cremated).

The Last Word of 2006

First things first -- Pony is doing much better. She's not too fond of being on a diet, though (join the club, Pony).

Now, I received this in the E-Newsletter from Writer's Digest:

The American Dialect Society, a 117-year-old organization of
linguists, grammarians, historians and independent scholars,
selected "plutoed"--to demote or devalue someone or
something--as its 2006 Word of the Year. The term, which
started when the General Assembly of the International
Astronomical Union took away Pluto's designation as a planet,
beat out several challengers including "climate canary" ("an
organism or species whose poor health or declining numbers
hint at a larger environmental catastrophe on the horizon),
murse (man's purse), flog (a fake blog that promotes products)
and macaca (an American citizen treated as an alien).

Well, that pretty much sums up 2006 in a word for me -- plutoed. In 2006, I became unemployed, my saintly Mom was forced to retire due to health, none of my 46 submissions for 2006 seemed to've taken fruit and AND Peter Gabriel & Company's Big Blue Ball STILL hasn't been released.

One of the things I hate about astrology is that I fit the stereotype for a Scorpio (and yes, I am a Scorpio). Yet Scorpios are ruled by both Mars and Pluto. But Pluto is now no longer a planet -- have I yet lost some tiny force keeping me together? Damn -- I think this explains my crap year. I've been plutoted.

Pony's Sick as a Dog

Poor Pony puppy (alright, she's nearly two and a half years old, but she has a puppy brain)! She's come down with a disease called pancreatitis. She had to stay in the Emergency Vet for a weekend. She's home now and, though still shakey, getting more and more like her old self every day.

Now, Pony is a British Mongrel. Throughout my life, I've gone on and on about how mongrels have Digestive Tracts of Steel compared to purebreds. Mom and I would call them "Princess Dogs" because they need need to be cooked for.

Well, my karma has run over my dogma. Mom keeps calling Pony "Princess Dog".

And now that my bank account has been wiped out (and worth every penny!) I REALLY need a job!!! Now, I've a theory that it was Pony's doggy mojo that made me unemployed all this time. She doesn't like me leaving the house without her, you see. So we've had to have a long talk. She's not very responsive.

I'm still trying to find a way to blame Peter Gabriel for all of this.

Updates

Just a coupla notes on updates of topics touched on in 2006:

• JoPa, the Football Coach of Steel, returned to coach the Nittany Lions of Penn State to victory in the Outback Bowl New Year's Day. For those readers who nothing about American College Football (like me), going to a bowl game is A Really Big Deal. He's mending well. Next year, he's planning on singlehandedly eating the world's nuclear arsenal.


• The Seminole Tribe, who recently purchased the Hard Rock Cafe chain, are getting sued. Wasn't losing their land and rights bad wnough--now they can't buy a stupid overpriced burger joint without Whitey trying to smack them?


• Barney the Doberman has been retired from guard duty to a farm "where he can chase chickens". Hopefully, the chickens will not end up like the bears at Wookey Hole Teddy Bear museum. However, I'm happy to see that Barney has escaped being sued.


• The score so far: From all the stories, articles and poems sent out for publishing, I have 15 rejections, 1 maybe and 34 sitting on someone's desk somewhere.
  Here's a bit of advice from my guru (yeah, right) Stephen King (You were wondering where the YouTube link would come in, weren't you?)
  
• I also found this cute photo of PG's head superimposed on a CHippendale's body from the 1992 Steam video. That's definately one of my personal highlights from 2006

Here's hoping we all get published and paid for it in 2007!

White Buffalo Medicine

I spent Xmas with an intestinal virus. So, basically, I brought in the holidays by bringing up everything I'd eaten since the last holiday. Love to know what Secret Santa gave me that gift, so I can repay him.

No argument--I need good medicine. Soon after my eyes began to focus, I read about a ceremony held on Christmans Eve to bring peace on earth and goodwill to men--the naming ceremony of a rarer-than-Venus'-arms white buffalo calf, born in a Pennslyvannia zoo. The bouncing bundle of joy was named Kenahkihinen, which is Lenape for "watch over us." It was a mutli-cultural prayer offering to the Great Spirit. From what I understand, the calf will not be worshipped, but treated with respect, as a great eacher, for white buffaloes represent a time when man is at a crossroads--they can either die or adapt.

In a related story, the Seminole Nation bought the Hard Rock Cafe chain of resteraunts. Coincidence? I think not.

''Our ancestors sold Manhattan for trinkets,'' Osceola said Dec. 7. ''Today, with the acquisition of the Hard Rock Cafe, we're going to buy Manhattan back one hamburger at a time.''

I'll drink my Nyquil to that. I'm only about 1/16th Native American, but I hope that's enough to spare my lily white ass when the revolution comes...and wouldn't it just be poetic justice if it did? Whitey getting kicked out behind a border fence while the Native peoples (which I assume include Latinos) yuck it up, told it's "manifest destiny"? Yes, I better quit before I laugh myself sick again.

