Tales from the Emerald City

Sidney Sees A Shrink

2012-03-02T08:10:00.004-08:00

You might be sick of hearing about Sidney or maybe you have never heard of him before, but either way he is coming back. My picture book "Sidney Sees A Shrink" that I produced in grad school has gone through a transformation. Because of its wordiness and subject matter, I decided to turn Sidney into a chapter book for a slightly older audience.

I plan on self-publishing it sometime this spring, because we all know how much kids love to read in the summer. The story is finished along with fourteen of the twenty completely new black and white drawings. "Sidney Sees A Shrink" holds a place close to my heart, but north of my pancreas, and will be available through LuLu.com and I hope you can check it out.

Scene from Chapter Five.

While in the middle of group therapy the dogs are convinced there is a cat in the room.

Some tidbits and random thoughts

2012-02-25T04:54:00.004-08:00

In 1864, Lewis Carroll asked John Tenniel to illustrate Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Tenniel accepted and was paid £138 or roughly $219. Today writers, and some publishers, seeking illustrators offer around the same amount to illustrate an entire book.

Rick Santorum's view on women’s rights dates back to the Middle Ages. If that is what he believes I can accept it, but who is voting for him? They can’t all be men. While a group of white middle-age religious men testified on Capital Hill about Women’s Contraception Rights, not one woman was asked to participate. In fact one was denied to speak.

Would someone look out the window and see if Superman is circling the globe backwards?

I was driving home from the local nursery, Strother & Martin’s, when I heard Governor Christie wants to lower the flags at half-mast for Whitney Houston. I would rather see them lowered for a sanitation worker killed in the line of duty than a drug addict. Celebrity you say? They weren’t lowered for Frank Sinatra or Lou Costello, both Jersey born, why her?

It has all become too acceptable for an entertainer to overdose. Maybe the industry should be regulated like sports. When players started receiving too many serious head injuries, the NFL changed the design of the helmets along with the rules. Instead of protecting entertainers the industry has these tributes that go on for days. It’s safer to be in porn than music.

I wish the producers of “The Bachelor” were involved in the Republican nomination race. It would go a lot faster. Mitt will you accept this rose?

The other day at a Chinese restaurant I got a fortune cookie that read “Your luck will change”. What the hell does that mean? Now it’s 5 o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep trying to figure out whether I have had a good life or not.

The father of my daughter’s friend told me he is planning to swim the Straights of Gibraltar next summer. I told him it wasn’t necessary since they have a ferry system now, but he said its part of his bucket list. That’s the kind of people you find out here. My bucket list has ‘buy a DVR’, which I thought was a sure thing until I got that damn fortune cookie.

If you read my last piece I wrote about my Oscar picks, which will be televised this Sunday (The Oscars that is not my picks, although I guarantee they would go a lot shorter). I have to write an addendum. I just finished watching “The Help” a few minutes ago. By far the best picture I have seen in a long time. This film was beautiful, poignant, clever, funny, but mostly important. It showed a similar human spirit as “Schindler’s List”. I was very hesitant to watch it thinking it was a ‘chick flick’. Sometimes great films have awful marketing. That is the case here. It really was a great piece of filmmaking. I know I always have a least one thing to critique, and I do with “The Help” but unlike Minny’s pie recipe, I’ll keep it to myself.

By the way, Senator Kirsten Gillibrand is circulating a petition about what happened on Capitol Hill if you are interested. Here is the link and yes I did sign it. Apparently, even though it is 2012 I still need to help protect my daughters’ and wife’s rights.

http://www.democratsenators.org/o/44/p/dia/action/public/?action_KEY=369&track=OMFW_KEG_201202&tag=OMFW_KEG_201202_4

Oscar, Oscar, Oscar

2012-02-02T10:20:00.000-08:00

Yes the Oscars will soon be upon us and that means you are eagerly waiting to read what I have the say about them. I won’t go through all the categories in fear this will read like the show itself. Speaking of the show. Next year please get someone else to host rather than a balloon with a painted face. What is with old comedians and plastic surgery? Are they so desperate to get a laugh?

Best Picture

"The Artist"

This has a good chance for the title alone. Hollywood still thinks it makes art. But spending over $75 for tickets, snacks, and a sitter for a black and white silent film? I’ll wait for the DVD.

"The Descendants"

ehh, good not Oscar worthy.

"Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close"

Too painful and released too late.

"The Help"

Seems like many African-Americans hate this film, so forget its chances. Didn’t see it.

"Hugo"

Beautifully filmed. Marty will most likely win since he is passed due, although I have a few critiques. 1) While imitating French films the characters seems more like caricatures. Just compare an early scene with one from “Amelie”. 2) Borat as an inspector? Please. 3) Why does Hollywood use English actors to portray everyone from a foreign country? Not only would it feel more authentic to have them speak with French accents, but it would heighten Hugo’s isolation. Marty, for your next project, call me. Second half with Méliés was great. Yes, I said great.

"Midnight in Paris"

Beautiful charming film. Little overdone with the yellow filter. Owen Wilson looked like he was caught between his acting style and Woody’s. Won’t win.

"Moneyball"

See “Descendants”

"The Tree of Life"

Good time to catch up on that much needed nap.

"War Horse"

Remake of “Frances Goes to War” but without the laughs. Boring meandering plot. Only one decent scene with the cavalry charging the machine guns in an old world meets new. If Spielberg didn’t have his name on this it wouldn’t have made the cut.

My pick? “Thor”. Out of all the nominated films I couldn’t watch any twice. That’s the true test of an Oscar winner. Be honest, which of these would you watch more than once?

Actor in a Leading Role

Demián Bichir in "A Better Life"

Never heard of it.

George Clooney in "The Descendants"

I wasn’t sure about this pick until I talked to my wife. She was deeply saddened watching this film. Sad? Did we see the same film? Here’s a brief summation. Clooney’s character is married to a horrible woman that apparently is a crappy mother and is having an affair with Shaggy. She is in a boating accident and dies. The guy is a lawyer whose family owns a billion dollars of Hawaiian real estate, his kids start to love him again, he lives in Hawaii, AND he looks like George Clooney! And everyone feels bad for the guy? That, my friend, is acting.

Jean Dujardin in "The Artist"

I’ll get back to you.

Gary Oldman in "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy"

Someone tell the academy remakes don’t win.

Brad Pitt in "Moneyball"

Ehh

Actor in a Supporting Role

Kenneth Branagh in "My Week with Marilyn"

Sorry but I just can’t see him as Marilyn.

Jonah Hill in "Moneyball"

Was he in this?

Nick Nolte in "Warrior" Really?

Christopher Plummer in "Beginners"

Chris is long, LONG overdue. One of the best actors around today.

Max von Sydow in "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close"

Max is long, LONG overdue. One of the best actors around today. Wait, did I just…Aren’t they the same person?

Actress in a Leading Role

I didn’t see any of these movies, so I’ll just pick Michelle Williams since Hollywood loves Marilyn. Besides, everyone is sick of Meryl, “The Help” is too controversial, Rooney comes from money, and Glenn Close really is a man. Why do you think they call her Glenn?

Glenn Close in "Albert Nobbs"

Viola Davis in "The Help"

Rooney Mara in "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"

Meryl Streep in "The Iron Lady"

Michelle Williams in "My Week with Marilyn"

Actress in a Supporting Role

I only saw “Bridesmaids” and comedies very rarely win. Besides, does anyone really care about this category? Can’t they move it to the technical night and make the show shorter?

Bérénice Bejo in "The Artist"

Jessica Chastain in "The Help"

Melissa McCarthy in "Bridesmaids"

Janet McTeer in "Albert Nobbs"

Octavia Spencer in "The Help"

The saddest comment is the number of original songs nominated. Just two and they had to scrape iTunes clearance barrel for them. Maybe the Academy should just skip categories some years. However, I think it will be a big night for Scorsese who made a film the Academy can get behind.

Overall it promises to be one of the most mundane years ever. I think the only thing that will help is if Vegas sets some odds. What’s the over/under for GOP jokes in the monologue?

Who Loves Ya Baby

2012-01-21T15:29:00.000-08:00

I started a new workout routine and I am already filled with doubts and dubiousness. Over the years I learned that one of the important things when working out, dieting, or any long-term project is to have a goal. Number of pounds you want to loose, lowering your blood pressure, things like that. Mine was to best my personal trainer at arm wrestling. It might sound superficial, but it seemed like a good idea that was also achievable. After a few weeks on my new regiment I felt ready.

“Okay Nicole,” I told her, “you’re going down,” with an air of misguided bravado. Nicole let out a slight smile and was quiet as she placed her elbow on the padded bench her forearm poised her hand in an open grip. Bam! Over. You know those cameras that capture hummingbird wings flapping around a flower? Well, you needed one of those to capture Nicole’s victory in all its glory. What really was upsetting was her “In your face” taunts afterwards that rang through the gym as if from a cracked tin bell. It was briefly after this first humiliation that I was dealt with yet another.

While driving in the car with my youngest daughter she told me I should start working out. “But honey,” I said “I have been. In fact I go to the gym four to five times a week.” She couldn’t believe her ears and asked “Then why are you still fat?” I went on to tell her that stomachs are naturally round in nature. Flat stomachs are an oddity. Just look at our cousins, the orangutan. Besides, I added, I have a six-pack of abs. I just prefer to keep them in a cooler where they belong.

