Visit Our Sister Station

Hello, hello, and just a quick word about our other blogs. If you need pictures and light-hearted stuff, I guess that this is the one you need to see. I have decided that Logblog will be the official site for photos and stuff that I deem not-too-heavy. However, if you're in need of some angst or political commentary, be sure to visit The Moon Follows The Car, one of our sister blogs. Well, not really a sister blog, in that no sister of mine is involved in any way with the production of material for any blog that I know of. But sister, as in, you know, sister blog, like sister station or sister city. You get the idea.
And of course for those of you who want to follow things like surgery and recovery and sad things, My Sweet Surgery is for you. I am trying to catch up on my posting. One, things have been very, very challenging here, what with me having fairly major surgery, and Linda's mother dying, and the depression and hardship and lonliness that comes after that. So maybe by splitting my personality into three parts, I can once again enjoy working. I have ideas. I get them every day. Really! I need to work. So, enjoy! Choose your poison!

If you see this at my house, then it must be about 9:30am. 

This is the new stuffed toy that my wife got for the dog. It has a squeeky in one end, and a hard ball in the other. I have named it the Yeti Scrotum. I tell the dog "Go fetch the scrot!" and she takes off running. When she picks it up and shakes it back and forth, it sounds like a tennis ball bouncing against a brick wall. She can only shake it a couple of times before she drops it and stands dazed for a few seconds. I am afraid she'll brain-damage herself shortly. 

Old Goat in the hood

You can believe it or not, but the guy down the street has one-upped the guy across the street with the pig. We now have two pygmy goats in the hood, not on leashes, not in a pen, just in the hood. I have to move. 

number two 

here's two pictures. one is from last thursday. one is from today, when the bandages came off 

Gone and not ..well, maybe

I seem to remember that I have a blog here about every other month. I have had the worst time getting motivated to work. I have tried reading about it, classes on it, telling my therapist about it, forcing myself to go to a keyboard, nothing has worked. I don't know how I will ever get anywhere if I don't get started. I don't want Linda to be disappointed about me not working. She hasn't said anything. She may not have noticed. I do spend time in the office, but it's not productive. If anything, I've been using time in the office as an excuse not to work. It actually feels funny to type this. By the way, to anyone reading this "work" means "write", more or less. I just decided to call it that today, to see if giving it another name will crete a sense of urgency, even if it's just to fool my brain into starting something. It's much the same as the way that I set my clock a few minutes fast. Actually, I have an accomplis in that...Linda.

Here's how it works: I let Linda do the setting-ahead thing. I now know that the clock is wrong, and that it is fast. But, I make an effort not to find out how far ahead it is. Even though I have eventually come to the conclusion that the clock is about eight minutes fast, I don't know that it is exactly eight minutes fast, at least not for certain. Could be eight, could be nine. Could be seven and a half. I just don't really know. Therefore, when the alarm goes off in the morning, my mind knows that I have really been awakened a few minutes early, so there is no need to panic about getting up. After all, the clock is fast. However, in the back of my mind, the little voice reminds me that even though I have a safety cushion of time built in, I don't really know how much of a cushion I have. Could be eight. Could be nine. So the uncertainty stays with me in the wee hours of the morning, pushing me to get up. After all, it could be seven and a half. The gnawing at my brain won't subside. It keeps on and on, and eventually my concious mind takes over and gets me out of bed, if only to make that irritating bastard shut up. Works every time.

See, I knew there was some work in there somewhere.

Let's Hide That Picture

I decided to post a little something on here today, mainly so that when I log on to check the blog out, I don't see that picture glaring at me. Man, that's ugly.

I hope to soon have a resolution for this malady. Until then, I guess I'll just keep sitting in a funny position and waking up in the middle of the night when I roll over.

Aren't you getting sick of hearing about this? I know I am.

OK, I said I would post a photo. What you see is a burn over a year old. Six physicians have looked at this in the past week, and the reaction from them has been the same--they have never seen anything like it. Hey, I may get famous! But it'll be because I was in a medical journal, and a lot of the subjects of those types of articles are DEAD, so that may not be cool. 

A Explanation

I just read my last post, and I gotta say, Whoa, I didn't know nitro and Red Stripe would create such a fucking monster. But it was kinda cool, in a way. It was late, late at night, like now, and I had some bad, scary bad chest pains in the afternoon. I never ever would have guessed that anxiety could do that to me, but it sure as hell did. Drinking a beer was not the brightest idea for a cure that I ever had, but I knew I wasn't really having a heart attack, just a good old fashioned stress attack. Or a fat woman was sitting on my chest. Other people have used that phrase before to describe how deeply they were into their pain. Fuck them. I have had a fat woman sitting on my chest. I know how it feels. I'm not particularly proud of the fact, but I am certified in the use of the phrase now.
My wife got me the Writer's Market for Valentine's Day. It's a great gift. It's huge. It lists thousands of publications that will take writing submissions. She got the Deluxe Edition. That means that I get a year of Writer's Market online, with even thousands more places to publish. I'm getting a little overwhelmed by this. She wants me to write to make some extra cash, which I think would be excellent. She also wants me to write because she believes that I can. That means the world to me. That is more than most people will ever get. People will live their entire lives and never have someone that believes in them. And some will have that gift, that someone, and will never know. If I never get published any farther than this blog, I will always be a writer in her eyes, as long as I try.

So here's to trying. Here's to nitroglycerene. Here's to massive doses of asprin. Here's hoping that I live long enough to get this right, and be what she believes I can be.

No more mr. nice guy.

Alright, kiddies. I been disowning this blog way too long. I planned for a long time to only use this blog to post sweetness and kindness. Pictures of my dog chasing frisbees. Pictures of my cats. Pictures of my frisbees. Family-friendly patter here only, folks, no cursing, no innuendo, no alusions to what's really under the pretty suit-coat that woman shopping in paint today had on, no mention of the hint of lace on the top of her half-slip that barely covered her enormous breasts. No, sir, nothing like that. Wholesomeness, dammit, that's what'll be here. Milk and cookies. Mom.

Apple pie.

Well, Mom's wearing a leather biker bra with a tattoo on her tittie that says "Beach Week '69". Milk. Running down the crack of my ex-wife's ass (she had a nice ass) and dripping into the waiting mouth of some bitch we met in a bar in a cocaine-induced haze. I'll be happy to eat my apple pie with welding gloves on, no thanks, I don't need a fork.

I'm not going to have a blog that I can't say shit on anymore. I'll still post a picture of the cat, looking cute. And if I get a picture of the cat hacking up a monster furball, with spittle hanging from its mouth to the ground, I'll post that, too. Actually, now that I think about it, that would be a cool picture to have.

I almost had a heart attack today, sheerly from stress. That's just wrong. And when most people say that the nearly had a heart attack, they're using some bullshit term they heard that they think conveys how seriously involved they were into their crisis. Fuck them. I nearly had a heart attack. I have a heart problem. I know what a goddamn heart attack feels like. I nearly had one.

I woke up to the realization that self-censure is not a way to live. I want to be able to write things that the whole family can read, and I won't have a problem doing that. I don't want to worry about what else they'll see on the blog, if they should be so bold as to venture into the unknown areas that I never told them about, at least that I didn't tell them about outright and openly. So I won't. From this point on, I am free. Free, free, free. If it gets read, I am honored. If it pisses someone off, too bad.

I'm sure it's the beer and nitroglycerine talking at this point. I've had plenty of both now. My chest feels better, my head is in a fucking tire changer. Bed will happen soon. I will be back, and I will not be granting any mercy, any more.

Ya'll have a nice day.