I Took A Walk, I Observed, I Now Share

I took a mild mental break yesterday (no comments from the macadamia gallery) by taking a short drive to WestFarms Mall, thus creating an opportunity to stretch my legs and floss my brain with observations of the human race.

Warning: There is a chance of you being mildly offended by what you're about to read. If so, please direct your complaint to the Amalgamated Association of Morons, Local 6 7/8, located in lovely downtown Pennsylvania Avenue, which is next to that funny little organization that is being run into the ground by the Blue People.

Observation #1: Urban Outfitters is now carrying, in addition to selected book titles, selected new and reissue music releases on vinyl. Yes, I said, vinyl. Contrary to popular opinion, vinyl is not the latest trend in music, but simply the reappearance of a format that anyone over the age of 35 grew up with. However, the prices are definitely not what you remember them to be. Back them, single LP's were about $8 and doubles were about $15. Now they range in price from $19 (single) to $35 (doubles) and more for certain boxed sets. Plus, a lot of these albums contain things like: codes for MP3 downloads and copies of the actual c.d.

Observation #2: Stretch pants/ski pants/yoga pants, greatly emphasize all that is good, bad and ugly in women. If you need me to elaborate, then it's plainly obvious that you are not a long time reader of this blog, my adult blog or of my writings. I feel your pain....not.

Observation #3: Knee high boots not only are still sexy, no matter what the style, but can make a grown man freeze his face until said owner of boots leaves his field of vision. Afterwards, the grown man usually has to have his face slapped as a reality check.

Observation #4: Long hair is still sensual and sexy, no matter what nationality it may be. I've always been a fan of long hair and roughly 75% of my stories feature women with long hair.*

Observation #5: Two of the original 16 teams that were created in 1901 and 1892 are playing in the World Series later this month: Detroit Tigers (1901) and St. Louis Cardinals (1892). For those who might doubt the validity of my facts, here is the Wikipedia links for the National League and the American League.

*I couldn't find a decent link for long hair, except for Cosmopolitan, and I find that magazine to be somewhat insulting to women. I mean, really, does anyone need 50 ways to make a guy climax or make you orgasm?

A Rhododendron Trip To The Building Across From The River

Sometimes a road trip, no matter how short or how long, can do wonders for a beaten down spirit.

The month of June* was not too terribly kind to me this year. Between getting sick from a combination of serious sleep deprivation, sleep interruptus, financial woes, stress from work and the wife having a very bad accident while camping (fractured ankle which required surgery, I can pretty much say with a clear conscience that my spirit got smacked around quite a bit.

When late June rolled around and it was time for me to go to my facility to do payroll, I was pretty much running on autopilot. I went to my office and vegged out a bit before taking off to the facility. I left a little earlier than normal, due to the simple fact that my work week was being cut short because of the July 4th holiday.

I jumped in my care with the main idea of taking my sweet ass time in getting where I needed to be. And taking my sweet ass time requires me not to take the highway all the way there. While the highway is normally a good thing for me to drive, because my brain was doing its best impersonation of this,

I decided to take the back roads.

So after spending about several minutes on the highway, I took the exit I needed to take and a couple of minutes later, I was at the street I needed to be. After waiting for what little traffic there was to clear out, I took my left turn and turned on Gavin Degraw's debut "Chariots", which features this song.

Within a couple of minutes, I was feeling nothing but the breeze blowing through my car, the sun in my face and the music gradually bathing my spirit with a peace of mind not felt in quite a while.

It was the best leisurely twenty-five minute drive from the capitol to the where I needed to be. No traffic, no stress, no nothing. Just me, the car, the c.d. and my increasingly empty head. By the time I got to where I needed to be, not only was I at peace with myself, but I was in the frame of mind where I wasn't going to bite anyone's head off while I was there.

To me, a road trip coupled with music (of any kind, trust me, I do these trips with genres that make you look at me extremely weird) is the perfect antidote to what ails me. Let's face, on the road by yourself with just the radio or a c.d. is the best way to get through that part of your stressed out day in one piece.

How 'bout you? Are you able to find that peace of mind when you do your commute, or any kind of road trip for that matter? And if so, what helps you find it?

Yay Me.

I thought I would lighten the mood of this blog today by doing what I do best, which is bitch about myself thus pumping up everyone else's ego just a little bit.

There comes a time during the week where a person has to live life like a cliche. And then there are times where you simply have to do a show and tell about certain aspects of one's life. Today's post is one of those times.