Let’s face facts. Most of us aren’t cut and can’t get cut to the point where strangers (and sometimes loved ones) want to look at us. It’s a myth perpetrated by the film industry using high tech computer software, a good deal of makeup, digital imaging and androids. These ‘humans’, if that’s what they really are, have it in their contracts to be shirtless in every movie they appear. Its reverse sex discrimination and I for one am very offended.

Movies are an escape. Instead they have become a sadistic minefield, selling buttered popcorn while images of superior body types flash before my wife’s eyes. Well, I won’t let them do that to her. I refuse to see any movie with George Clooney, Ryan Reynolds, Ryan Gosling, Mark Wahlberg, Taylor Lautner (to be honest I wouldn’t see him in any movie), Brad Pitt, Josh Brolin, Hugh Jackman, Matt Damon, or Daniel Craig. Consequently, as a result of my boycott, I miss a lot of movies. But more importantly, they make me sick. From now on I only take my wife to films that star Paul Giamatti or Steve Buscemi. And who wouldn’t want to see a Philip Seymour Hoffman, or a Clint Howard in a romantic comedy? How about a remake of Valentine’s Day where a shirtless Drew Carey makes out with Linda Hunt? It may still suck, but I could leave the theatre feeling good about myself for a change.

Instead of excessive dieting and exercise what we need is a new spokesman for this generation. What Telly Savalas did for bald men in the seventies, Jack Black could do for the heavy weights now. Instead of ‘Bald is Beautiful’ (although come to think of it I could use that too), we can have ‘Pretty in Portly’, or maybe ‘Fat is Phat’. There was a period when beautiful starlets such as Nicole Kidman and Charlize Theron donned ugly makeup for roles. I’m issuing a challenge to all those actors out there. If Salma Hayek is brave enough to wear a unibrow, why can’t Matt Damon? What’s the matter pretty boy? Afraid? Come on Hollywood, what about us regular guys?

"Who Loves Ya Baby"

An unrelated Harvester 1-12-12

iMeMine

2012-01-10T12:20:00.000-08:00

When I was in school all those years ago I was your typical angry young man. I had to rebel against everything that was established in those days with my music, clothes, even my hair. Refusing to listen to parents about dressing properly for an interview or lowering the volume of Brain Salad Surgery on my Sansui 7070 when others asked only made me want to do it more.

Is it the perspective of age and a certain amount of sagacity over the years that I have learned to be more tolerant? Hardly. More likely it is due to having less to protest with since losing my hair and a good deal of hearing, Although, I think I still have those painter’s pants in the back of my closet along with a Jethro Tull concert T from 1979. But as any reader of these ramblings can tell you I haven’t mellowed completely over the years. I’ve gone from an angry young man to a complaining old one. Now I’m ready to turn another corner.

My first idea was to install a plaque on my front door. I got this notion when I went to the movies. The sign would read “Please refrain from using your cell phone and keep your voice down for the enjoyment of others.” These marketing people know what they are doing. But that didn’t go far enough.

I’ve entered the millennium last week (better late than never I suppose) with a purchase of an iPhone. Not the new one mind you, but the one you can get for .99, $1.07 with tax. It was a reluctant decision based mostly on the fact that the ‘6’ button didn’t work on my old phone. Not having a keyboard didn’t help either while trying to communicate with those accustomed to texting.

I resisted for as long as I could. But now that I own one my viewpoint is changing. I am now embracing the American art of marketing and advertising. The first thing I notice were all the alerts you can choose from. I want to incorporate them throughout my whole house. Who wouldn’t feel important when you open the front door to the fanfare of French horns from the ‘Sherwood Forest’ clip? I may just go in and out a few times each day to give my frail and tattered ego a boost. I plan on having all my entrances wired so they play different alerts depending who is there. I call it the iDoor. Now everyone can have his or her own theme song, just like Dick Cheney has Darth Vader’s. For my mother-in-law, what else but ‘Science Fiction’ to give me a heads up. ‘Suspense’ is perfect for strangers and bill collectors. I can even use the ‘Bark’ since my dog has become apathetic and doesn’t give a shit who is knocking any more.

Why stop at the front door? For those long dinners that need a little pick me up how about iTable? Have a very close friend that tells awful jokes? The ‘Cricket’ is perfect for those occasions. ‘Time Passing’ may give those never want to leave guests the hint. Introducing the iPet, a small CPU chip we implant in your pet so you can get them to behave the way you want them to. Hmmm, maybe an iSpouse? (Note to self: tell my wife I stopped writing this blog.)

And you people were worried now that Steve Jobs is gone. Tsk, tsk. Why I have a million ways we can push Apple to the next frontier. There’s the iBoss (be your own boss), the iGovenment (we can save a lot of waste here folks!) and the iI where eventually you can replace yourself. Yes sir, once again I’m hip and happening. It only took four decades. I only have one question. What are theses things called ‘apps’?

Just a couple of sketches I did on vacation before my pad fell in an ice bucket.

Resolutions? Really?

2012-01-02T12:52:00.000-08:00

I suppose you want to read something all cheery and full of hope for the New Year? Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m still suffering the effects of my money hangover to be optimistic.

I started the year off in the right frame of mind but by the 2^nd of January it was only a dim memory. You see for this year I made a whole list of resolutions that would bring great changes and much joy to my life. Oh they weren’t for me, but for my loved ones, family, friends, fellow motorists, theatre-goers, restaurant guests, and any strangers that I happened to meet along the way. For some reason, however, they were less than enthusiastic upon receiving my unsolicited advice. I haven’t seen such strong resistance since France in the 1940s.

And they weren’t just for my benefit. I have been exposed to enough bad habits, poor hygiene, misguided parenting, and mental disorders that could serve as the new lineup for TLC. And yet…oh well. That’s the last time I try to help. Well, maybe the second to last.

I do have one more resolution. This one is for the news media. It seems every year for as long as I can remember they dig up a story about a good Samaritan helping a family in need, getting them gifts for under the Christmas tree or paying off a much needed debt. And while these stories warm the cockles of my heart (yes I have cockles, but the doctor promised me he could get rid of them) it got me to thinking. Aren’t there any Jews, Muslims or, God forbid, atheists out there that could use some help? Don’t they ever have problems during Chanukah, Ramadan, or Festivus? Couldn’t the media show someone helping out a non-Christian for once? One of the principles of this country is Freedom of Religion, and that is with half the founding fathers as practicing atheists. I guess what I’m asking for is a little Freedom From Religion.

Even as I write this I can hear some of you saying, “Well, he’s going to Hell.” You may be right. Please believe me I’m not trying to be anti-religion. I just think sometimes we forget that we should love and show kindness to everyone, not just the ones that believe what we believe.

A fortune-teller told me a few years back that I'll probably die in my 50s or 60s. So I decided to enjoy what time I have left, to be less concerned about money, less critical, and be a kinder person (How am I doing so far?). If she was right I'll enjoy my remaining years. If she was wrong I'll be asking people if they want two percent or whole milk in their lattes when I'm 75 while trying to make ends meet.

And who knows. Maybe the Mayans will be right and we're all going in 2012. Although, why would anyone put much faith in a race of people that couldn't figure out how over one million of them could beat two-dozen Spaniards is beyond me. When the time comes and if there is a God maybe He’ll be a regular guy and say, “Well you are a complaining little bastard, but what the hell c'mon in.” Either way, I’m okay with it. And I suppose if I want to be a better person I should start now and wish everyone a wonderful 2012. I hope you receive all that you long for this year, unless of course you’re Mayan.

2011-11-19T10:46:00.001-08:00

Nothing to complain about this week, but don't fret. I'm driving to see my in-laws for Thanksgiving.

Here are two new pieces based on photos. I did them after reading Carlson's Guide to Landscape Painting.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving.

Are they taking applications yet?

2011-11-10T12:05:00.000-08:00

If it’s not too soon I’d like to apply for Andy Rooney’s old job. It’s not like I can’t find enough things to complain about. Even Andy was running out towards the end. Chocolate chip cookies? Really, that’s your problem this week? I’m essentially doing the same thing now, just without the lucrative paycheck. Which brings me to my first complaint. Where is my lucrative paycheck? I wait everyday for an executive over at CBS to call or write saying “These clever remarks of yours are certainly worth their weight in pithiness. Do you prefer check or cash?”

And by starting at a fairly early age, I still have decade’s worth of gripes in me. Most curmudgeons don’t start until they have grandchildren or other things that grate on their nerves and ruin the linoleum. It may just be a case of reverse ageism. Who says a person can’t be crotchety before sixty-five? Given the chance I can act like an emotional Benjamin Button! I’ll throw tantrums as if I was Tim Tebow throwing a pass, which is likely to end up anywhere. I’ll even stop using my online thesaurus so everyone will get the opportunity to appreciate what my problems are. Here, I can prove it…

You know what I don’t like? People who mess up a bed. Many of us toss and turn until the whole thing looks like a scene from that silent movie whose name escapes me right now, but was a big hit when I was in high school. You know the one. Why can’t they lie down like I do, as a living mummy. This way it makes it so much easier for the person who has to make it. It’s just a common courtesy, like only keeping your dentures in a glass reserved for houseguests and in-laws. And when that one day comes when you can’t get up, it becomes less bothersome for the paramedics. And isn’t that what life is all about? Making it easier for people that have to deal with you.

See? Perfect, right? This stuff writes itself. And what’s more impressive than someone complaining about complaining? In closing this open cover letter to CBS and Sumner Redstone I just like to say that unlike Rooney I can be used for your cross marketing platform with parent company National Amusement in order to perpetuate your entertainment packages and help support such fine programming as “Jersey Shore”, (psst, Snookie is my fact checker).

