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A gray day spent well is brilliant

22 Mar

catzen.jpgSometimes when the day is overcast and dreary, like today, I hate it. But other times, I let go of my judgement and simply enjoy what’s there.

The gray of the day feels like a texture.

The day seems laden with stories. Everywhere you look, the houses, the duplex apartments, the empty storefronts–all are draped in the gray blanket of the day and you
can sense, just beneath the surface, each place is rich with stories.

This is a day that demands a fireplace, if you have one. (I should totally have a fireplace!)

There should be wine (now, that I have) and music (Mozart or Billie Holiday, I dunno–something!…)

Sip wine while staring at the flames, silently listening and deciphering the stories cloaked in the code of the crackling fire.

Even a day uphostered in dreary gray can be brilliant. In the way that being fully present in the moment–either by design or startling inspiration–is brilliant. For
each moment is a story and each moment carries its story into the next moment, joining all stories into one amazing volume (or tapestry, or–insert preferred metaphor

The wine in my glass has a story. It is a pomegranate wine from Armenia–how could it not have a story?!

I have a story. Sometimes I think I have a million of them. My own story and stories I have imagined.

I was born in Dothan, AL, the son of a peanut farmer and his wife. Or, more precisely, I was born in Dothan, AL, the son of a
peanut product company salesman and his wife.

Either version, there is much more to the story than those few simple details.

A man, a woman, a baby and some peanuts. Most importantly, there were peanuts.

Some days I fear I am out of stories; sad that the arranging and rearranging of words (and punctuation–there must be punctuation!) may be a lost art to me. My mind a
sieve, the stories slip from my cranium, dripping into my hands for the sole purpose of slipping through my fingers, then falling to the floor.

No matter how hard I may try to scoop them up from the floor, declaring the 3 second rule as I attempt to bring the words back together, the stories pool up, quickly
regroup and then slither away.

Where do they go? Do they wind up with some other, somehow more deserving writer? Perhaps a writer who has a fireplace…?

If there can’t be a fireplace, there should at least be a loft–at least one story up, in a city (Paris would be nice. New York or San Francisco are also more than
acceptable) with large windows and an easy chair or a divan or a day bed–something on which you can sprawl, right by the window, with a truly amazing book, and a
glass of wine (that wine travels well, no matter what the tale…) distracted from the pages of the most excellent book, only as the gray of the day fades into night,
causing the lights of the city to ignite, like a fire. (Not necessarily a fire in a fireplace, but some other good kind of fire, you know?)

The glorious view provides the perfect punctuation (for there must be punctuation!) for the day.

A cloudy, dreary day.

Present moments strung together, shining like the lights of the city, viewed from the window of a loft, while reading a book about drinking wine in front of a
fireplace. The stories. The crackle of the flames.

The city lights through the loft window or the warm glow from the fireplace reveal a spot, previously unnoticed, where the stories that have hit the floor have left a
residue made up of words that were left behind when a story slipped through fingers and then escaped. Perhaps these words were slower than the rest and got left
behind. Perhaps these are rebellious words who simply refused to leave.

By the florescent light of the kitchen, I gather the words carefully. All words are salvagable.

I will go locate some punctuation and see what can be made.

A gray day, with clouds, well spent, is brilliant, like the present moment, fully noticed, whether by design or sudden inspiration, is brilliant.

Dances with Idioms

24 Jul

smashed heads3

I am a procrastinator who can’t wait to get started.

I am violently passive aggressive.

I am a painfully shy exhibitionist–a voyeur who is determined to make you look.

Call me crazy, but I do the same things over and over again and expect different results.

I watch pots and–guess what?–eventually they boil anyway.

I took the road less traveled and got lost. Wound up going in circles. By the time I figured out which way to go, the road less traveled had become thoroughly and repeatedly traveled. Damn road totally lost its cachet.

I refuse to let sleeping dogs lie. If I see a sleeping dog, I wake him up. (But I give him a cookie…)

I cry over spilled milk. But once I get closure, I’m fine.

I like to bite off more than I can chew. Then I spit it out.

I am a back seat driver even when I am alone in the car. Of course I use the driver’s seat to actually drive, but I heckle myself during the whole trip.

Not only do I not fix it if it ain’t broke–I don’t fix it if it is broke. I just throw it away.

