The pointless ramblings and obscure humor of an over-worked, off-beat, performer-writer-teacher.
By messing with my profile, I've now unknowing become a citizen of Albania and been put on some watch-list somewhere.
HEY!! How the hell did I get to be 103 years old?
In my life
****11****
...uncreative...
ChesterGlasses
Don't Panic. . .
the pelican
things that make me happy
What Ever Happened To My Lunchbox
Writing it down
today
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"We're number two, because somebody had to be!"
"Striving for mediocrity!"
"Believe you can be average!"
So I walk into Grandaddy's (aka Grandy) office and playing cards are strewn all over the floor. "Kristofer, are you in here?"
Small voice from under the desk responds, "Kristofer not here."
OK, I know I already asked it once. But no one has responded.
I feel the need to post. There are so many thoughts running through my head at the moment, I don’t know where to begin or if I have a point. But then I guess that’s the point of the title of this blog. I Yahooed and Googled my title. I’m not appearing on Yahoo yet, but Google has me! Don’t know what that really means or if I should be excited or not. Anyway, the hits on Yahoo that were not me, led me to some people who think they know where the expression, “That’s not my dog,” came from. I still think Bennett Cerf predates any of the other explanations. Others attribute it to an urban legend: one, about a stray dog accidentally given the royal treatment at a groomer; a couple others, about a dead dog in a baggage compartment. I personally think they’re just stories that grew out of Cerf’s original shaggy dog story. Another led me to a link for Inspector Clouseau. I’d forgotten the classic line from the film. But I still think Bennett Cerf’s was first.
A few days and thoughts later. . .
So, since the change over smart quotes don’t work anymore. All the previous entries I’ve pasted from Word have boxes instead of smart quotes. Changing them all would be too time consuming. And I see my copyright symbols are all question marks. I’m too lazy to change them. So now it looks like if I’m not sure that all text is copyright me.
Next topic. . . useless super powers.
It’s almost like my bother dared me to, so I have to write about it. My useless super power is that I have an uncanny sense of misdirection. Ask me what way to go to find something, then turn and go the opposite direction and you’ll find it. It’s a difficult power to fool to. If I try to second guess myself and tell you the opposite of what I think, I’ll still tell you the exact wrong direction to go. It’s really a mutation of my father’s super power – to be able to tell what direction to go to get someplace even if he had no idea where he was or where he was going – definitely not a useless power like mine. My wife’s useless super power is the ability to burn water. My three-year old son (not a useless super power for him) is a super escape artist. And my six-month old daughter can poop mustard. I’m hoping she’ll out-grow her useless super power. So, for anybody reading, what’s your useless super power©
The Obligatory Writing About My Writing and Some Random Ramblings
My intention was to spend my Spring break writing. Well, I have two days left and have written very little. The other night a couple of my characters for the Books of Elven were screaming at me. I’m somewhat of a schizophrenic (although I think that really is an improper use of the word and the term I want is “multiple personality” but that doesn’t sound as mentally ill) writer. I tend to adopt the voice of whatever character I’m writing about or for. I guess it’s part of my training as a performer – method actor, method director, method writer. So at any given time as I write, many voices are fighting for dominance.
Anyway two of my “dead” characters have been screaming not to be dead anymore. I started the original genesis of Books of Elven nearly twenty years ago. Much of what I’m writing in “House of Clyto” and “Emprize” are new versions of old writings – not revision but actual new writing based on past plots. As I’ve been writing, I’ve started to wonder if I’ve beat the “inspired by the heroic death of a character” motivation to death. There seemed to be too many orphaned or single-parented characters. So when these two characters demanded to be undead, it seemed like a good idea. But then it meant altering the motivations of some characters. And when I began writing a scene with one of them, I realized his undead status was changing the dynamic among several characters. Once again I’m realizing, as always, the characters, and not me, are in charge of this story. We’ll see where it goes.
Political Ramblings
From the beginning I wanted to keep politics off my blog. But I can’t take it anymore. Does anyone else feel like the two major presidential candidates are George Kerry and John Bush from the Republicrat and Demolican parties. So many flip flops I feel like it’s “Spring Break” on MTV. I’m sick of the name calling, the poking, and the hair pulling. Have you noticed how they both are quick to point out what the other has done wrong, but stop short of saying they’d do anything differently. It reminds me of high-school student-body elections that have nothing to do with who’d do the best job, only who can make the best spin and get the football team vote. I’m reminded of an episode of Gilligan’s Island from my childhood where Skipper and Mr. Howell are running for president of the Island. Gilligan ends up winning because the others, including himself, write his name in. He writes his own name in because he doesn’t want to make either side mad at him. The others write him in because of the depths Skipper and Mr. Howell sink to in campaigning. I think Gilligan needs to win this election as well.
Life with a Three-Year Old
There are things I find myself saying lately that I would have never imagined myself saying in a million years. Things like, “Don’t poke your sister with that banana.” Which is usually followed by, “Get that banana out of your ear.” Then there are the “classic” potty-training phrases like, “Don’t play with it; just pee-pee with it.”
He eats like my younger brother. His favorites include cheese, pickles, uncooked hot dogs, and cold macaroni and cheese (cold mac). Although lately, most of the time he only wants peanut butter and potato chips, not together, but I’m sure he’d love it if we did put peanut butter on the potato chips. His mother eats it on popcorn, which thoroughly disgusts me, so I suppose peanut butter on potato chips couldn’t be much worse.