Still not enough? Well, stick around. The holidays are approaching and I’m sure I can find something there. Besides, 2012 is an election year. And speaking of 2012, what is the problem with the Mayans? Can’t they have a normal calendar with cute puppies or hunky firemen or even hunky puppies as firemen? What did we ever do to them? Oh right.

Studio piece from a plein air study.

Rattlesnakes, Mountain Lions, and Bears, oh crap.

2011-10-14T22:02:00.000-07:00

For some reason I feel the need to toughen myself up. Now I know what you’re thinking “Jamie, we already consider you a man’s man now”. I thank you for your silent accolades. However, there is this spot deep inside of me that is either a primal need to become one with nature or a death wish. It’s hard to tell it’s so dark in there.

So I decided to ignore these warnings posted at the trailhead, and go against my better judgment that states you shouldn’t hike alone on such trials and forged ahead. I asked a local that has been here for some time “Those warnings are just to keep the tourist from wandering off the trails, right?” “No, not really, “ he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “They’re out there. The rattlers like to sun themselves on the trails this time of year, and bears are getting hungry for winter. And you know how cougars get?” I nodded as if he was telling me about which nozzle on the vacuum to use when cleaning the couch cushions. “Best pay attention to them,” he added.

Rangers. What do they know? They’re just mall cops surrounded by trees.

So off I go. If you recall the last hike was a bit too strenuous. So I chose a new one called Hogback Ridge, which is slightly less elevated, and about the same length. I figured I could handle it. I’m as good a hiker as the next man. Providing the next man is Michael J. Fox. The only problem was I wasn’t on Hogback Trail. I took the wrong turn and found myself on an old miners trail. The Native Americans called it “Crapawa Meoka Hey” which translates to “I Just Soiled My Buckskins”. You see other hikers on the designated trails all the time regardless of the day. No one was on this one.

I went about a mile and a half down the trail and wondered when it would start to loop around the ridge. As it wound its way, turning down into ravines ever so often I realized how alone I really was. I figured I would give it another half mile or so and then head back. I hate not finishing a trail loop once I start it. I looked ahead and saw a rather large ravine, overgrown with brush and bramble. As I got closer I thought, “If this was a movie it would make a good place for an ambush.” As I entered the hollow a small chipmunk ran past. Out loud I murmured, in case it helped, “I guess it’s safe if you’re here, eh?” And then I heard it, only once, but clear, a low, deep, growl. It had to be only a few feet away. It had that staccato sound which you often hear in house cats. But this was deeper and I wasn’t in a house.

I looked deep into the brush but couldn’t see a thing. I raised my walking stick like I could actually do something with it and wished my dog Daisy was there. Not that she could defend me, but I would make my escape while she's being devoured. I slowly backed out, while always peering, straining to see through the branches. A few more steps. Did I really hear it? Yes, I know I did. Now about twenty yards away, I picked up two small rocks and tossed them into where I thought the sound came from. I waited. Nothing. I just know that thing wants to bite my head off. That’s where all the fatty goodness is stored. I picked up the pace, turning every once in a while, expecting to see something leaping after me, but nothing came. When I got back to the trailhead I thought I’d never do that again. At least not for a few weeks anyway.

Pass the M&Ms

2011-10-08T19:26:00.000-07:00

This weekend I decided to take a hike around the number one rated trail in Boulder, Mount Sanitas. It was only a little over three miles and I often walk two so I didn’t think much of it. But the extra mile wasn’t the problem.

Halfway around I was reminded of the 1964 film “Robinson Crusoe on Mars”. It starred Paul Mantee with a brief appearance by Adam West as Colonel Dan McReady. He should have been named McAlready since he died in the first fifteen minutes. As you probably guessed it’s the story of an astronaut stranded alone in a hostile environment where he soon discovers his man Friday. Not a great career move for Friday going from slave to pack mule for an alien. In a white-centric society I guess they thought this progressive at the time. Paul Mantee may not be a big Hollywood name but he did appear in a number of television shows from “Dragnet” in 1959 to “Seinfeld” (he played a health inspector in The Pie).

Anyway, back to me. It wasn’t the strange landscape that reminded me of the film. Nor was it the fact I could have used my own Friday to help with carrying my pack and someone to talk to since I took the trip solo. It was something else in the film. To compensate for the thin Martian air Mantee’s character was given oxygen pills that he could take whenever he needed a little extra O. (They used M&Ms in the film) You see this hike wasn’t flat like my feet but went rather vertical like my stock portfolio in my dreams.

I can’t blame my huffing and puffing on the fact that I’m at 5,500 foot (or is it feet?) altitude anymore, because it has been over a year since I landed. It has to be the poor physical shape I’m in. I feel pretty healthy. That is until I come across one of these human dynamos out here. This one woman hiked past me, stop to answer her cell phone than ran passed me again repeating this scene two more times. I finally told her “Look, can you just go pass me and stay there? I feel bad enough as it is.” She mentioned something about her grandkids but with the blood rushing into my ears I couldn’t make out what she said.

I moved along the path as if underwater while everyone else went scampering and frolicking away. Dogs, kids, old people, they were all leaving me in the proverbial dust. In all fairness to me it does have an net elevation gain of 1,323 feet and is rated “moderately strenuous”, but that don’t mean Jack when you’re laying on a rock, crying as if in a scene from ‘Saving Private Ryan’.

I did make it to the top and now I had a different problem. As mentioned earlier I do indeed have flat feet and when going downhill my knees begin to feel as if locked in a vise after only a few hundred feet. I still had a mile and a half to go. Each step the vise got tighter and tighter. I grabbed a fallen branch to use as a walking stick since I decided to leave mine in the car for some unknown reason. I hobbled along looking like Gandalf the Grey. “YOU SHALL NOT HAVE MY GRANOLA BAR!” I yelled to myself.

There are a good number of people in great shape out here. Over 12% of commuters bike to work, the highest in the country. And with so many beautiful days people can take advantage of the weather.

So I have two choices. Either work myself harder to try and get into better shape or start hanging out with the guy on Pearl Street with the sign that reads: “Will work for pot”. I’m not making that up. That is a man with a mission. A goal. My only question is what kind of work does he do?

Latest plein air piece “Grove of cottonwoods”.

2011-09-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

Two new pieces. One was from a photo while on our Geology field trip. And yes if you were wondering whether I wrapped my Hawaiian Punch in tin foil so it would stay cold. It was right outside the Red Rock Amphitheater where they hold outdoor concerts.

The other was a quick plein air painting at sunset. And I mean quick. Start to finish was about 15 minutes. You have no choice when the colors change so rapidly and the light is fading on your paint. My average for a painting study is around two hours which includes prep time.

Good Old Days?

2011-09-12T17:52:00.000-07:00

I am currently enrolled in a certificate program for paleontology, a subject I have always been interested in but never explored academically. One of the required courses is geology. Our professor explained about the tectonic plates (the Earth’s surface is in a constant state of flux) and their rate of movement. For instance the sub-continent of India is colliding into Asia and is building the Himalayan Mountains. These events, of course, are happening on a geological time scale, which can take place over thousands if not millions of years. The plates move on average between five and ten centimeters per year. I know this must come as a shock to many die-hard Tea Party members out there.

Doing some quick calculations, I discovered that the surface of the Earth has moved over ten meters in my lifetime. So if you think candles on a birthday cake can make you feel old, how about being able to measure your life span with that of the Earth’s? And the good times don’t end there. My kids love reminding me about the number of stars on our flag when I was born (forty-eight if you’re counting), or the fact that the first satellite had just been launched. Were they the ‘Good Old Days’?

This past month I took my wife up to Cheyenne, Wyoming for her birthday and we stayed at a historical Bed and Breakfast. The Nagel-Warren house was built in1888 and hosted quite an impressive list of dignitaries including President Taft, Theodore Roosevelt (although he wasn’t president during his stay) and one of the Vanderbilts (with so many of them there should have been a rabbit on their coat of arms).

Inside the hotel was old Wyoming with its stained glass, porcelain tubs, and a mock tin ceiling made of cowhide. Outside was a different story. Situated in the older part of town near the train depot, lay a number of bars, pawnshops, and title companies. Deep down I was wishing for the good old days of the West and that’s when I realize a simple truth. This was the old west. Instead of pickup trucks barreling down the street playing loud, cheap radios and waking up the neighborhood, they had horses and honky tonk pianos with people spilling out of saloons. Hollywood westerns make those days look like a hoot of fun, but the reality is they must have been just as annoying. I’m sure if I lived back then I would have worn a path to the sheriff’s office asking if he could do something about the noise coming from the hookers and drunks or the drunk hookers.

I guess on the flip side of things, maybe times do change but our perspective stays the same. Maybe I’d be a complainer no matter what era I lived in. Well, I guess we know the answer to that riddle. When people ask me “If you could choose a time period to live in, which one would it be?’ I don’t have a quick or easy answer. Romantic images aside, who wants to live before indoor plumbing? Or supermarkets for that matter? Or antibiotics? Then again nuclear threat is no fun time either. And forget about pollution and global warming. I guess it comes down to whether our memories are chaff or wheat filled? How do we want to remember the times we live in? Maybe these are the good old days and we should just be happy with what we have?

Nah.

New plein air oil off Cottontail Trail near our home.

2011-08-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

New plein air oil. I call it "Bug bites and Sunburn" or "What I need to take on my next outing".

