Initial burst of flatulence

Pardon me while I fend of my 19 month old, joyfully engaged in trying to yank my blackberry out of it’s holster.  Here’s what she looks like:


If you feel compelled to comment that I (header guy) am much more attractive than my daughter, you wouldn’t be the first to say so.  But that makes her that much more loveable.

 She’s given up on trying to get my blackberry… something about my having broken a beer bottle and waved it menacingly in her face I suppose.  She’s now occupied with attempting to yank large chunks of fur out of our docile little Shih Tzu, Jesse.  He needs to learn a little aggression, so I’ll let them work it out. 

Yeah, I’m getting older.  I tried to capture a rumination I recently had on the subject thusly:

            Sitting before this window, I see myself before a similar window in 30 years time.  Marinating in my own bodily fluids, blessed with a singularity of thought that precludes a pre-occupation with the wretched nature of my physical state, my hobbled mind tills the soil of years gone by.  Forever fertile, this field of memories, with nuance gained and lost with each pass of the plow. 

The wonders of science provide for the possibility that I will become living detritus well before my ultimate passing, maintained to the very end by those paid to do so.  Those being they who will have never sampled the opiate of a dysfunctional consciousness, or grimaced in the face of searing realities laid bare by unfortunate forays into lucidity.

I’ll have become a stationary target indeed, for that mysterious force of nature for which I am being fattened. 

Geeze, I can’t control this html editor to save my life. I’m not against random formatting, though… random thoughts either, as you may have gathered by now.  Be forwarned that I stand poised to comment on the controversies of the day.  I would ask that my readers understand that I don’t have a research staff, nor any particular inclination to be informed of the facts pertaining to whatever I choose to comment on.  It’s all about process, and the willingness to blurt out semi congealed thoughts, independent of the baggage familiar to writers that are hung up on tired old concepts like voracity and (my favorite) “TRUTH IN JOURNALISM.”  We’ll see how things shape up from here.



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