Things I Wonder About

As a gift to the world, I will tell you what I wonder about. Maybe it'll be good for a laugh or soul-search or both. No, I don't bother with those piddling questions like "Where did we come from?" and "Is there life after death?" Those just aren't too practical. I want to know how to find dry sticks to light a fire when I'm caught in a rianstorm in Somerset. Other things I wonder about:

• Is God/dess laughing His/Her/Its Ass off at us?"


• Are the penguins trying to take over the world? And if so, what can I do to hurry them up a bit?


• Right. Suppose the Dalai Lama one day wakes up and snaps and yells "Bugger the Karma!" and blows all the Chinese in Tibet away, despite that this would go against all he'd been saying all of lives, would anyone really blame him?


• Speaking of the Dalai Lama, how many times in his life has someone come up to him and said, "Hello, Dalai!"?


• About 20 years ago, comedian George Carlin came up with the idea for a feminine hygene spray called Sprunt ("Well, you'd never forget the name, wouldja?")? I'd like that stuff. How come this never was made?


• Wouldn't it be great if dog shit was edible?


• And, most importantly, When the bloody 'ell is Peter Gabriel gonna put another albumn out???

Happy Winter, folks!

I Have Two College Degrees...

...and today I lost a chance at a $6.00 an hour job because I pushed a wrong button during the phone menu atuomated post-pre interview. (I wish I was joking). I had to beg on the phone to real person to find out what the problem was so I could try again. I will have to try again Friday IF the pre-interviewer's supervisor approves. I have two college degrees and an automated phone system is telling me I'm not qualified for a job wearing a name badge.

Now, how am I supposed to find meaning in all this? My degrees are in Liberal Arts and English. Theoretically, I should be ruling a small Third World country. Or, at least, have enough money to BUY a small Third World country, with chips. But now, I'm not qualified to wear a name badge? I can't even afford the name badge.

After getting shot down there, I received another rejection slip from another mag. This time, it wasn't for a poem or short story. They were rejecting my autobiography. Apparantly, my life is "well written, but not currently within our editorial standards." You know some Diety somewhere is laughing.

So Mom took me out for ice cream. I'm not sure how this helps with my jobsearch or spiritual life, but it does.

Stephen King Dreams

I had a dream about Stephen King. I made a speech, using a quote from him. He came up to me and asked if he could use that quote. (I think it was "The road to hell is paved with adverbs") I told him it was his own, from On Writing. He made a face and stomped away. What up, there, Kingmeister?

So I wake up and help Mom to her appointment with a neurosugeon. His office has a huge triptych of this Hieronymous Bosch painting (The Garden of Earthly Delights) and a silver skull with Celtic Knots on it. He's using sentences containing the words "Vertebrae" and "drill" which should NEVER be used in the same sentence, as far as I'm concerned!

I should send this guy to Stephen King. The road to hell is not paved with adverbs, but with computer simulated spinal surgury videos. Well, now I know that bones can bleed. I'm sure that bit of unasked-for info will help my spiritual life and writing career loads.

How Much is Your Best Friend Worth?

Say someone shot your Picasso. Should you be compensated financilly? What about your pet? Don't you put as much effort into them as a work of art? Unfortunately, this is just what happened. Shadow was shot by a neighbor ("HOWDY!") and the distraught owners are suing for emotional damage (among other things). Is a dog property or a family member? It boils down to--do dogs have souls, and if so, how much is a dog soul worth? The shooter says this:

These people think that this dog is a human being,” he said. “It's not a human being. And that dog was trespassing.”

And thank GOD and GODDESS Shadow wasn't a human being! Dogs don't go around shooting random creatures for the hell of it. The worst my dog has ever done to me is lick my eyeball (ewww). Dogs (and animals) should be worth more than people 'cause they don't piss us off and f*** up our lives like people do.

Do dogs have souls? Goddammn right! When you snuff The Big One, don't be suprised if God winds up being all the animals you ever hurt, looking at you saying, "So who's the top of the food chain now, Mr. Opposable Thumbs?"

It could happen.

Incrediblyunbrokensentencemovingfromtopictotopic

Well, while I know people have more pressing problems in their lives, right now I couldn't give a monkey's. My writing "career" has just sort of slipped sideways. Remeber that entire first dreft of a Star Trek: The Next Generation novel I wrote a few months ago? Well, it's gotta be indefinately shelved. I found the website of writer's submission guidelines and discovered they will not accept books with the plot line of paralell universes anymore. Whoops--that's kinda a big part of the plot of my book. They leave plotlines like that for "established authors".

So, here's the plan--I becme an established author, and THEN submit the novel. Yeah, that'll do it.

In other news, after collecting a small but select collection of rejection slips for my short stories, poems and personal essays, yesterday I received one "maybe" from Grendelsong. Hey, it's a start. Like the Zen saying goes, a journey of a thousand miles begins with that first step.