Just an Average Guy

2011-08-06T08:07:00.000-07:00

It’s coming up to our one-year anniversary regarding our move to Colorado. There are a few things I learned about Boulder since last summer. For instance, Boulder has the highest percentage of people living on trust funds than any other part of the United States. One out of every four adults has a PhD. Degree of some kind. The climate is also a haven for retire Olympic Athletes and attracts many in the entertainment industry. Even the guy who owns the local pizza parlor is a retired astrophysicist from NASA. I guess you do have to be a rocket scientist to run a business around here. This, by the way, is all coming from second hand sources, which could mean it is either true or else we also rank number one in pathological liars.

The other quarter not belonging to this group are those receiving ‘medical’ marijuana supplements. They are a friendly bunch and are usually employed as wait staff and gardeners. It is easy to recognize this type when you hear “Bread? Oh right, right, sure that’s cool,” when you inquire about your basket.

Either way my path is clear. I am doing my best to be a pimple on that bell curve by not being exceptional at anything with the possible exclusion of annoying friends and loved ones with incessant literary (indulge me here) meanderings. For once in my life I thought my New York background and egocentric upbringing would lend me an air of superiority. Instead my self-esteem is in our low-flow, ecologically friendly toilet.

This leaves me with no other choice than to be as mediocre as possible. I can do that. It is this mediocrity that will let me stand out among the high-level achievers, Type A personalities, and refugees from a Lost Generation. By simply being me I am unique like no other.

I could improve my grammar or spelling, but then my thoughts would be just as coherent as the next guy’s. Who needs that? I could get a prescription for a fathom pain I get whenever my mother-in-law visits, but I don’t think I can spare any gray matter at this point. I did attend Art school in the seventies if memory serves me. I am not signing any petitions to save something that needs to be explained to me. The only cause I am getting behind is the Leave Me Alone Cause. It’s basically a movement of not doing anything cause I don’t want to be bothered.

So, am I adjusting to life out West? I can say emphatically yes. In the fact that I have not changed at all and will stay this way no matter how nice the people are, no matter how beautiful the weather, no matter how much my life has improved. There is always something horrible around the corner. We just can’t see it because some idiot has put up a Welcome sign.

My quick count of animals we’ve seen in our first 12 months in Colorado (not counting the farm animals such as cattle, sheep, llama, pigs, ponies, donkeys, horses, alpaca), most were on trails or near our home.

MAMMALS

coyote

red fox

raccoon

elk

deer

skunk

chipmunk

prairie dog

tufted squirrel

muskrat

bat

grey fox

cottontail rabbit

mountain goat

big horn sheep

AMPHIBIAN

frog

FISH

speckled trout

carp

perch

bass

BIRDS

red tail hawk

falcon

red wing blackbird

mallard

mountain jay

blue bird

humming bird

bald eagle

osprey

swallow

black vulture

great horned owl

blue heron

REPTILES

bull snake

garter snake

soft shell turtle

hard shell turtle

lizards

Always Look For The Gray Side Of Life

2011-07-08T08:12:00.000-07:00

While at a July 4^th bar-b-cue, I heard a guest mutter that all too familiar phrase “It stinks getting old.” It can in many ways stink, but we often forget the nice perks that come with seniority. There are small ones like discounts, but there are many more if you just know where to look and if you have your graduals on.

For one thing, my age has finally caught up to my attitude. Now when I sit around and complain it’s accepted as the ramblings of an old man and I’m mostly ignored. That’s a good thing since my fighting days are over. The downside is I developed a repetitive motion injury in my arm from shaking my fist at other drivers. Why are they always going either too slow or too fast?

I also started lying about my age and it feels good. In fact, I generally ADD about ten to fifteen years, which is then greeted with a big smile and “Wow, you look great for someone in their sixties!” This can backfire so you have to know your audience. Lately, I have had to add more and more years to get my desire results.

Also, no one asks me to do any heavy lifting any more either. No more helping someone move into an apartment or push a car out of a snow bank. Even lids to jars have become a non-subject as I so often have gotten a look and a shrug that means “I’ll just run it under hot water.” It’s not that I’m overweight or weak looking; at least I don’t think so. I think the asker is worried about giving me a stroke or heart attack and seeing his insurance premiums go up like a hot air balloon.

My kids have started treating me better too. Like getting me things when I ask on the first go round, such as my glasses or oxygen. It helps when I give them the sick look and pretend I can’t make out their faces. I keep my hand on my chest as if I’m about the recite the Pledge of Allegiance. This gives them the subliminal message I’m not long for this world.

The older you get the more you can act like a spoil child too. And that basically is what old people are, wrinkly, gray, ugly children. They don’t listen; they make a mess, are demanding, and say the darndest things (see I am old quoting Art Linkletter). But instead of getting annoyed or upset we should see the joy in them. It’s all part of the circle of life. When they make a mess while eating their strained peas, don’t yell. Just grab the camera to capture that precious moment. “Whose daddy’s big boy?” Some raspberries on their tummies while changing a diaper can turn that frown upside down. And isn’t that what’s life all about?

Let’s face it, every age has its ups and downs, the dependencies of childhood, the awkwardness of puberty, the demands and stress of adulthood. And while old age may not be the most exciting one of all, we can still have some fun while we’re here. Remember, juries are very sympathetic to the elderly. My father had a saying in his office that read ‘I considered the day lost if I don’t catch hell for something’. Not the most inspiring words you want your child to live by, but then again who’s to say it was for me?

I hate to admit it…

2011-06-20T21:29:00.000-07:00

Well, my wife and daughter returned this week from their six-day rafting trip with the Girl Scouts. Even though I missed them terribly, within fifteen minutes I was wondering when their next trip was schedule. (Mid July if you’re playing at home.) This isn’t a reflection on them. It is an announcement of what a persnickety old man I have become.

I’ll never forget the words of that great Queen of Egypt, Pharaoh Phawcett, when she said, “Clean up your mess. It’s starting to sphinx in here.” (ba dum bum). How can two demure and delicate little flowers turn a place that would make Oscar Madison cringe in so short a time? I know how much of a klutz I can be also. I mean I can trip over a shadow. So when I have to walk the gauntlet of shoes strewn about the living room like fish on a dock after a good catch, I’m taking my life in my hands, or should I say feet. I could only imagine what the campsite looked like when they were through with it.

I admit I was a little jealous when I saw the pictures they took and heard about everything they did. Usually when I’m home alone I think of all these wonderful things I plan on doing with my free time. The restaurants that no one wants to try, or maybe the movie that only fits my taste. The truth is once they’re gone I loose all interest. It was like that with my older two children as well. I would think, “I’m going to try that new Scandinavian-Nepalese place over on 63^rd,” but would wind up watching Turner Classic Movies and making Chicken Quesadillas for ten people and having it everyday for the week. As much as I like good food and cooking, when I’m by myself I eat like a terrier, gobbling up whatever is thrown in front of me. Are all husbands and fathers this way, or only the contented ones?

Here is my second plein air oil. I’m much happier with this one. Onward, and hopefully, upward.

Can you go home again?

2011-06-09T12:31:00.000-07:00

My apologies to those that enjoy reading this diatribe, for I have been neglectful of late what with my daughter getting out of school a month earlier than in New York. For those that don’t enjoy reading it, additional apologies for starting up again.

As mentioned, my youngest finished school in May and has kept me busy with fishing, tennis, biking and complaining that there is nothing to do. She left this morning with my wife on a six-day rafting trip. They are going down the San Juan River in Utah through Moab. It sounds like a wonderful trip through a beautiful part of the country. When my wife asked me to go along I did considered it, but declined. Now before you pass judgment on me for being an unsociable boring old man there are a few more details I need to relate. That ‘s not to say I’m not an unsociable boring old man mind you. It just doesn’t apply here.

The trip is with her Girl Scout troop and of course their mom’s. That’s ten twelve-year old girls and five women in menopause with not a wet bar or mall within 100 miles. The weather will most likely be in the nineties and they are not allowed to bring electronic games of any type. Mathematically speaking that is a female equivalent to a perfect storm. As they were packing my daughter picked up a package of feminine products and asked my wife “Why do I need these?” When my wife answered, “Just in case you start getting your period, sweetie. All the girls are taking them,” I knew I made the right decision to stay home.

Although, the line for the men’s room would be short, the downside is there is no men’s room. Going that long without hot water is not my idea of a vacation. Besides, there won’t be a line here either. To give you some idea how I like things I have an embroidered plaque above the door to my austere bathroom. It reads, “Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but pictures”. You can pick up film at the ranger’s station. Not that anyone ever has.

I enjoy the comforts of my home. When we were away last winter I thought of treating myself to a massage while everyone else was skiing. One of the typical packages read like this:

“The Outdoorsman: 100 minutes

Whether you just climbed a fourteener (that’s fourteen thousand feet for you coast loving people), spent a day on the ski slopes or played a round of golf, this rejuvenating package is just for you.”

But I don’t do any of those things and I really wanted a massage. Even when forced into playing mini-golf I only do nine holes. So I decided to try “The Couch Potato”, which was more my speed. They spend 45 minutes working my sorry ass and the last ten on my remote control arm. Finally a massage that's just right for me! They say you can’t go home again so I’m thinking I better not leave.

We haven’t caught any fish yet, but my daughter spotted this guy hanging around. That’s a bull snake, which is loved around here because they kill rattlers. I also included my first plein air oil. It's a little flat but I’m okay with the results.

2011-05-17T20:45:00.000-07:00

Time for a new camera when this is the best I could get of the owlets.

