Wednesday, June 27, 2007

An Interesting List

Well, I was curious to see how folks have found my blog lately via keyword searches. It never ceases to amaze me some of the word configurations that lead readers to my blog. Take a gander at these:

27 Jun 18:23:30 calastetics church
26 Jun 14:56:19 how long leave gas in tank
25 Jun 17:28:46 browser hijaced
25 Jun 10:29:15 sugar water in gas tank
25 Jun 07:12:42 youtube pedal pumping
25 Jun 02:49:03 full throttle lifts
24 Jun 18:29:49 full throttle lift
23 Jun 19:47:52 youtube pedal pumping
23 Jun 19:46:43 youtube pedal pumping
23 Jun 17:53:29 how to empty gas tank
22 Jun 20:44:40 what happens when someone put sugar in your gas tank
22 Jun 12:37:22 gas tank song
21 Jun 22:29:01 lutheran view of white stripes
21 Jun 22:28:49 lutheran view of white stripes
21 Jun 22:28:05 lutheran view of white stripes
21 Jun 22:26:27 lutheran view of white stripes

Friday, June 22, 2007


I just can't abide the sound flip-flops make when someone walks in them. That thppt-thpppt-thppt sound drives me nuts. That smacking on the back of the heal drives me to distraction. That is the main reason I wear sandals that have a strap on them that goes over the top of my foot. It cuts down on the flip-flop sound and doesn't drive me out of my gourd.

I had a whole diatribe in my head that I was planning on spewing out, but sadly, or perhaps joyfully, it, that is the rant, vanished from my short memory as soon as I wrote "I just can't abid the sound fli-flops make when someone walks in them..."

Ah well, such is life.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Disjointed Toughts

I got the new White Stripes album today for fifty-eight cents. Well, in truth I used a ten dollar gift card I had received a few weeks back. It was a Target gift card. I have been a fan of the White Stripes someone introduced me to them a few years back. I like their sound, its guitar heavy, ear-drum thwacking sound. It does, to steal a phrase, the body good. Maybe not the ears so much, but the body.

I listed to it as I drove from one place of employ, BN, to another place of employ: the law library. I love pushing books. Love it. I've been up since 0430. I had to be at work at BN at 0600. It is now 555 pm, or 1755, so i have been awake for more than twelve hours. So Robert Goulet should be swooping down from the ceiling at any minute. I'm a bit low. I tried to read a chapter ofAmerican Gods by Neil Gaiman before work, but found myself nodding off. But I have been properly fortified with chilled caffinated sugar water and I'm good to go for a bit.

Its fairly quite in the library, that's a bold statement, wasn't it? It should be quite in the library, but I mean there aren't many people here. They come and go, but nothing much is going on. I'm not sure what classes are going on, but thre must be one or two because the few students that are here do seem to be studying something, I'm just sure what. And, for that matter, I don't really care.

I started watching the Spanish movie The Spirit of the Beehive the other day. What a beautiful movie. Really, its gorgeous. It was recently released by Criterion. Its just an amazing film. Beautifully shot. I'm in awe. It is a must see film.

I'm ready to take a nap.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Academic Tomfoolery

It's actually kind of sad that I don't have anything worthwhile to bog about, so I blog about my cat. That just goes to show that I have no life. None. Zip. Nada. Zilch. Okay, enough of that.

I'm sitting here in the law library doing nothing except surfing from one site to another. Wasting time and enjoying it to death.

I just can't leave well enough alone. I've been looking at the IUPUI website looking into two possiblities: paralegal certification and/or (parish this thought!) and MA in Poli Sci. Why do I even tempt myself with such nuttiness? Umm, hello, I've just about finished my MLS, it took me two years, nonstop, but I've reached the proverbial end of the tunnel, I've got one,ONE! class left, and here I go thinking about more schooling. I should have a rootcanal into my head and see what's wrong with my noodle. However, I am going to be applying for a job at IUPUI. It will be at the law library, but it will be a full time position that would allow me, if I so chose to either have something of a life and/or continue to work at BN on a parttime basis. But if I was to get the job and the full time bennies I would be able to get a discount on classes. See, its all part of my plot, what plot that might be, I haven't the foggiest.

The paralegal certification is 27 hours, plus three for "intro to law" one of those blasted "prereqs." The MA is 33 hours with a thesis. That "T" word is the one that makes me pause. The idea of even attempting a thesis makes my head spin and my stomach knot.

I've always been fascinated by politics,those many blood suckers, I'm not very politcally active, but I find the theatre of politics to be good fun and quite entertaning. But I'm afraid that my somewhat right of center political views might cause problems. Ah well. I need to sit down and talk to someone about these silly ideas I have in my head. Hopefully that someone will be abel to disuade me from taking this foolhardy road.