The weather has been gorgeous this sumer and eccept for the heatwave in mid July temps have been hovering around the high 80's. While normally this is a good thing for people like yourselves, for me, it has been an adventure in dexterity.

For example, as you can plainly see by reading this post that I have a lot of typos. That is directly due to the fact that the brain cells are moving warp factor ten whie the fingers are moving at half impulse power. The reason why the fingers are moving at half impusle power has a lot to do with the current gentic malady that is cause me a world of aggravation with writing, mostly via the keyboad, but sometimes via the pen (which we hold like a 2nd grader0.

Anywho, the good weather that we're experience as of late has played a little bit of havoc with my writing. See, because the heat has beenj so good for me that it has lulled me into a false sense of security, which in turn wants me to type as fast as I used to, like this:

Once upna time nto to long ago there lived a little girl named atlatlanta who coudl rund as fast a the thewind.

Translation: Once upon a time not too long ago there lived a little girl named Atalanta who could run as fast as the wind.

Because I can't type as fast as I used to (about 30 wpm), I have to type slower than a black republican waiting for praise from the NAACP. Which when I'm not wriiting means i type in lower case and use rednkck eglish. Ya know, I spells purty gud cause i wents to skool.

However, when i'm writing, I have to type incredibly sloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow becuae every other word tha i type has a typo.

Like this post for example.

And handwriting? fuhget about it. hand fatigue is the operative word of the day. Honest and for true doc.

I let you in on a ittle itty bitty secret. Do you know I have such a good memory? It's because I can't write to save my life anymore. Honest, whenver we have a staff meeting and I hav to take notes, my note taking consists of a grand total of less than ten words. Man, I doctor's handwriting is more legible than mines.

Now I know what some of yous are saying to the screen: Use that damn voice software that dropped a c note on three year ago. But you know, it ain't really that easy to use/. In fact, we usually have the following issue:

Can you imagine, a writer expireinceing an epic failure like that?

Anyways, I think i've rambed on enough for Prince Spaghetti day. If you think I had point with this post, by all means let me know what it is, 'cause chances are that you're probably writte.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming that is your life. Live it to the fullest 'cause anything less would surely be a disappointment.

Suburban Solitude

In spite of the recent heatwave that pretty much backed Connecticut three times over so that it became completely jerked, I still enjoy sitting in the shady embrace that is Cedar Mountain.

I won't say that there's something magical about the mountain, but it does give me the necessary solitude that my spirit consistently craves for.

Think about it for a moment.

If you live in the country/backwoods, you're pretty much surrounded by the timeless beauty and natural healing power that is Mother & Father Nature. So all you really have to do whenever you need an attitude adjustment is to simply open your front or back door and step outside to the bask in the simplicity of what God has graced your world with.

But what if you live in suburbia?

How do you find that small slice of solitude while in the middle of the organized chaos that is city/suburban living? Chances are that you  live in a good neighborhood that is peaceful and content, yet devoid of anything that allows you to do the preceding paragraph justice. And because you can't do the preceding paragraph justice at your own home, you have to waste time, energy and money, to go someplace else and fulfill the preceding paragraph.

But if you happen to live in a neighborhood that somehow has managed to snag something from Mother & Father Nature (like my neighborhood for example), then you can pretty much do that particular preceding paragraph with only a few modifications.

Like: having a few bird feeders strewn about the front yard. All you have to do is either peer through the front window or the front door (w/o stepping onto the porch) and get your morning dose of what kind of feathered friends Mother Nature has to offer.

Or, if you need something heavier and more potent, you can walk through the back door and if you're even a little bit like me stroll to the side yard and take a seat under a quartet of trees.

If you close your eyes, the symphony that is (in my case) the mountain begins to play. From the gentle breeze that lazily makes it way down through the trees and glides across the road to caress your spirit, to the quiet singing/talking of Mother & Father Nature's most cherished feathered friends that lulls you to a quiet internal sleep and a external zone out.

Just even closing your eyes for several seconds as you walk to your car first thing in the morning is enough to get that small does of natural freshness to make an unbearable day a little more bearable.

The healing power of Mother & Father Nature i a truly memorable thing not only to have at your disposal when needed, but to experience as well.

Without it, life can be pretty much a pointless journey to nowhere.

A Two And A Half Fer The Price Of One Full Share

Yowza.