It must be the weather

2011-05-11T14:37:00.000-07:00

After about eight months writing this Blog I am getting the well-deserved reputation of a curmudgeon. Some readers have suggested I re-title it. So far “Old Guy Complains” and “Captain Killjoy’s Corner” are the top runners. In light of that I’m going to try to be a little more positive this week. This promises to be a short piece.

I think I am finally getting the hang of things out here in the Emerald City. I don’t hunk my car horn when it is obvious we can both make the light and I started buying my clothes at the hardware store. They have a sock aisle to die for! Dare I say it but I think I am beginning to mellow out.

And why not? This is a beautiful place. And since spring arrived a few weeks back it is even more spectacular. Don’t get me wrong. I loved spring in New York, but it was different. Back east it is the gardens that make it so. It’s the first crocus that sets off the alarm. The dogwoods, magnolias, that filled front lawns with pinks and whites after grey winters. There are beds of peonies, irises, and daffodils that accent walkways, driveways, and garden paths.

Here, it is nature or let’s say a more bucolic version of nature. Creeks that ran dry through the winter are rushing again. Animals have come out of their winter dens. The farms around our house have calves, colts, and lambs to show off as they run around pastors on young legs. Along Cottontail Trail, a path not a mile from our house, an old cottonwood tree is home to a family of Great Horned Owls. We stop by in the evenings and see the two fledglings cuddled inside the stump while their parents stand watch in a nearby tree. A garter snake with a brood of five are an oddity to our dog, but harmless.

Last week for Mother's Day we drove up to Rocky Mountain National Park. It was a sunny eighty-four degrees, but in many spots there still laid snow. My daughter called it Swinter-time as the ice cooled our sandal-clad feet during our hike. Gangs of elk walked about not seeming to care or notice the visitors or their cars. Traffic came to a halt as drivers got a close-up look at a few of these beasts, which can weight over 1,000 pounds.

My wife said it was just a perfect way to spend Mother's Day. Belated but sincere, I hope all the mom's out there had a perfect day too.

Below is a oil study I just finished and a watercolor of a poison dart frog I am adding to my portfolio.

You can go home again, but who wants to?

2011-04-24T16:18:00.000-07:00

As much as I complain about Boulder or just about anything, I forget how beautiful it is here. Flying back to Minneapolis this past week was like going back in time to a winter in the Middle Ages or how I would imagine the Middle Ages would be if it had The Mall of America. The cold air hit my face the way my fingers would hit a slant six engine block while ratcheting out a rusted spark plug in January.

It was my mother-in-law’s eightieth birthday and we flew out to celebrate with the family. I like my mother-in-law and she happens to be a wonderful woman, but she still smokes. I became rather sensitive to cigarettes while growing up with a smoker. It has gotten to the point where I can pick out which drivers are lighting up even with the windows closed while doing seventy on the parkway.

We were staying at her place for the weekend. I was just getting out of the shower and I grabbed a clean towel lying next to the sink. But the more I dried myself the more I could smell cigarette smoke. Where was it coming from? With a look of horror I realized it was third hand smoke. Third hand smoke is the residue left behind by a smoker, and is usually trapped in fabrics. Even though the cloth may be washed several times, in this case towel, it still has remnants of tobacco in it. I was slowly coating my epidermis with a veneer of tar and nicotine. I’m such a hypochondriac I pictured myself getting skin cancer and I had to re-shower several times. It was as if I was trying out for the Meryl Streep’s role in the Broadway production of “Silkwood”. When I asked my wife for a roll of paper towels to dry off she thought I finally lost my mind. That all changed after her shower. But the worst part is I became addicted to the towels and found myself with a two and a half showers a day habit by the end of my trip. If I stayed any longer I probably would have stolen a washcloth to keep in my desk.

Italians are a rarity in Minnesota along with much of the mid-west. As such people felt like that had to serve me pasta at every meal in order to be polite hosts. It’s mid-west pasta though, which means egg noodles with white cream sauce, chicken, pork, seafood, and three types of cheese. I know I must sound like an ingrate. I don’t mean to. It was very generous and thoughtful of everyone. Between the nico-towels and the heavy sauce, however, my weight was up, my blood pressure was up and my life expectancy was down. It was a matter of survival to get out.

This past weekend my son came out for a visit from New York. I dropped him off at Denver Airport for his trip back and I headed home to finish this piece. The first thing that crossed my mind was “Thank God he doesn’t write a blog.” I could only imagine the horror stories he is telling his friends about his visit with me. I don’t think my fragile ego would handle all the public complaints with any amount of grace or dignity. Of course by next week my fears will be a dim memory and I’ll be back writing, maybe with a little more compassion. I know I start with good intentions, but by the end of the week I’m once again an apoplexic mess.

Anyway, here is the watercolor I gave the old gal for her eightieth birthday.

2011-04-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

New story coming next week on my recent trip to Minnesota visiting in-laws. Did that whet your appetite? Here is a recent piece for Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators contest. I titled it "Getting Rid of The Snarls".

2011-04-03T13:01:00.000-07:00

We recently returned from a trip to Hawaii and getting around there was a small miracle in itself. (Are you surprised I have something to curmudge concerning Hawaii? When, or maybe if, I ever get to Heaven I’m sure I’ll have a few things to correct. “You mean we can have anything we want? Great, more decisions I have to make.”) I asked a local Hawaiian woman, a large flowered moo-moo wearing with a huge smile and hair to match kind of woman, where the local beach was. You wouldn’t think it would be too hard to find a beach on an island, right? Except, the Hawaiian language, to my ignorant ears anyway, sounds as if the Gerber baby invented it.

“We have many beaches. Which one do you want?”

“I’m not sure. Which would you recommend?”

“Well, you could go to Kaopectate Kove. That’s right next to Poopoopkaki Park. But there’s a lot of flooding. Onomatopoeia is popular.”

“That has a nice ring to it. How do I get there?”

“You take Wiamea Highway that way (she points to her left) passed Wianothima, then turn that way (points to right) by Monopoly Piece. Make a right at the rock that looks like Tiki god and a left at Tiki god that looks like rock. Go straight much further until you see Hocuspocus, it’s right next to Hoipolloi, and you’re right there.”

“Can you say that in English?”

“Take Highway 19 and look for the sign.”

“Thanks.”

“You want to buy some pearls? I have the best prices around.”

“No thanks. I already filled my quota of getting ripped off this trip by staying at a hotel where the hotdogs are fourteen dollars. Maybe next time.”

We finally made it to the beach and it was spectacular. That’s my trip in a coconut shell.

Yesterday was a record 82° here in Boulder, followed by 90MPH winds, a wildfire, and today they are expecting 1-3 inches of snow. Yes, it’s springtime in the Rockies. When we got back home a miracle was waiting for us. Miracles come in all shapes and sizes, of course. Such as my wife passing up a shoe sale, or my sister picking up a check at a restaurant (sorry D.B., but when you do the writing it gives you carte blog to say what you want.). But this was a bona fide ‘face in the toast’ kind of miracle. Our two male finches, Steve and Mark, somehow were able to lay four eggs while we were away. Who says gays can’t have children? Isn’t that just lovely? While my wife and daughter were beside themselves with joy and expectations, I was looking up recipes to make the world’s smallest omelet. “Can we keep them?” my daughter asks. “Of course,” answers my wife. “And why not?” I ask. “It’s not like I enjoy a clean room, or peace and quiet,” I said to deaf ears. I think anyone who has read this blog knows how I feel about pets and all that they entail. So I am less than thrilled. Although, bar-b-que season is upon us. The only problem I see is the little fellers falling through the bars on the grill. The only problem my daughter sees is that we need a new name for Mark, our cross-featherer. Since all this happened while on our trip, I was thinking of naming them after the Hawaiian phrase for happy couple: Martini and Rossi.

Below are a few quick sketches I did while away on away of the local flora and fauna. That’s Fauna on the right.

Music hath charms…sometimes.

2011-03-08T16:52:00.000-08:00

There was a story that hit the local television stations last month. Apparently, a brown bear and her cub took up residence under the community hospital here in Boulder. They were discovered by a maintenance worker when he went to make some sort of repair. The hospital is located in a residential area so it was decided the two interlopers needed to be removed. But this is Boulder and the Boulder fourth commandment says "Thou shall honor the wild beast of the field".

So instead they decided the drive the bears away (and this is the truth) by playing country and western music. It did the trick. The two ran off and are now living comfortably in a quiet den. I knew that noise was good for something.

Below is my latest project, four pieces for the Wizard of Oz. This time it is set in Colorado and the characters are more pro-active. Hope you like them.

Starlight, star bright…

2011-02-21T21:07:00.000-08:00

If you could have just one wish what would it be? Not a very original thought but one I am entertaining nonetheless. Aside from the usual wish for more wishes or good health for loved ones many people wish to be invisible, to be able to fly, or just to be wealthy. But these all have a selfish tendency and naturally not one of mine. I’m thinking of the greater good.

What I would wish for is that dynamite worked the same way in life as it does in cartoons. Now hear me out first. Dynamite would be as common to have in your house as milk or eggs. The Holidays would be an exceptionally busy time for manufacturers as families buy stockpiles to release some long held hidden hostilities. Therapy and mood altering drugs might just become twenty-first century dinosaurs as people cope with their feelings openly and honestly.