Emma The Cat Update

Having a white cat is sometimes a very strange thing. It is particularly weird when, at 430 am my alarm goes off, I get out of bed and get ready for work, I look down and see this little cat-shaped ghost glide into my room. Its also very strange when she disappears. She does, I'm not sure how does this, but her white coat allows her to just blend into most surrondings.

She's little. Maybe its better said that she is "skinny." Compared to her cat-"brother" Woody, who is a rather stocky cat, she looks almost mal-nourished. She reminds me of a seal. Because Woody is such a blocky cat he is easy to hold on to, nos so much when it comes to Emma. She twists this and way and that and before long, roughly .09 seconds she is out my grasp and running.

Her meow is different than Woody's, or for that matter any other cat I've ever had. Its not a "meow" per se, but more of a throatal tone. It starts out low and then goes higher, but I don't think she opens her mouth.

Her ears are too big for her head. When she gets tired she gets little bags under her eyes. She does a little dance when I give her new water. She lays in the front window all day, turning slightly from time to time to make sure she gets good sun all about.

Her paw pads are pink and so is her nose.

She is one of the strangest little critters.

Saturday, June 09, 2007

Admittedly, I Am One of the Monkeys

What happens, you might ask, when ignorance meets bad taste meets mob rule? The monkeys take over... In today's cult of the amateur, the monkeys are running the show.

-- The Cult of the Amateur: How Today's Internet is Killing Our Culture
Andrew Keen

Monday, June 04, 2007

Rant Gone Bad

So, you want to learn to write. You want to get to the marrow of it all? You want get that voice on paper and out of your head? I understand, completely. I do, too. But I think I've gotten pretty close to giving up. That doesn't mean that I can't help teach writing. Matter of fact, that is a simmering dream of mine: to teach writing, but there's a problem with that: "you can't teach some how to write." You either got it, or you don't. I know that was bad grammar, maybe even cliched, but it was effective. See, that's writing.

I have a voice in my head. Loud, high pitched and slightly inebriated. The kind of slurred voice one has after three or four vodka tonics, or high balls, or maybe some screwdrivers. Its an elfin voice, my particular bug-a-boo of a voice is Capote. I don't know why that elfin, good-time boy took residence in my head. I wish he would leave. Whenever I write about writing while typing I hear Capote blearily say"that's not writing, that's typing." Oh, I'm sorry, my fault, I used an adverb: "blearily." Sign of bad writing. Stay away from adverbs, says so in Stunk and White, the bible for writers. (An aside: it is my opinion that "the little grey book" aka The Elements of Style by William Strunk and E.B. White is the only book you need to be a writer and pages 70-85 are the fifteen most important pages you'll ever need to read. Those 21 rules are gospel and commandment all rolled into one.) He's right, Capote is, it really isn't writing, it is indeed typing. I can't write by hand. The words tumble out too quickly. My hand can't keep up, so my fingers do what they can.

Where ever I go I have paper and pen: in my blue bag I take to work, in my desk (an oblong green sketch pad that I have written in intermittently since Houston, I had high hopes for that one, but alas it didn't pan out), I have small moleskin notebook, too. Today, I was nippin and tuckin the writing journals and I found one that I liked, I almost bought it with the intention of "writing in it," wouldn't of worked. I'd of written something, but then that pour journal would end up in a corner somewhere dusty. The start of the last sentence "I'd of" is left over from my time in the Appalachians. That's straight Appalachian right there. "I'd of..." bad writing? I don't know. What do I know about good or bad writing.

I work in a bookstore. So, I guess I might know good writing when I see it. I don't. I know what I like and what I don't. I don't know if what I like is good writing. How can I make that decision? Who am I?

You know who started this thought in my head? These thoughts, I should say, and no, it wasn't Capote. It was Tim O'Brien. His book The Things They Carried always beats me over the head. What amazing stuff. I wish I had a thimble of his talent, I don't not even close. I'm a wack job next to him. His book would be my textbook in my writing class, well that and the "little grey book." There would be no tests, but there would be writing. My how there would be writing. My students write until their hands bled. They would hate me. I would make them go deep. Deep into places they wouldn't talk about. I break them. They'd hate me. But they'd survive. They'd write it. They'd have no choice.

I freely give my opinion when I'm reading someone's work. I'm not sure they appreciate it. I should probably stop giving my opinion. My opinion doesn't count for much any way. I'm no critic, I'm an unfulfilled writer. There are shelves and shelves of books that tell me how to write, how to put a word, a thought, an idea on paper. Write that novel THIS year. Here is the proper way to write a poem (oh, please, tell me). I zoned through that section today I should never zone through the how-to write section at 0600, because I brood. Just like I shouldn't zone in the cookbooks after 1600, I dwell on the covers and get hungry and disappointed that I can't cook like that.

So, you want to write? You want to be a writer? Why? What is it that you want? You want to be a writer? Fine, go write. Go ahead. I'll be here, waiting. I'll just go read the master Tim O'Brien. I'll go read my writing class textbook.