This week hasn't been too too bad for me as the jack of all trades at home (manservant, house-husband, driver, and of course, lacky) so today's post will continue our modest streak of not phoning it in (yes, I know I gave a warning, but isn't it better to be forewarned than to be surprised?).

For starters, I'm not here. I'm elsewhere in my little world.

Specifically, for starters, I am over at Shooting Suburbia, hosting the final installment of Alive Is The Neighborhood.

And, for extra special bonus, I'm over at my adult blog It's Always Saturday In Suburbia, hosting for only the 2nd time in my nascent writing career, a pure G-rate Disney type short story, simply entitled "The Tree".

I originally wrote the short story for a fellow Solstice writer's story blog, but being that I'm still stuck in that dark dank hole of zero tolerance for overly caffeinated writers who shamelessly pimp (like seriously over the top) their writings, I decided to share the story with people who don't have that narrow focus of being just writers (which if you notice, I only follow writers whose interests are infinite).

Namely you.

So whatever your poison happens to be, either visually stimulated (picture) or imagination gone haywire (written word), I hope your Friday is a good 'un.

Making Pop Culture Work

When you talk about pop culture to someone, more often than not, that person either rolls their eyes or gives you the "uh-huh" response. You know, the "I'm pretending to agree with you 'cause I really don't care what the hell you're talking about" response that we give to people when we're trying to leave a conversation as quickly as possible.

In my world, I try to make my pop culture references relatable to the issue at hand, because there ain't nothing worse than having a pop culture reference not make sense. So the other day, when the weather outside was a bit overcast, I happen to mention to my co-worker that Bob Ross was sad.

After a brief explanation of who Bob Ross was, they got it and went along with it.

For those of you who don't know who Bob Ross is, you can either check out this video, or read my ten second explanation.

Bob Ross was a well know extremely laid back painter who for decades had his own do-it-yourself painting show. He specialized in painting landscapes and one of his catch phrases was "happy white clouds".

Thus, when it was overcast, I would say that Bob Ross is sad. When the sun poked through a couple of times, I would say that Bob Ross is starting to smile. When it looked like the clouds were about to open up, I would say that Bob Ross is angry.

Anyways, once we got that out of the way, it opened up a whole new line of conversation about old children's  shows (Mr. Rogers, The Electric Company and Sesame Street), and children's shows from the 90's.

I showed off my knowledge of voice actors and musicians/bands who did theme songs/incidental music.

Example, music:

The B-52's did the theme song for "Rocko's Modern Life"; Heavy D & The Boys did the theme song for "Police Academy: The Series" cartoon.

Example, voice actors:

Cree Summer (actress who was in the show "A Different World") did the voice of Suzie in Rugrats and All Grown Up and the voice of Elmira in Tiny Toon Adventures; Bill Fagerbakke (actor in "Coach" and "Oz") does the voice of Patrick from SpongeBob Squarepants.

Ultimately, a good afternoon was had by all tripping down memory lane.

I leave you with this final thought:

On the local radio station they have a contest called "Google or Genius" and on one show they were giving away tickets to see a local off-off Broadway musical, and in order to win the tickets you had to answer the following question:

What is the address of the brownstone building that Oscar the Grouch lives in front of?

The first caller actually got it wrong. The 2nd caller got it right.

I Is Rejuvenated!

It's funny how the warmer weather can have such a profound impact on one's own creativity.

Usually in the fall and winter, my muse, as it applies to my writing, has a tendency to go wandering off to the land that time has forgotten about. Where the air is warm, the breeze is cool and gentle, and life is exceptionally easy and sleazy. Thus, my writing screeches to a halt. Dried up. Dried out. Barren as a blade of grass in the Mojave desert.

But...when the warmer weather hit, that's when things start to heat up.

My muse comes in from the cold, shakes off the aftereffects of sun, wind spray, more sun, more wind, sand, etc. etc. etc. etc.

.....

.....

Muse steps over and uncorks a high hard one that sends good old G.B. flying out of the chair and face first to the ground. She looks over and after being satisfied with a job well done, sits down in front of the computer and starts to type.

Coming back from the cold, eh?! Where the hell do you get off telling these good people that I'm a slacker?! I'll have you know that I ain't no slacker! Contrary to popular opinion, while you was busy pretending to be the man you ain't, I was busy conjuring up new ideas and fresh approaches to old ideas.

But did you pay attention to me? Hell no! You were busy being the martyr and playing that bullshit "woe is me" persona that fools everyone but me.