Take my neighbor for instance, and the real crux of my story. He’s a nice enough guy I guess. I have only talked to him on three separate occasions since we moved in six months ago. According to the homeowners association we are not to have any commercial vehicles on our property visible from the street at any time unless making a delivery. Yet his truck, his dirty filthy smelly truck, is parked in his carport every day, which is visible from my dining room window. I want to be a good neighbor, but I also desperately want to blow that F’n truck to smithereens. Why can’t he just obey a simple rule and be courteous? What’s even more annoying is the fact that he put up three posts for a fence that would block us from seeing it and yet has done nothing to finish the job. So we can’t blame ignorance on his part.

And we all have had neighbors that do this sort of thing. Perhaps it’s racing a car up and down the street, or playing Mariah Carey or some other annoying record loud enough to hear from your back porch, little pet peeves that drive us crazy. It all depends on how lucky you are with the Real Estate Lottery. But wouldn’t it be great the next time it happens you turn to your spouse and say “Of course you realize this means war!” and proceed to hand the annoying bastard a cake with fourteen sticks of dynamite on top instead of candles. Oh the joy that would bring. I don’t wish him any harm. I just want to see a huge explosion and when the smoke clears see him standing there in ragged clothes, burnt hair and waving a white flag. Is that too much to wish for?

PS: Here's a recent oil painting I finished this week and something I hope never gets blown up. However, I'm going to touch up that marque.

2011-02-11T11:51:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone,

I haven't written lately because I have had a touch of bronchitis. The bad part is it touched both my lungs at the same time. I get really maudlin and rather morbid when I get sick also. But I have been able to draw and paint a little so I thought I would just post them.

As I laid in bed hacking up lung snot feeling sorry for myself I thought of my dad. Smoking two and half packs of cigarettes a day for thirty years left him with emphysema that lasted over ten years. Towards the end, his days were filled with constant coughing fits and a decreased lung capacity. How can the human body tolerate such punishment for so long? After just a week of this I was asking my wife to pull the plug on my humidifier. Why is it that it takes a sickness or injury to appreciate how fortunate being well really means?

I just hate being sick or laid up. When my time comes I would rather it was from an animal attack than a prolong and chronic ailment. Well, not any animal. Not a shark or bear because they bite pieces off while you're still alive and then come back for more. A big cat would be fine, such as a mountain lion, or leopard. They strike from behind and most cases you don't even know what hit you. Snap goes the neck and there you are, predator take out. A poison dart frog would probably work. The curare in their skin gives a hallucinogenic affect that might be sort of cool. But I don't think they attack too often. Did I mention how morbid I get when I'm sick? Why don't you just look at the pictures? Good health to everyone out there!

High Wind Advisory

2011-01-26T15:42:00.000-08:00

Oh the Trouble I've Smelled

2011-01-24T21:05:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I had some challenges. If we were playing twenty questions the first answer would be animal.

Friday was the arrival of two new pets. Not the two new gerbils. This is newer still. I would not mind all the nighttime wheel running or the sawdust overflow if I was able to at least name one of them Josef. In so doing I realize I might alienate all my Jewish friends, but then again they may have seen that as a fitting end to such a rat bastard.

No, these two new pets are society finches. It seems my wife is creating her own ark, piece by piece. Maybe she knows something I don’t! Society finches were specially bred so pet stores could double their sales by convincing unwitting customers how they need company to live. “What happens when one dies?” I asked my dear spouse. “Does the other commit avian suicide by diving head first into the bottom of the cage?” Even though she convinced me the cage would remain spotless, Dr. Cleanlittle did not take into account how these little intrepid fliers would zoom around the cage causing their droppings to do anything but drop as they are propelled through the bars and onto the polished oak floor. If this keeps up one night I will serve the world’s tiniest drumsticks for dinner.

Sunday arrives. It is a quiet morning. A little classical music is playing softly while I’m lying supine on the couch, coffee in hand. My dog Daisy is on my chest and I’m scratching her ear (see I’m not totally heartless). It was all very calming. I know Daisy was especially relaxed. For in a few minutes there was a warm tingling sensation all over my pants. I lifted her up and sure enough the little monster had let her bowels get carried away to Debussey. I jumped up and ran to the back door, threw the offender out, and jumped in the shower with my clothes one while my wife’s laughter was heard throughout the house. I felt so dirty I even brushed my teeth again. Why can’t they put money into animal research and come up with a pet that only goes once a year in the neighbor’s yard? That I would buy!

This may night be the most opportune place to segue but I've just updated my website with a great deal of help from Mel Cassio, my web guy. Thanks Mel. Go to jamiestroud.com and check it out. It's the least you could do after what I've been through.

January 19, 2011 Davidson Mesa Park

2011-01-17T20:54:00.001-08:00

Out of all the post-season football games I managed to pick every one wrong. On the plus side, I’m picking all the right contestants on this season of “The Bachelor”. Coincidence? Anyway, in case you are interested, which I doubt, it will probably come down to Ashley S., Emily, or the evil Michelle.

Back in reality…

I started doing some watercolors on site to warm up for some plein air oil painting. I usually don’t do this sort of work and landscapes have never been my specialty, but with so many beautiful areas around here I think I would be remiss not to try. Although, when I finish I may have committed a crime against nature. We’ll see. I also wanted to post some early examples to chart my progress.

In the meantime…Go Bears and Ashley S.!

Staying Alive

2011-01-10T18:53:00.000-08:00

Since it was the end of the year I wanted to write something really profound for the holiday season, but to be honest nothing came to me. So this isn’t one of those pieces about looking ahead, or remembering friends, or waxing nostalgia. Instead I am going to be my usual curmudgeony self and complain. Hey, when all else fails, stick to what you’re good at.

We bought our youngest daughter a Wii game this Christmas. Actually it was an Ussue (pronounced ‘youse’). “It’s just as good,” said the man standing outside of Best Buys next to a white van with a bumper-sticker that read ‘my other car is a mafia staff car’ and “only half the price”. He tried to get me to buy the extended warranty but I wasn’t born yesterday.

Apparently, I wasn’t born a whole lot of yesterdays as I was more than just a little bewildered on how the thing works. With the help of my two oldest children it was up and running in hours. It would have been sooner if it wasn’t for all the duct tape wrapped around it. We played mostly racing games and I managed to hold last place the entire week as my family sat around sipping hot cocoa waiting for me to cross a finish line.

One of the games my daughter received was some sort of dance competition. As we went through the catalog of songs I realized many of them were from the 80s, 70s, and even earlier. My time had come. Here was my chance for revenge, I mean victory, I mean avoiding total embarrassment. Those classes I took back in 1973 to learn the hustle, foxtrot, and cha cha would finally be paying big dividends. The contest began.

Soon I was shaking past the coffee table and sliding around the ottoman. It was like watching an octopus on crack. My arms flayed around the way cut electrical wires fling about during an ice storm. I was on fire, or at least that’s what I thought. For below the pounding of “Jungle Boogie” I could hear the laughter of loved ones. I just assumed it was for what passed as graphics on the screen, but in the TV reflection I caught a glimpse of a six-foot-two, fifty-three-year-old man, huffing and puffing, trying to keep a beat. I’d like to chalk it up to old age or just being out of practice, but as I danced about, visions of the past crept into my head.

People always thought my dancing was hysterical. No matter how serious I tried to be, it just made people laugh more. I really believed I was a good dancer. I’d be out there on the floor for hours, thinking ‘I could do this for a living’, and yet I was perplexed when the offers never came in. It happens with my writing as well. Every once in a while I try my hand at a serious piece. As I begin a reading, the snickers grow like Sea Monkeys in a Mason jar. Well, I guess I won’t be the next Fred Astaire and no one will ask me to sing Danny Boy, and the great American novel I’m writing will never be published, at least I can say one thing. It feels good seeing a smile on someone’s face, even if it was put there to the tune of “Staying Alive.”

A four-letter word

2010-12-13T21:44:00.000-08:00

You want to know what is worse than gaining ten pounds after the holidays? Finding out your ten pounds over weight before they begin.

This past weekend I took my wife to a Christmas Ball with a 1940s theme. They had a big band, costumes contest, WWII memorabilia, and Andrew Sisters impersonators. Everything to make you feel you were back in the 40s, except the prices. For what I shelled out I could have bought myself a Nash. But let me get back to my story…

Since I work for myself I don’t get the opportunity to wear a suit too often, unless I feel like calling a meeting, which I never plan to attend. So in my absence the Pants Gnomes got into my closet and shrunk all my clothes. They seem to get particular delight in watching me twist and shout my way into a pair of tailored trousers that fit like a glove only a year ago. Pair after pair I tried on, all with the same results, testing the tensile strength of thread and patience along the way. Now I’m not a huge guy, and maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of this then I should, but when your clothes make your internal organs feel like they are riding the number 7 train from Hunterspoint Avenue to Grand Central Station at rush hour it’s time for a change.

As I let out a lion size moan my eleven-year-old walked in. “What’s the matter dad?” “I have to go on a diet.” “It’s about time,” she said. And with those words of encouragement I began my descent into a basket of carrot sticks.

Now, if you are familiar at all with my past rantings you may be thinking, “Jamie, you’re always touting your bike rides, and your long walks, and the great outdoors, how could you have gained weight?” Apparently, walking a half mile won’t compensate for the half dozen Quadruple Stuffed Oreos I shove down my gullet when I return home. (Do the math on the Double Stuffed. When are they going to wise up down at Nabisco and just put three cookies in the entire bag?)