I toot my own horn. (I’d toot someone else’s horn but I don’t know where that horn has been!)

I read between the lines because I love white noise.

I know the score, I just tend to forget it.

I cry wolf a lot. No one believes me, but I get a kick out of it.

I can take it or leave it. (Wait, what were my choices again?)

Time, Time, Time, See What’s Become of Me

12 Apr


words words2

Time to blog again, I tell myself.


Writing should be a practice, like yoga or fine art painting.

You lay the brush down too long, you find you can’t fill the canvas any longer. And if you try, all you get is a waste of time and paint.

You leave that yoga met too long, when you return, you find the only pose you can now execute with any level of accuracy  is the Child Pose.

My mind has been a scattered mess lately. After months of dealing with an ongoing crisis (great blog material, but not quite yet) I turned the corner. Winter was harsh, even by Florida standards, but Spring has arrived. Blue skies. Sunshine.

Work brain, work!

In the past week I managed to lose my keys in a relatively small space, inside my own office. I did not locate them until the next day–in my gym bag. It should have been the first place I looked.

I have managed to send several incomplete messages via email, when instead I thought I had deleted  them without pushing Send. So, this necessitates yet anther message to explain to the other person, “oops. What I was trying to say, meant to say, hoped to say…”

Friends laugh when this happens, but at least one of the messages went to someone I was hoping to impress. Then the conundrum, should I send an additional follow-up message? It makes me think of the scene in the movie Swingers when Jon Favreau can’t leave well enough alone and keeps calling a girl he wants to take out, leaving one message after the other on her answering machine; each message more rambling and pathetic than the one before until, finally, the woman picks up the phone and says, “Never call me again”

I spent pretty much all of last week confused about which day of the week it was. I actually had a moment on Friday when I was certain it was Monday. At least when reality hit me, it was a nice surprise.

I have not been certain what month we are in for the entire first quarter of 2014. This situation is exacerbated by the fact that I have a three month calendar hanging on my office wall. The prior month is on top, in the middle it is the current month, and then at the bottom is the month ahead. This is great for planning ahead and/or reminding yourself what day of the week a certain date fell on last month. But if March 31st has passed and you don’t bother to turn the page, you find yourself–well, not you specifically “you”, it might be better to say “one finds oneself ,”continually scanning the month in the middle because, hey, that is the current month according to the way this particular calendar is supposed to work. I finally turned the page on Thursday (or maybe it was Wednesday) but I still thought Friday was Monday. (But it totally wasn’t! Yay!)

I refuse to embrace the phrase,”senior moment” to explain my scatterbrained moments and lapses of memory. Nor will I use “brain fart” as an excuse for a memory loss. I am sure this is TMI, but I am now at an age when actual flatulence from the usual place is inexplicably on the rise (now no one will let me ride in their car with them again, I just know it) so I don’t need any additional places wherein or from which I “fart.”

A friend of mine recently shared a news story that lifted the spirits of all of her friends of a certain age. German researchers determined that as people get older, they don’t really lose cognitive abilities. The problem is, they know more. There is simply too much information in their brains, so it takes a little longer to sort through it all.

Which explains why I will find myself recalling some long forgotten event from my very distant past–something I had totally forgotten about until that moment. My brain is too full and all of those thoughts are elbowing each other for space, so sometimes memories come unbidden to the surface without any prompting from me. And sometimes all of the concentrating in the world will not access the name of the person standing in front of me.

My cache is busting at the seams. I may have too many cookies too, but…mmmmm, cookies…

In my house, when one of us finds himself frustrated over something forgotten, making him feel old, we break into our On Golden Pond routine:

Norman: I got to the end of our lane and I couldn’t remember where I was…

Ethel: You old poop. Listen to the loons!

For the record, I usually do the Katherine Hepburn part and I’m not half bad, if I do say so myself. My partner’s Henry Fonda isn’t half bad either. Which is surprising because most of his imitations sound like he is speaking in a parody of a Jewish accent crossed with an Italian accent, even when he is trying to ape a French accent.

Which brings me back to blogging. Since I can’t actually reboot my brain, perhaps some exercise will help. Soduko? Crossword puzzles? No, writing is definitely the best exercise for my brain. So, a return to regular blogging is a marvelous start.