He’s like me when it comes to getting into things. I’m sure my grandmother is somewhere looking down, smiling at the little boy she sent me to play in my kitchen like I played in hers: pulling everything out of the drawers and cupboards, climbing into and onto everything, and proclaiming “cooking!” whenever he’s asked what he’s doing.
Notice I said, “My kitchen.” I made the mistake of telling my wife I was the better cook when we first got married. Newlyweds say the dumbest things. It’s been my kitchen ever since. Of course I’ve convinced her she’s the better baker, because she is, but when it comes to other cooking. . . . Our first Thanksgiving in our present house, she burnt water. I’m not kidding. I didn’t think you could burn water. But she did it.
Back to the kid.
His favorite place to play is in the large cabinet where we use to keep pots and pans. I say, “use to” because it’s a loosing battle. He pulls them out so that he can crawl inside and shut the door behind himself. We tried cabinet locks. It took him less than a week to figure out how to defeat them. There’s a gate across the entrance to the kitchen; it’s the third one. He quickly learns how to open any gate we’ve tried. Sometimes he’s too clever for his own good.
Yesterday as I was making dinner, he pulled a chair in from the table, climbed up on the counter, and proceeded to empty out the baby food cupboard, stacking the jars into a tower. Exasperated, I said, “Do you do that because you’re three!” To which he replied, laughing, “Three, not four.” I guess that was his way of telling me I still have a year to deal with this.
He’s always been obsessed with numbers too. A little strange, I will admit. Just past his second birthday, a year ago, we were traveling north to a funeral. I was filling the car with gas at a road stop when I heard him chanting, “Six.” I turned around to see what he was doing only to find him looking at the gas pump with the number six on it. To this day I have no idea where a two-year old learned to recognize the number six.
But I forget, I’m not talking about him as a two-year old. I’m talking about living with him as a three-year old. A three-year old who loves to play with his dogs. By “play” he means dumping out their water to play in the mud and tipping over the huge tub of dog food so he can put the tub over his head. He has three pairs of “yucky” shoes sitting by the door. By “yucky” he means covered with mud and who knows what that Daddy won’t let him track into the house.
Right now his favorite numbers are eight and thirteen. I hope it’s not a warning of upcoming ages.
Fishies and Gold Dogs
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You see, my dogs don't really have names, they only have colors. Cocoa and Gold Dog. When we first moved to New Mexico, we started with a different dog, Odo Luckyboots. She was a Border Collie and much too active to be an inside dog. We finally relented and let her be an outside dog where she proceeded to appoint herself alpha female of the neighborhood dogs. At that time there were two dogs next door, one to the other side, and three behind us. She also decided that the three behind us were low dogs on the totem pole and would get upset with any of the other members of her "pack" if they tried to play with them. Of course, being the dominant personality she was, they had no choice but to obey.
Still, we had a problem. Left on her own, she'd get bored and get into trouble. Then we had a revelation while taking care of my brother-in-law's dog for a week. She spent the week herding him around the yard. She'd found her true calling. So when he went home, we got her a puppy - a cute little fuzzball chow-shepherd mix. He followed her around to her heart's content.
Enter the evil meter-reader who left our back gate open. Odo had gotten out many time - she was an escape artist - but always returned. Cisco (Yes, we were obsessed with “Deep Space Nine” names) wasn’t as lucky. When we had gotten him from the humane society we had him low-jacked – a small microchip in his neck, so we hoped he would be found. Everyday for at least a week, we checked shelters and the pound. We posted “missing posters” and put an ad in the paper, but nothing. Finally, we hoped that some nice person had found him and was taking care of him. Then we got a phone call, “We think we might have your dog.” It was from an office building quite a way from our house. My wife went to see.
A small interruption for clarification here. When we got married, I informed my wife that I would be getting a dog. I think her reaction was something like, “Where are the two of you going to live.” And yet, every dog we’ve ever had, it’s been my wife who brought them home. She’s an old softie when it come to puppy dog eyes.
Anyway, when she arrived, the dog they had was nothing like our dog. He looked like neither a chow nor a shepherd. The people at the office said they’d found him a couple of days before, and had been taking turns taking him home at night. They’d called the shelter, but there was no room for him. My wife couldn’t resist him and brought him home.
The shelter in our area has a program. When the shelter is full, they’ll ask the people who found the dog to keep it, post its picture, and run and ad in the paper. After six weeks, if they have room, they’ll take it, or let you adopt it. I didn’t want to get to close to the dog, so I just started calling him gold dog. He was a beautiful gold in color with a brush tail and a muscular frame. He was also very smart and fast. He’d use his dog food for bait to catch birds. And at times, I would literally watch him snatch birds from the sky.
I later found out in Smithsonian that he was probably partly a New Guinea bird dog. They are a breed of semi-wild dogs that were imported into the US as hunting dogs. Only they were too independent, and more often than not, ended up as strays where they mixed with other breeds. Those yellow dogs we’ve all seen digging in the dumpsters, more than likely, are partly the New Guinea breed.
The story is much longer. I could tell you how we ended up with Cocoa. But I’m about ready to pass out. I’ve been on muscle relaxants for a few days (I injured my neck muscles about a week ago) and about this time of night, if I don’t go to bed, the furniture starts talking to me. I don’t know what’s in these things, but about an hour after taking them, I’m usually in the happy zone for about eight hours.
No April Fool
I thought that maybe I'd post some April Fool joke about the two major presidential candidates. And then I thought, what's the point.
