**This post could have typos, grammatical errors, meandering thoughts that go nowhere, bad words and more. This is what we professional writers call free-write form. Actually, it's nothing of the sort. I’m just lazy and taking a break from the precision that is me.

The Carradines

Idiots. If I were a Carradine and knew David at all, I think I would have left well enough alone and gone with the suicide theory reported by the media. I mean, why get all haughty and say, “How dare ye? This will sooo be investigated! David would never have committed suicide!!!” Maybe not, but the man had death-defying, kinky sex, apparently all by his lonesome, hanging in a Thailand hotel closet with fishnet stockings on and rope around his winky. I bet they wish they had some suicide dignity back. David’ll probably Kung-Fu haunt ‘em and who could really blame him.


Why are the porno women following me on Twitter? What about me screams online lesbian? I wonder if this has anything to do with the Kansas City golf course hooker, Karen Rutherford?


My eyes are still burning. I don’t know what I was thinking when I typed my son’s name in the twitter.com. I’m a firm believer that, unless bail or a hospital is involved, I don’t need to know much about Austin’s personal life. I mean, I like knowing what he’s doing and who his friends are and things like that, but filtered for a mother. Not the stuff just out there all helter-skelter for his peeps. It’s a different language, a different kid. I didn’t pass the first page – because of the stinging and temple throbbing. This could very well turn out to be one of my life’s little regrets.

The 30-Year Clock

I know this will not come across the way I want it to. It will sound like I’m poking fun. Okay, I admit it, I’m poking a little fun. I like this lady and realize she just has different values and happy triggers than I do (celebrate our differences and all that yes, we can bullshit), but interestingly, those apparent values don’t really support what comes out of her mouth most days about her disdain for her job, her time served and dread about her remaining months until retirement. But, I do like her and am happy for her little clock diversion this week. 

Monday: The clock is on its way! Tuesday: It should be here this afternoon, but I can’t open it. When it arrives, I have to make an appointment for people to come open the box and inspect the clock first. Later that Tuesday: My clock is here!! Wednesday: They’re coming at 2 to inspect the clock. I moved some things in my curio cabinet at home last night. So, I’ll put my clock under its own light and it’ll be so pretty. Later that Wednesday (to an assorted group of folks – some who have passed the 30-year mark and already received their clocks and some who are well on their way): Look at my clock!!! I can touch it now. Two people came to open it up and check it to make sure it was okay. They had gloves on and everything. Then, they gave me a certificate, too. Do you want to see my clock? It’s really pretty. I don’t know, I think it’s brass. It looks like brass (not diamonds?). I’m going to take it home tonight and put it in my cabinet. I'll have to be really careful with it.

I just know I will remember this in my cubicle at the old folks’ home.

Plainfield, Indiana Barnes and Noble Bookstore

There are four to five employees for every customer. And they must be running a contest to see who can help the most. I actually saw one employee carry some poor guy’s books to the checkout stand for him after he followed him around while he did his shopping. The last question I was asked was, “Ma’am. Can I help you? You look lost.” It’s a f-hecking bookstore, you yay-hoo. People browse, people linger, people think and read and look and meander from aisle to aisle. In another store, in another town, and in another time, that is.