Assuming I can remember my WordPress password…

Happy Saturday!



Found Words

25 Jan

poster worn wall

For what feels like a century, I have jotted down notes on papers of varying sizes, at odd times, whenever the muse gave me a kick in the rear, or the ear, or wherever it is muses like to strike. For decades,  I have dropped these pieces of paper into multicolored file folders (there is more to life than the color “manila”, that’s all I’m saying.)

In an effort to clear away some of the clutter in my life, I’ve decided that little handwritten gems (as well as the cubic zirconia versions of same) must be recorded in a single place and/or simply discarded.

What follows are bits and pieces from one particular orange folder labelled “Ideas”. Some of these fragments date back to my teenage years.  I can’t bear to part with the pieces of paper without leaving a record of them somewhere. So, this blog it shall be.

There are  visual artists who assemble their work out of found objects. This blog is a kind of assemblage of “found words.” A place where fragments of dialogue, thoughts, story ideas and poem shavings are dropped.

Exiled or utilized, time will tell.

There seems to be some general consensus that the gays have all the money. I find this depressing. I realize that accepting myself as a gay man just saddles me with one more group in which to underachieve.

She has a boyish face. Oddly, that same face on  a boy would be considered feminine.

After Ilya died, I’d call his phone number in Queens  just to hear his voice on the answering machine.

Within weeks of of Ilya’s funeral,  the answering machine quits picking up and soon thereafter, the number has been disconnected. After about a month, for no realistic reason, I pick up the phone and dial Ilya’s former telephone number. As I’d guessed, the number has been re-purposed to another subscriber. A man answers.  I try to engage him in conversation. He is only mildly receptive. I fantasize that he is speaking to me from the phone in Ilya’s apartment; that he has somehow replaced Ilya. Ilya isn’t dead exactly, he has just been re-purposed into this other man. I try to expain this to him but this man won’t play along. He shares his first name (Winston) but little else.

“What do you want?”

I am silent. He asks again, “What do you want?” 

Finally I say, “This used to be Ilya’s number.”

“There’s no Ilya here.”

“Oh, I know,” I reply. “I said this used to be Ilya’s number. I knew someone else must have it by now…”

“I have it. This number is mine now.  You’ll have to find Ilya somewhere else.”  He hangs up.

“Yes,” I say to the dial tone. “Somewhere else.”

I am reluctant to say, “I love you,” for fear it will somehow reduce the intense feelings of the moment into something with paperback covers when, in fact, you fill me with hardbound volumes.

I felt a wave of sanity coming over me. Naturally, I struggled to fight it.

How far are you willing to travel to meet someone  half way?

I think it is scary that Ann Coulter is famous enough that topical humor about Ann Coulter is funny.

Pain is a portal to the Collective Unconscious.

Some people have occupations. I have preoccupations,

What came before The Big Bang? The small whisper.

I love the way you look at me and you don’t just see me, but, as you look, you also consider the possibilities.

You think I am a sinner? Really? I’m afraid you’ve romanticized my flaws, all out of proportion.

One day a co-worker said to me, “Your stories about your boyfriend are no longer amusing anecdotes. They are cries for help.”

The passion which surpasses friction.

There was this guy and he had this really unusual relationship with this cat. It was a small orange tabby cat. It would cling to the guy’s shoulder like a small baby, its chin resting on his right shoulder and its little hind legs and tail just sort of dangling. Whenever I went to this guy’s house, that cat would just be hanging on to him. This relationship between the man and his cat was either very cosmic or potentially quite creepy. It got so people just stopped responding to his invitations–because it was such a weird, somehow troubling sight. The problem was, he was such a gracious host, the same people that were too creeped out to go to his house felt obligated to invite him to their parties. Damn if he didn’t start showing up at parties with that cat firmly attached. Eventually people stopped inviting him.

What happened? Is this one of those stories where the cat dies and the man’s hair turns white overnight and he dies in a sanitarium clutching an old rag against his shoulder?

The guy just dropped out of sight. No one was talking to him really, and I think he was just content to spent time with the cat.

Wait–you’re not…?

The guy in the story–Oh, no.

Then why did you tell me this story? What’s the point?

Just that, this guy and his cat. Their relationship. Who are we to judge?