During the rant G.B. starts showing signs of life. He grabs hold of the chair and slowly pulls himself up. Muse, suddenly aware of her chair being moved, looks to her left and spies G.B. doing the moving. Narrowing her eyes until they were mere slits, she delivers a hard elbow to his jaw, dislodging him from the chair and knocking him out cold.

Again satisfied at job well done, she turns her attention back to the computer.

Sorry for the interruption, but the f.b.i. guy was trying to butt in again. Now where was I? Oh yeah. I was busy working my tight little ass off coming up with a slew of fresh new ideas that would knock your socks off. But was he paying attention to me and my ideas? Of course not. He would listen to my ideas, then say, "yeah, sure, okay that'll work, thanks." before dismissing me with a wave of his slimy little hand.

This went on for quite a while and each time that he would do it, I would get wetter than a mad hen. Until finally he went to the well one to many times and..."

"No I didn't, sweet thang," said G.B., who had finally regained consciousness.

"Excuse me."

Muse gets up and within the span of thirty seconds was having another knockdown drag out battle with G.B. Punches were thrown, screams could be heard, clothing was torn and rip, then suddenly all becomes very quiet.

Uncomfortably quiet.

Passionately quiet as one could just vaguely hear a few choice words and phrase drifting out from outside the computer desk.

Many minutes later, Muse returned and took a seat in front of the computer. Looking like something the cat dragged in after a passionate night and day of lovemaking, she sighed deeply and lovingly, before viciously attacking the keyboard.

So after he went to the well one too many times, words and passionate...ummm...hostilities were exchanged. Eventually we came to a mutual understanding about what my future will be in this partnership.

......

......

Damn!

......

Ummm....well...I leave you with this thought. My main man G.B. has once again found that his creative juices are just bursting at the seams, and he would like to thank yours truly for helping him find the spigot to unleash those juices.

'Cause after all, a muse like myself knows all the moves and has all the weapons at her disposal, in order to make her writer shine like polished gold.

We're Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

After doing a very long self-indulgent countdown to my 1,000 blog post (if you missed it, go to the post dated May 16, 2013 for a re-cap), I'm now back to writing posts for you the reader, instead writing posts for myself to torture others with.

Today, I thought I would bring back kicking and screaming one of my little cyber childrens for your amusement today. Believe me, it was a battle just to grab this little hooligan from where he had taken residence up at. But as they say, everyone has their price, and those mean streets of Connecticut's Gold Coast is no exception. So once I had paid their extortion...ummm....relocation fee, I grabbed the little ingrate, chucked him into the trunk of my very rad Gremlin and hightailed it back to the Mountain.

Once we had gotten back to the Mountain, I told the little ingrate that now was the time to start earning his keep. He protested. I countered with this:

He clutched his ears and screamed, "Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop! I'll do whatever it is that you want me to do! I'll even sing the praises to how great labor unions are! Anything! Just make it stop!"

True story: Now that Jenelle has turned 12, she has developed a major attitude problem (no, really). I decide to up the ante in that if she didn't start to tone down the 'tude, I would buy a Justin Beiber c.d. and play it within earshot.

Jenelle hates Justin Beiber with a passion unmatched for anyone else.

Since I won the battle, and thus the war, today I would like to reintroduce to you that wonderful picture blog of mine, Shooting Suburbia.

Today's picture post is called "Hope Springs Eternal!"

I Is Readys For The Birdies!

Last year, I had to stop feeding our fine feathered friends 'cause my mother's psychotic chihuahuas successfully chased them from the backyard to the front yard, thus causing them to mooch down the bird seed and creating much human, feathered friend and tree distress.

The wizened old tree became so distressed from the lack of visitors of the feathered persuasion that it turned into this:

Not looking so good does it.

Fortunately, the wizened yet severely gnarly looking tree managed to survive yet another harsh winter that turned the less hardy woodened folks into this:

This year, I decided to start feeding the birdies, because I got the idea a few months ago to buy squirrel proof bird feeders. Now as you know, when you're on a tight budget, buying non-necessary items because an exercise in financial creativity. So while I was trying to figure out how to work these items into my budget, Father Nature dropped a nice little bomb on my dysfunctional world.

My mother, who was cleaning out her old campsite and moving things to her new campsite in the southeastern part of the state, had a bunch of old squirrel proof bird feeders. So when I got home, I found about eight of them hanging about the various places in the front yard.