I should have known something was wrong when I went to get a massage this past week. I wanted The Outdoorsman, which was described as the following: “Whether you just climbed a fourteener (That’s when some daring fool hikes up to the top of a 14,000 foot peak. A peak is all you have time for as your lungs give out.), spent a day on the ski slopes or played a round of golf, this rejuvenating package is just for you.” Instead the woman automatically gave me The Potato. That’s where they spend 45 minutes working on your sorry ass and the last 15 on the arm that holds the remote control. Between you and me, it was the best massage I ever had.

So now I’m on this alternating diet. It’s when one day you limit your intake to 800 calories and the next day you can eat whatever you want, then back again. It’s suppose to trick your skinny genes so you eat less and eventually you can get back into your skinny jeans. My wife explained it to me but I was so fatigued with skipping a snack today I didn’t have the strength to listen. If this diet doesn’t work I’ll try my version of the alternating diet. That’s when I alternate between not giving a shit and buying bigger pants.

Collecting

2010-11-30T09:09:00.000-08:00

I’ve always been a bit of a collector. As a kid growing up in Levittown, I spent my days with comic books, mostly DC because their stories ended without having to buy the next one. Then as a teenager it was vinyl records. Album cover art, along with liner notes and studying lyrics, has gone the way of the dodo when you download music. In my twenties and thirties I moved to art books, limited edition posters, and concert ticket stubs.

But those things were all transitory. All that has changed since I hit fifty. Now I collect something that will last the rest of my life. New and mysterious aches and pains I never had before. I joined, or rather was signed up for, the Aged of the Month Club. Each month a new area will suddenly show up red and inflamed where once was pink and baby soft. February: a cornucopia of skin blotches, barnacles, and breakouts. Just in time for Valentine’s Day! Oh joy! September: Congratulations! It’s a new allergen. Go rake some leaves and take a deep breath so the mold really gets in there.

For November, I woke with my newest collection, repetitive motion injury in my drawing elbow. (And at a time when my career could suddenly blossom like an Outback Steakhouse onion.) So I needed to make some adjustments to my workstation and I haven’t been able to ride my bike. But, like the apartment dog that I am, I still have to get outside once in a while. So I have switched to trail hiking. At first I was a little bummed not being able to ride, but the nice part is I can take our dog with me, who seems more than willing to go.

It has also given me a different view of the area. Even now, with the grasslands dead from the cold, they are still beautiful. The jet black cows that pepper the golden fields stand out strongly against the deep blue sky. We walked along a marsh where cottonwoods and cattails grow. In the underbrush unseen birds were chirping away when suddenly a flock of red winged blackbirds took flight. On our latest trek we spotted a coyote hunting around for a meal. He was only about fifty yards away and as graceful as any animal could be. He looked at us a few times but didn’t seem overly concerned and neither were we.

The gravel crunched under my footsteps and the sound reminded my of my dad. For each morning he would have his bowl of Frosted Flakes. My dad was a creature of habit, something that was simultaneously reassuring and exasperating. But because of that repetitiveness that memory has stuck in my head and it makes me smile out here in the cold.

I guess we all become collectors of a sort as we grow old. Whether on a long walk, or sitting with my elbow propped up to rest, I can spread my memories out like a collection of old comics across the floor and dive in. This Thanksgiving I am grateful for all my friends and family members that have given me something warm to think about on a cold November day.

Fall back, spring out an open window.

2010-11-15T21:42:00.000-08:00

Marriage, or as I refer to it a government sanctioned Stockholm Syndrome, is never easy and at times challenging. Anyone who says they have a perfect marriage and never fight are either liars, heavily medicated or both. And marriage is not the same as living together, no matter what a morning news show is telling you. You can learn to live with almost anyone; friends, parents, kids, sexual partner, salesman, but making decisions and compromising, well that's a whole different wild animal my friend.

For instance, we had to buy a new bed for our dog, Daisy, because she didn't like the one she had. I find this odd because she never said a word. And I didn’t even place in this argument. The bed had to be a special ordered one with her name embroider on it. Daddy’s little cur is over twelve years old now. With my luck it will curl up and die before we get it out of the box (the bed that is) and I’ll end up having to name our next dog Daisy just so I can get my money's worth out of the bed.

A simple thing like setting our clocks back, as we just recently did, could be an innocuous task. But do not jump to conclusions my friend, especially when we have an extra hour to do so. All sorts of emotions, desires, animosity, longings can surface at such times. Enclosed is a sample of my conversation with my dear wife at one am, the morning of the event. I purposely removed our names since it is really pointless which side of the time continuum fence you are on. Although, anyone who has meet me can tell in the first five minutes how uptight I am and my responses.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

“It’s only 12.”

“Well, it’s really one.”

“So what. We’re gaining an hour. You can sleep until nine.”

“Nine my time or your time?”

“Listen, stop acting like an old man.”

“What do you think is killing all the honeybees? It’s from collecting the wax for my birthday candles.”

“Just relax and find a movie for us to watch.”

“We’ve seen everything On Demand and Netflix. The only thing left is our worn out VHS copies of Dark Shadows.”

A glare and then silence…

“What?”

“When we first got married you were a lot of fun. Now, I can barely get you to do anything.”

“That’s not true. You can get me to go to bed. What’s wrong with getting a little extra sleep?”

Silence

“What?”

“Don’t you want to stay up with me?”

(flat) “Yes.”

“No really?”

(as a board) “More than anything.”

“Fine. Go.”

“Okay, they’re showing 7 Days in May on TCM, which is about how long this night is. Why don’t we watch that?”

“How many times can you watch the same movie?”

“A million.”

“Will you make us some popcorn?”

(boardlike) “Fine.”

And so it went.

Holiday Cards

2010-11-10T14:39:00.000-08:00

I've added several new cards to my Zazzle store if you are in the market. Zazzle is a pretty neat place to make customised products. Millions of styles available. Of course this shameless promotion will most likely generate a ton of cash for people I've never meet and probably will never send my royalty check of $4.23, but my website guy tells me to do these things.

rabbits and dreidel HR by JamiePS
Make your own cards at zazzle

I'll shut up now.

2010-11-09T09:01:00.000-08:00

I didn’t write anything the last two weeks because of the elections. I’m struggling with the notion of whether to put anything political on this blog. However, after being inundated for the past month with ads stating everything from the ridiculous to the utterly ridiculous and pundits on “news channels” telling me how I feel, I am about ready to scream. I just want to make two brief observations then I’ll shut the hell up.

First off, to me this election wasn’t about saying no to this president or spending or healthcare. It wasn’t about the need to go back to those pretend halcyon days of President Bush. The election boils down to this. I believe the American voter was saying: “I’m pissed off at the government for wasting time, my money, and resources while I’m struggling to get by. If I have to be out of work, then guess what? I’m putting you out of work.” It’s our one chance to say FU. But saying it always comes with consequences. The government has become a dead leviathan beached in our backyard and starting to rot. Should we expect anything else? Would any normal person go into a profession where you spend millions and millions of dollars to make the other person going for the same job look like a criminal?

This brings me to my second point. I’ve been on countless job interviews and not once did it cross my mind to sabotage the other people going for the position. I just figured that person had different skills or experience or maybe at least was a relative. Can you imagine if every career treated potential employees this way? Teachers, pilots, janitors all vying and undermining their colleagues slash opponents while having a smile a used car salesman would envy. What kind of person are we hiring? We are producing an industry of small-minded narcissists with deep pockets to run this great country of ours into the ground, leaving little for our children.

Well, I guess you can tell by my tone that I am not only annoyed but over fifty with too much time on my hands. So it’s back to the drawing board. Next week I promise to get back to a lighter fare. Please leave your comments. I loved to hear how wrong or right you think I am.

The Creeping White Death

2010-10-27T10:19:00.000-07:00

Since we moved out here I’m doing more housework until my freelance picks up. With email, cell phones, and a landline it’s only a matter of time before someone gets a hold of me. (Ring, damn it, ring!) If your home needs a good cleaning I’d like to recommend Marilyn Manson’s Antichrist Superstar. Let’s face facts. Frank Sinatra is just fine for dusting or placing napkin rings for a dinner party. Hell, I’ve even used Aaron Copland for washing the dog. But for deep cleaning there is nothing that helps get rid of those stubborn stains than a pissed off rockstar. I particularly like “Angels with Scabbed Wings” track when scrubbing a toilet. Maybe it was the fumes of the Pine Sol inside a closed space with the windows shut, but I believe I reached a new level of cleanliness. When my wife returned from work several hours later and found me on the cold ceramic tile the first thing she said was “Boy that’s one clean bowl!”

There are a few other things I learned living out here. The plural of buckaroo is not buckarii, pork can be considered a vegetable, and that people actually look forward to snow!?! Can you imagine? Growing up on the east coast I don’t think I ever saw a weatherman smile when announcing a storm racing closer dumping 10-20 inches. The glee, the absolute twinkle in the eyes of these stalwarts of nature’s terror is more than perplexing. It’s downright criminal. How dare they not warn me of the creeping white death, of chains and wipeouts, of drifts and black ice? How am I supposed to be afraid if not for them? Don’t they realize we need to stock up on enough milk and bread to hold us until the spring thaw? The grocery shelves are still filled with eggs and juice! Come on people. Is a little panic too much to ask?

But they are all as happy as mice at a dirty diner about the blanket that never warms. They can’t wait to get to those slopes and go sliding down on whatever they can strap to the bottom of their feet. Can you image the first guy (And of course it was a guy. You see any women in the Jackass club?) that thought of it? “Vhat’s Crazy Olaf doing now Sven?” “Oh he invented a vay to get down da mountain faster.” “Faster vay to get to Vahalla you mean!” “You got that right Erik, yahar yahar.” Vahalla can just wait until I’m good and ready, and my plan is to never be good.