STORY IDEA: A young gay man has a second coming out experience when he informs his parents during a Thanksgiving visit that he has become a Buddhist. The gay thing, they were fairly cool about, but converting to a religion which is foreign to them presents a challenge, His mother asks, “How do the Buddhists spend Christmas?” He doesn’t have an answer for her at the time. But later, while he is helping his neighbors set up an elaborate Luminaria in a neighborhood park, he finds the answer. He recognizes that your community accepts you when you accept your community.                                                                                                            

“How do the Buddhists spend Christmas?” Why, being Buddhists, of course.

Let’s go slow so we can fall in love.

If we go slow, I will fall asleep.

Sometimes a reach is as good as a touch.

Thanks for reading.

Riffs on the Rain

28 May

“It was a rainy night. It was the myth of a rainy night.”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Our holiday weekend is soaked by a tropical storm named Beryl. Beryl came early–hurricane season does not begin until Friday. Beryl did not bother to read the calendar. Beryl just formed anyway. The center of the storm moved ashore overnight at Jacksonville Beach packing 70 mile an hour winds and a lot of  rain.

Beryl has been downgraded to a tropical depression and is moving west. One of the things (besides the wind) that makes these things such a pain, is storms like this move very slowly. On the up side, it makes it easy to predict where the storm is going to hit. On the down side, once it gets to your neck of the woods, it just sits there, raining its heart out.

I went out earlier to survey the neighborhood (and walk the dog.) A section of my privacy fence was blown over. Hey–so much for privacy. We’ll be restoring that later today. Mostly there are downed limbs. One of our garden gargoyles lost a wing:

He looks a little grumpy about it.  Other than that, nothing too serious from what I can see. We did lose power last night, but it came back on in about an hour. Then it went out for about 15 minutes, came back on, and has been on ever since. (Knock on wood! If the power goes out again I can’t make coffee and if I want to blog, I’d have to use my Blackberry–and that just ain’t happening. It is all I can do to post a Facebook comment on that phone.)

I live across the street from a church. For several months, the steeple on the church has been damaged, so the cross at the top of the steeple leans. I have been fascinated by this listing cross. Sometimes birds land on it and it straightens up a bit, but mostly it leans in a fashion that looks a little dangerous. I keep expecting some sort of freak accident, like something from The Omen, to occur. I fear I’ll walk out my front door to find some pedestrian has been impaled by the falling cross.

I have taken a number of pictures of that cross. Here’s one from April:

See what I mean. That baby is listing badly.

Guess what I found when I went out this morning to see what Beryl had been up to?

That’s right–the cross has been blown straight.  I have no idea if it is going to stay that way, but I thought I’d share. I will leave it to others to determine the spiritual implications of this event, but it is, at the very least, interesting.

I usually blog early in the morning, before work. I generally hitch a ride on my stream of consciousness and start typing. It a quick, drive-by way to blog.

But today is a holiday and there’s a tropical depression swirling outside of my door. I might as well keep on typing.

I was really thinking when I sat down to write this morning, that I’d riff about rain. James Dickey, the poet and author of Deliverance said, “A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning.”  I think rain appeals to the poet in all of us.

Rain. We all have a love/hate affair with it, don’t we? Sometimes you blame it on the rain and sometimes you find yourself singing in the rain. It can screw-up your picnic, or provide the perfect background music when you’re making love.

Rain can also be a contemplative experience:  “I, too, seem to be a connoisseur of rain, but it does not fill me with joy; it allows me to steep myself in a solitude I nurse like a vice I’ve refused to vanquish, ” wrote Julia Glass in Three Junes.

As a person who would rather walk or ride a bike than drive, I have had many experiences getting caught in the rain. Sometimes riding a bike during an afternoon shower feels liberating.  Walking in the rain with someone you love is generally considered romantic, although the thought of it reminds me of  The Pina Colada Song–“if you like pina cola/getting caught in the rain”–and I would truly rather get caught in the rain than have to listen to that terrible song ever again. However, this thought also evokes Billie Holiday:  “Don’t threaten me with love, baby. Let’s just go walking in the rain.”

As Roger Miller wrote, “Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.”

I think we can all recall memorable downpours in our lives.

