time traveling

One of the things I like best about Facebook is the way it dishes up random memories.  Colin was playing crack, er, technology dealer one rainy afternoon exposing Charlie to the devil in the box. Charlie was still doubtful.


We remain well and safe. For the first time in memory, pollen levels in excess of 8000 have made me think I have a summer cold with the eye-watering and sneezing.

My day job continues, although they are beginning to offer days off because there is so little traffic. I anticipate layoffs unless the sales team has shifted its attention away from the hospitality sector.

Anyone else succumbing to Sloth in a big way?  The shower and hair wash was a delicious treat this morning. Way overdue. 

I was also mean to an online acquaintance last night. He posted a  challenge. List six concerts you've been to, one being a lie.  His list was such that I asked if he was Amish? Really, Pat Boone? The BeeGees. Harry Chapin?  Then I couldn't stop laughing at my own mean joke until I peed myself. 

I was going to start a new stitch adventure this morning but Bailey, aka Killah, wouldn't give up the chair. If you pick him up to move him, he will be back in the chair before you can turn around and plant your ass.

The sun holds on, but it's a bit brisk to go out with wet hair and the sniffles.

All that and I've lucked into a crackerjack beta-reader with a wicked eye and a sharp red pen who has confirmed that Prophets Tango is NOT ready for publication yet. Editing - the ever-shitting, I mean shifting tide of opinion and facts, flows on. and on.....sigh.

fun & filth

For all of you who do NOT waste your lives and time over at that post hole called FaceBook, I'm gleaning only the best on the days that not much is happening around here.
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A car full of Irish nuns is sitting at a traffic light in downtown Dublin when a bunch of rowdy drunks pulls up alongside them.

"Hey, show us yer tits, ya bloody penguins!" shouts one of the drunks.
Quite shocked, Mother Superior turns to Sister Mary Immaculata and says, "I don't think they know who we are; show them your cross."

Sister Mary Immaculata rolls down her window and shouts, "Piss off, ya fookin' little wankers, before I come over there and rip yer balls off!"

Sister Mary Immaculata then rolls up her window, looks back at Mother Superior, quite innocently, and asks, "Did that sound cross enough?
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In other news. I made a soap sack to put bits and slivers into for my shower. I have a vast collection of those little soap pills they give out at hotels. Some smell quite nice. They are all in the bag now. And speaking of hot showers.

 After a string of days in the Georgia pollen shitstorm (over 8000 today), I took Jack Flash to the DONT TOUCH ME OR SPEAK TO ME car wash. You know the kind. Wave your card, they wave you through. Spanking clean and shiny, I cranked up the rock and took the long straightaway home, heavy on the gas. 

On FB I wanted to say "This was more fun than a fast fuck in a hot shower" #veryeasilyamused.  But I censored myself. You, my friends, get me full blast.

something for everyone

Spent the whole afternoon yesterday, winding in a trance while I watched a poor choice of entertainment. The Netflix series "Ozark" examines the predicament of a seemingly ordinary family enmeshed in the workings of a drug cartel. It just keeps getting deeper and darker. I bailed.

Of course, I couldn't find the imaginary stash of cardboard spools so I used the last of my business cards. Put to good use, finally.

the Cone set

It will be a few days before I sort these out, curate some new sets, and get them posted for sale.

We are under a county mandated lockdown. I haven't been inside any retail establishment since 3/11 so it remains to be seen when I'll be able to ship these. But if anything grabs your fancy, I will be taking reservations against the better times the near future will bring us, if we all take good care.

And this for some solid hilarity 

The world has caught a virus so I’ve written you a poem We need your help to cure it, so stay the fuck at home. And if you have got twelve kids or you’re living on your own, Lock it down and isolate, and stay the fuck at home. If you think you’re not at risk here, you’re living in a dome, It spreads faster than a hookers legs, so stay the fuck at home. I need the gym, I need the beach, I hear you bitch and moan. You need to grow a brain cell and stay the fuck at home. But I feel fine, I don’t feel sick. I’ll go out on my own. How thick are you, you selfish prick. Please, just stay the fuck at home. From LA through to Berlin, and Wuhan through to Rome, There’s people dying every day, so stay the fuck at home. If you need to contact family, use Facebook, Skype, or phone, We’ve got the fucking internet, so stay the fuck at home. The only way to slow it down is isolate, not roam. Please help the world get back on track and stay the fuck at home. Stay the fuck at home, stay the fuck at home. Don’t you be a fucking dick, please stay the fuck at home.

Come on, sunshine.

75 and climbing

By the time I finished spooling up all the DMC I had, it was in the mid 80's and blazing bright. I really will have to speak to the management about putting up the new tent back there.

Your eyes do not deceive you. That drift of white laid out on the table is a vintage, damask tablecloth. It has a slight scorch mark and so went unloved a long time on eBay until I snatched it up for a song.

Today, it makes its debut as the 2020 dye season Table Mopper. The ground cloth for whatever dye fests may occur at the Lawrenceville Frankenstein Dyeworx in the coming months. At the end of the season, the cloth may become the centerpiece of a larger work, or I might hack it up and sent the bits 'round the world.

Here the innocent spools shiver in the secret sauce, waiting their turn on the table.

Joining them, a handful of strips of muslin from a long-abandoned log cabin project. Color wouldn't hurt. The carrier this time? A box of buggy oatmeal from deep in the pantry. Expiration date? I didn't look.

The victims, born again, all crusty with salt, sugar, dye, oatmeal. The cone carried the last yards into battle because I ran out of winding cards. The color, on the bottom, will be a surprise.

They are out there now, under the stars and a bare sliver of moon, owls serenading.

I'll wash, rinse and dry them tomorrow.

for now, I'm so done.