What Happened to God?

Not the God that everyone takes His/Her name in vain, but the God who wrote the great blog God's Blog. God has been mysteriously silent for almost a year. What's up?

Judging from the spelling and general quality of writing, I'm guessing "God" lives in the UK. I'm not offended by the sudden cessation of the blog, I just wished there was at least a goodbye. Perhaps things were just too much and He needed some down time. Or perhaps He's been abducted by aliens. Or perhaps God is the same guy who does this blog. Hopefully, the author is still on Earth and has Internet access. If not, I hope God gets well soon.

You Know You're Getting Old When...

• The cake & ice cream gives you a hangover.


• You get presents that you can't identify. What is this?


• You get a rejection slip from Poetry magazine


• You get a call from the giver of the unidenitfied gift and have to say, "Thanks for the prezzie. It's gorgeous. What is it?" and then have the gift giver say "I don't know. I was hoping you could figure it out. You're unemployed."


• Oh yeah--I'm now a year older and still unemployed.


• Your Mom's gift is a trip to the Zoo :-)(On Lemur Day, no less)While pushing your Mom in a wheelchair, you force your Mom to go to the Children's Zoo, despite her rather loud protests, only to discover it's under construction. So you wind up holding a Which Animal Has the Cutest Butt contest. The winner was the agouti (pictured), a relative of the guinea pig, which is world renowned for it's cute butt-age.


• You forgive Peter Gabriel for not sending a B-day gift THIS year, either.


• You suddenly realize, through the pain of the cake hangover and yet another rejection notice, that Peter Gabriel now looks remarkably like a hamster

I'll Be 37. What the Hell Happened?

On Saturday, I'll be 37. Yikes! How did that happen? Seems like only yesterday I was 12. If I was a horse, I'd most likey be dead. If I was Jesus, I'd DEFINATELY be dead.

I am, of course, reminded about the Penn State football coach Joe Paterno, who's been the coach since before I my older brother was concived (EEEWWW!)and is still driving everyone nuts at age 500, or whatever it really is. In September, he was knocked down by a player at practice, snapped three ribs, but told nobody about it. No one would EVER have known if not for this injury. It's kinda hard not to reminded of JoPa, as he's known, when you live in the Philly area. JoPa even has a STATUE at Penn State even though he's still hard at work. American football is definatley a religion over here, so perhaps praying to Joe can help give me strength....or perhaps I should just shut up and get back to collecting rejection slips. My Dad has hinted he'd get me a couple of the Peter Gabriel (pictured) CDs that went up in the August 2005 fire. So maybe I'll just dwell on that.

Happy Chaos Never Dies Day

If you're anything like me, you dread this time of year. The only good international holiday--Halloween--has come and gone, but those damn others are in the way before Beltane (May Day) the OTHER great international holiday. There is a desperate need for decent holidays. I discovered on several sights the "unofficial" holiday on Nov 9 of Chaos Never Dies Day. (Usually, that's known as Christmas Eve, but there's no cruel and unusual shopping involved). Choas, is of course, (besides the baddies in Get Smart)the original state of the Universe from which all things come--it just didn't have any of those boring laws of time, space or comphrehension. I like to think of the universe before this one as being Tiamat, the essence of Chaos that seems to but is not really tamed.

I'm not sure how official Chaos Never Dies Day is, but I've got a feeling that's the point. So what can one do on Choas Never Dies Day? Glad you asked:

• Check out your horroscope--Chaos style


• Chant as much of you can of The Principia Discordia There's even a Swedish translation, to there's no excuse.


• Send off a couple of manuscripts of short stories (always good for a laugh)


• Turn on all the electrical appliances in your home so there can be a power outage(another guaranteed hoot)


• Watch Get Smart

That's is from me. Get Chaos-ing.

Oh Me of Little Faith...

In the world of me, I have received two more rejection slips, one for the aforementioned short story and another about the perils of bacon butties with mustard. But Sunday, I went to a writing workshop by the Poet Laureate of Lansdowne (the town next to mine), Dan Simpson (no relation). Dan is blind and needs a guide dog. (So, what's YOUR excuse, Rena???) This is the second workshop I've attended led by Dan. The first one kept me in the habit of trying to write nearly every day--this one generated a lot of story ideas! I was also congratulated for the three rejection slips.

In one exercise, we drew a small weird object out of a baggie and had to write a story on that. Objects included a pack of tissues, a bandanna, and a broken radio. Mine was a wedding photo. Everyone--even the shy folks--did very well. As Dan was congratulating us, the room was suddenly rocked by a thunderous

SNORE!

Chandler, Dan's guide dog, was snoozing under the tables. I said, "Everyone's a critic."

This is not the only time I took a workshop from a town's official poet. In 2004 and 2005, I enjoyed workshops by Kevan Manwaring, the Bard of Bath. I see he got that book published! Well done, Kevan. I'd love to see Dan and Kevan in a room together. No snoozing then.