In 2003, I got caught in the rain in Times Square in New York. A hustler from Montreal invited me to his room for $200. I told him I didn’t have $200. He lowered the price to $100. I took a  cab to the Metropolitan Museum of Art instead.

In 1981, my significant other and I set up housekeeping for the first time in San Francisco. We soon learned that in the City by the Bay, there is not only fog, but it tends to rain incessantly all winter.  The weather depressed two boys from the Sunshine State and was one of the factors that sent us packing in 1983.  Our roof leaked and our landlords were rather indifferent. Unfortunately, the leak was located in the bedroom closet.

Still, I remember good things about San Francisco in the rain. One particular Sunday,  we went to see The French Lieutenant’s Woman, then came home and spent hours in bed, having rainy day fun. I don’t know if it was Jeremy Irons and Meryl Streep that got us going, or perhaps just the fact that we were still in that phase where two people cannot keep their hands off of each other, but the rain provided beautiful music to the soundtrack of  a wonderful memory.

Sometimes rain can cause you to change your plans. A twist of fate that can alter your life. Sometimes rain forces the kids to stay inside on a day you really needed to be alone.

Rain is both a blessing and a curse.

“Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.” – John Updike

Sometimes rain is sad:

“I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying.”― Charles Chaplin

Sometimes rain is happy:

“Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turnin’ red
Cryin’s not for me
‘Cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’
Because I’m free
Nothin’s worryin’ me..”

-B. J. Thomas

B.J. Thomas was right when he wrote, “I’m never gonna stop the rain by complain’.”  I like what Denzel Washington said too, “You pray for rain, you gotta deal with the mud too. That’s a part of it.”

Too much rain, we run for the hills. Too little rain, we beg the gods for respite from the drought.

For those of us who live in a tropical climate, rain is just a fact of life. During the summer here, you can almost set your watch by the afternoon storms. The sky turns dark, then opens, and it rains like there’s no tomorrow. Then, an hour later, the sun is shining and the air is thick as the puddles evaporate in the summer heat.

It is hot in Florida. And it is a wet heat.

While I have been tinkering with this blog, making coffee, dealing with my restless dog, the sun has come and gone and so has the rain. Now it is pouring again. One of Bery’s bands passing through.

I wanted to take a few more pictures for this blog and I didn’t close the front door all the way. My dog took advantage and sprinted into the yard.  Usually when she makes her escape, I play hell getting her back in. She races off, loving the life of a free range dog, and won’t come when her name is called. I pretty much have to trick her or tackle her if I want to catch her. Interestingly enough,just now she ran out, ran around the yard, saw me on the porch and must have decided she’d rather be dry than free.

The view from my porch:

One more reminder of why the rain is ultimately worth it:

“Because nothing can be done about the rain except blaming. And if nothing can be done about it, why get yourself in a sweat about it?”
― Ken Kesey, Sometimes a Great Notion

Happy Monday. Stay dry. Or not…

The case of the haunted keyboard

18 May

I have the lamest excuse ever for not blogging for 2 days.

Our wireless keyboard is apparently possessed. For reasons that are unclear, it has decided there are certain letters it will not type. Oh, you can press the key all you want, but nothing will appear.

One of the letters it refuses to type is the letter A. As you may know, A is a vowel. You could say that vowels are the building blocks of words. Words are the building blocks of sentences and so it goes. Vowels are pretty key to this whole “writing” thing.

I read that Dr. Seuss wrote the book Green Eggs and Ham using just 50 different words. His publisher, Bennett Cerf bet him that he couldn’t complete a book with so few words. Dr. Seuss won the bet and Green Eggs and Ham remains a perennial bestseller.

At first, I took this haunted keyboard situation as a challenge–as if I was Dr. Seuss and my keyboard was Bennett Cerf.

When I was a kid, Bennett Cerf used to be on TV in a show called What’s My Line? which was a really low tech game show with a maximum prize of $50.

For all I know, you could buy a house and two cars with $50 in 1951 when that show debuted, but it still doesn’t seem like much of a prize when you think about it.

But getting back to this keyboard situation, I was thinking I would adjust to the challenge and try to write a blog using only the letters the haunted keyboard would allow me to use. No A? I don’t need no stinkin’ A. I still had 4 other vowels and “sometimes Y” to work with.