So for now I’m locking myself up in the house until this storm blows over, which they predict will be sometime in April. I have plenty of company with Joe Strummer, Bono, Sid Vicious and of course Joan Jett. I guess you can say my masculine side is coming to grips with my feminine side, but either way the grout has never looked cleaner.

2010-10-19T14:51:00.001-07:00

Pretty quiet week around here, so I thought I drag out my sketchbook. This is Coon Lake. It's really just a pond, but just as beautiful and only a mile and a half from our house. There's a sign here to stay on the paths because of rattlesnakes. I asked a local who grew up here if that was just to keep people out of the brush. "Oh no, they're in there," he warned. "Best to keep on the trails." You best believe I do. In case you were wondering, I drew this while sitting in my car with the windows up.

To Bike or Not to Bike

2010-10-12T09:45:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in the last blog I’m doing my best to get into the spirit of the west and began biking in earnest. When I was a kid you biked because it was fun or it was the easiest mode of transportation. My father wasn’t going to be spending time schlepping me around to friends while he could be watching the Cubs lose on our twenty-inch Magnavox. Even if it meant that I would be out of his hair for a few hours I was on my own. But us older folks, we bike for exercise, for stamina, for endurance, for the pure sense of piling on the mileage. There is nothing fun about it. And I know I need to do something before my winter fat settles in like a twenty-year-old house cat on the divan in the sunroom.

The problem is I suffer from what I term paranoid-hypochondriasis. I admit I’m in good health but I just know I’m going to get sick, it’s just a matter of when and what. This feeling of gloom being just around the corner haunts my every move. If I don’t go biking my health will decline and could lead to hardening of the arteries, or perhaps diabetes. But if I do, I run the risk of having a heart attack or stroke as I push myself too far. “He should never have gone over that last hill,” says a mourner at my wake. Thanks, just what every funeral needs, twenty-twenty hindsight. It doesn’t help that I notice every little ache and pain too. Was that a leg cramp or a blood clot heading towards my cerebral cortex?

One of the many mistakes I made when younger was visiting a fortuneteller. I was always under the impression they would treat you like a mom, but with more a flamboyant closet. “Stay avay from strangers!” “In the future you vill vear a seatbelt.” While she was reading my palm, and keep in mind this is a true story, I asked her about my lifeline. “It’s this one isn’t it? It seems kind of short?” “Vell, I vouldn’t take any chances vhen you are in your fifties and sixties,” she warned me. This only hastened the paranoia that was first planted by my older siblings during my formative years. No matter how many times I grease the gears I can still hear her voice with every turn of the pedal. “Don’t take chances! Don’t take chances! Don’t take chances!” I’m like the little engine that shouldn’t.

So everyday I am faced with the same dilemma. Do I go riding not even sure if I’ll make it across the road without getting hit by some high school kid texting her friends about Glee, or do I stay home and eat five-dollar chocolate bars from Whole Foods pondering my waistline and how I should be out biking.

Thanks God it’s raining today.

Paths of Gorey

2010-10-05T14:41:00.000-07:00

As it says in the subhead this is the land of cycling. I think it has replaced Christianity some time back in the sixties. Communities have a way of making you feel unwelcome when you don’t follow the pack, and since I always enjoyed biking it was easier to join then making my first communion and promised to be have laughs.

The first thing I needed was a bike. Well, I actually have one but I thought when in Rome get yourself a bike. The only problem was I hadn’t bought a bike in some time and was in for a bit of sticker shock. My last bike cost $59.99 and that included the guy from Model’s putting it together for me. Those banana seats can be a bitch! I was prepared to pay more and scraped together $150 to get the best I could. Turns out $150 doesn’t even buy you the best helmet you can get let along what goes under it. The whole concept of helmets is wrong. Their main purpose, really only purpose, is to protect your head. It’s sort of like insurance for your brain. But just as I wouldn’t be paying the same premium for a Maserati as when I’m driving a Ford I shouldn’t be paying for the same kind of protection a NASA scientist is. Pound for pound he has a lot more to protect then I do. (This is where my friends and family jump in and say “oh stop that”, but all I’m hearing are crickets.) Until they fix this wrong I’ll just keep using my home made one of half used paper towel rolls and rubber bands.

Speaking of crickets, we have some very adventurous ones out here. While taking my Schwinn for a jaunt I keep hearing strange noises. It sounded as if I left my Carl Yastrzemski rookie card in the spokes, which I clearly remembered I removed back in ‘88. The path I was on was littered with grasshoppers and they wait until the last possible moment before jumping out of the way. It was as if tiny quiet fireworks were going off as they jumped hither and thither. This game of insect chicken resulted in a number of cricket fatalities as many of them became caught in my wheels and gears, resulting in the needless destruction of innocent lives. When will they learn that life is not a game of chance but of luck? As I sat on the side of the gravel path, toothpick in hand, picking out grasshopper guts out of my derailer for the past thirty minutes I wondered if the church would take me back.

2010-09-27T14:08:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy week here and I didn't get a chance to write anything. So I'll just leave you with some photos my daughter Mallory took while we all were hiking.

My Eyes Have Seen The Sky

2010-09-19T19:32:00.000-07:00

I truly believed I was developing glaucoma. Everything around me was gray. It was as if I saw the world through cheesecloth like a close-up they use on an aging actress. I don’t even know if that‘s what glaucoma is like, but as far as I was concerned I had it. Turns out I just lived in New York all my life and didn’t know any better. Once I moved West my first thought was “So that’s what they mean by a blue sky”. I mean you can see things, really see things. I went right out and bought a tube of ultramarine for my landscapes. Of course the drawback is there is very little air to block sunlight, and the oxygen content is thirty parts per million.

It took some time adjusting to the high altitude. Opening cans required a quick ten-minute nap. And I’m still getting use to mowing the lawn while wearing a nebulizer. My lungs keep asking me “hey, where’s all the crap that use to be here?” in my fading Long Island accent. Like an ex-smoker clearing out his lungs, I spewed out tar balls the size of walnuts for a week.

If it wasn’t bad enough living at 5,200 feet, my wife suggested that we take a drive up to the mountains our first week. “You mean we can go higher?” I asked all dried and cracked as if auditioning for Jack Klugman. When the signpost read “You are now two miles above sea level” my heart let out an audible squeak like a strangled hamster. Once we got back down below tree line I breathed easier. And I mean that in every way possible.

It doesn’t seem to be affecting my wife and daughter as much. I guess fifty plus year old men have a different metabolism. Especially ones that stopped working out. On top of that, because my body is not getting its daily carcinogenic requirements my appetite for junk food has increased ten fold. I’m shoving cupcakes, pies, potato chips, and cookies down my throat faster than they can stock the shelves. And this is from a guy that weighted 160 pounds in sixth grade! I had a higher fat content than a Happy Meal.

So I should be healthier living here and I hope some day that is true, but for now it’s just one step, then a deep breath, at a time.

Forecast for Boulder

2010-09-15T12:51:00.000-07:00

Forecast for the first ten days in our new home.

Closing Time, Last call!

2010-09-14T12:28:00.000-07:00

It's closing day in NY.

Call the lawyer. Call the lawyer for the new house. They just picked up my wife's car. Hey, I sold my car! Hey, I have no car!?! Now how am I suppose to get around? The buyers called and want the jungle gym removed. Is my axe packed? The couch won't fit out of the basement. How did that happened? Must have soaked up all the moisture down there for ten years and grew two inches. Get the chain saw. Now we have a love seat and a ottoman. 80…90…115 boxes. My wife packed three of those so it's not like I didn't have help. Keep moving, keep packing. Do I want that? I guess not. Trash. How about this? Probably not. Gone. No the dog comes with us.

Go to closing. Sign some checks. Get some checks. The dust is settling. The movers are leaving. Everything we own is on that truck. Am I going to see any of them again? They seemed like nice guys, even if they had tattoos that read "Death for the Hell of it." Dinner in Smithtown for the last time. My son drives us to a hotel near La Guardia Airport. It's been a long day. But I don't fall asleep right away. Instead, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling wondering if I remembered to pack my 1962 copy of 'What Happened to George,' a children's book about a pig that could not stop eating. My family used it to poke fun of me when I was a chubby little boy. Why was that popping into my head now?

The Big Move

2010-09-14T11:43:00.000-07:00

After growing up on Long Island and spending the past (Let's just call it some time shall we? No reason to start off depressed.) years there, we finally made the Big Move and headed out to Colorado. It wasn't easy for me leaving friends and loved ones behind. And there were some concerns by many like "Where are you going to get a good slice of pizza?" and "What if you get lost?" You do realize it's a state right? Can you image if Columbus had to go through that? Hey Chris suppose your sail gets a hole, then what? Sounds like death before you get out of the harbor. I know they all meant well, but it didn't exactly fill me with confidence. Maybe they know me better than I do myself and realized how ill-equipped I am for anything that doesn't require a trip to a strip mall?

After packing, giving away, throwing out, or selling every last item we accumulated over time we headed out. Go West Old Man! It's too crowded here now. One less Nissan on the LIE. One more seat at the Multiplex for my 3D adventure. To give you some idea of what those last weeks were all about, here is my weekly agenda compared to one at a more sedate time.

When you look back at oral surgery as simpler times you know you're in trouble.