I tried. Turns out the keyboard wasn’t allowing access to the letter H either. Forget W as well. I’ve always been rather fond of W, so this seemed like a particularly serious setback. What to do? Or, as my keyboard would have me type: ”   t to do?”

So, I didn’t write a blog. When I had an opportunity to discuss the situation with my significant other–the closest thing to a technical guru there is in my house–his advice was, “use your laptop.”

Oh, he’s a genius. I could have figured that one out all by myself.

The bigger issue is, what are we going to do about the PC? “I think the keyboard is out of warranty,” was his reply.

The keyboard is also apparently out of A, H and W, but what are we going to do about it?  Another non-sequitur or two followed, so I just dropped the subject for the time being.

With this matter unresolved, I went a second day without blogging.

I get very frustrated when a mechanical or electronic device does not do exactly what it is expected to do. I have a passive-aggressive approach to these situations. I go away. Then I come back later, like nothing was ever wrong in the first place and I try again. I don’t know why this should work, but sometimes it actually does. Errant devices do sometimes forge a course correction of their own.

And sometimes they don’t.

Yesterday, I sat down to blog: ”  ppy Thursd y!”

The keyboard had not miraculously fixed itself.  It was still behaving like a demented Ouija board.

Sure, I could have taken out my laptop and used it, but that seemed far too practical, simple and not the least bit passive-aggressive, so that particular solution did not appeal to me.

And here we are. Friday. I was ready to throw in the towel. But I sat down and gave the keyboard one more chance. And it is typing perfectly! It wasn’t so crazy of me to wait it out.  See, patience is a virtue!

Wait…this keyboard isn’t wireless.  The haunted keyboard did not fix itself. I’d say my in-house tech guru swapped out the keyboard while I slept.  Sometimes if you wait it out, electronic devices will fix themselves and sometimes if you wait it out, your technical guru will stop spouting unhelpful answers and surprise you with a new keyboard.

All that matters is that I am once again free to pursue a life of typing fulfillment.  Just in time for the weekend!

Happy Friday and Happy Weekend!

Thursday Random Thursday

10 May

Can you believe it is already the 10th of May? May 10th!

I remember New Years Day 2012 like it was yesterday and here we are about to wade into summer.

Today is, oddly enough, the birthday of John Wilkes Booth, Mark David Chapman, Sid Vicious and Rick Santorum.

You may recall that John Wilkes Booth was the actor who shot President Lincoln; Mark David Chapman is the fellow who wildly misinterpreted Catcher in the Rye and then shot John Lennon; Sid Vicious was the bassist for the punk rock group Sex Pistols who may or may not have stabbed his girlfriend to death; and Rick Santorum is, well, Rich Santorum.

There were also some nice people were born on May 10th:  Actor/Dancer and dance school founder, Fred Astaire, the Scottish singer, Donovan and U2’s Bono.

Of course, today is also the birthday of The Gosselin Sextuplets. Considering their upbringing, there’s no telling how they’re going to turn out. But I don’t think any of them have killed anyone just yet.

I miss the days when children were conceived out of love instead of an overarching desire for a reality show contract. But I guess those days are long gone.

Welcome to the 21st Century.

I am having a little moment imagining a very special May 10th episode of Glee involving a Donovan/Sid Vicious/Bono mash-up and lots of Astaire like dancing. Throw in “The Ballad of Booth” from Stephen Sondheim’s “Assassins” and you’ve got a 90 minute special.

I bet the Gosselin Sextuplets could guest star!

We’re talking extravaganza–with extra ganza!

Or, maybe not.

Despite the sentences that came before this one, believe it or not, I attended a writing workshop last night. (Yes, I went out of the house after dark again! This is an age of miracles and wonders, isn’t it?)

I really got in touch with the ways a writer can bring the reader into his confidence, or keep the reader at arm’s length. On a personal level, I am having some insights into how I learned at a young age that there are some things you don’t talk about. Not just inappropriate discussions, but all of the ways family secrets are kept.

When you keep things under wraps from others, you develop ways to keep things from yourself. If no one else has mentioned the elephant in the room, after a while you come to believe that elephant isn’t really there at all.

I know that was random–but that’s the way I write these morning blogs. You are a patient soul to even ride this train.

Happy May 10th, one and all. I think that’s enough randomness for the time being.

Enjoy your Thursday.

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