Pleasantly surprised at this turn of events, about a week later, I carved out some "me" time to do some basic birdy landscaping. I moved one of the giant birdfeeders to the side yard, and redesigned the front yard with the rest.

So now I have six squirrel proof birdfeeders at the ready, so when the weather warms up in a couple of weeks, our fine feathered friends will be able to dine sans squirrels and chat up the wizened yet gnarly tree, and hopefully the tree will be returned to it natural glory:

Birds.

They can brighten any human or non-human's day simply by being there.

Getting Our Cheeks Spanked Cherry Red By Father Nature

As most of you know, Connecticut got spanked kinky style with almost four feet of snow over the weekend. Now truth be told, my general opinion about Storm Nemo (yah, stupid name) was something like this picture.

As of Monday, it became something like my current header.

But sometimes, a couple of photos can't quite accurately describe or catch what a particular event wound up being.

So being of unsound mind, I decided to shoot a before and after of Storm Nemo. If you follow me over to my semi-dormant picture blog called "Shooting Suburbia", you can check out the before and after videos of Storm Nemo!!!

I should point out one very strange change that Blogger made to their video/picture editor. Apparently, you can upload videos in the following ways: from YouTube, from your YouTube videos, from a webcam and from your phone. No longer can you upload videos directly from your computer. You now have to use YouTube if you want to upload personal vidoes from your computer to your blog.

Biggie Wiggie Or Teensie Weensie?

Biggie Wiggie?

Teensie Weensie?

Yes, that is the burning question for today's post. Do we write an incredibly long and seriously verbose post, aka Biggie Wiggie? Or, do we write a post that is wickedly short on grammar and gets to the point, aka Teensie Weensie?

If this was a Teensie Weensie, then the only thing I would tell you is that if you stumble over to the house next door, you will see part deux of Autumn on Cedar Mountain 2012.

If this was a Biggie Wiggie, then not only would I tell you to stumble over to the house next door, but I would start to prattle on about how the writing bug finally bit me but it didn't bite me in the right place and that I started writing a seriously long post (five hand written pages so far, which translates to two and a half blog pages) about what I should work on next, 'cause you know that what I'm writing now isn't necessarily fit for normal human consumption.

And I would probably tell you the reason as to why I'm asking this seemly innocuous question is that I got the final version of my manuscript back from my publisher and I spent the past few days going over it with a fine tooth comb.

But, since this is a combo Teensie Weensie/Biggie Wiggie post, I will leave you with this thought that I'd posted for a status update on Facebook (people, if you want to see a side of me that I rarely show here on the blog, you should subscribe to my status updates).

The working definition of "Stress" for a writer is this: The overwhelming need to return the final version of the book back to the publisher so that the final course of action can be taken, versus the overwhelming need to point out a half-dozen very nit-picky, yet somewhat noticeable grammar/punctuation errors to the publisher that you found while proofing the final version, versus facing the overwhelming fact that should you point this out to the publisher the book may be put to the back of the line so that it could be properly fixed.

Autumn 2012

I started this past weekend like I did the other when summer had arrived: I changed my clothes.

Gone were the shorts, the sneakers, the tube socks and most importantly, the pasty white legs. It its place we reintroduced the M-F work clothes to the weekend, specifically the weekend in which we officially introduced the world world of Autumn to New England.

True to form, I stepped outside and inhaled the crisp lo-50's for the morning air to wake myself up. I decided not to ride this:

to run my errands on this particular morning, which was due to the fact that I chose to get up at the ripe old hour of 7:15a. So we walked to our car, hopped in and drove towards the center to run our errands.

Being preoccupied with the events of earlier in the week made me completely forget about Newington's annual Waterfall Festival, which I did not really remember until one, I tried to go my normal way to the center and almost got stuck in a one mile traffic jam, and two, saw cars parked where they weren't supposed to once I approached the center from the back end.

So we made a quick decision and took off for the other end of town, where another branch of my bank was located. The breeze was blowing just right and coupled with the bluegrass music on the radio, I felt myself drifting away to someplace else.

Yes, autumn had indeed finally arrived.

I pretty much spent the rest of the late morning and early afternoon enjoying the fantastic weather, the semi-quiet solitude of the town and after getting home, the gentle roar of the breeze blowing down from the mountain.

As I sat in the backyard writing this post, the only sounds that I heard were the trees gently swaying in the breeze, the leaves dropping to the ground, the occasional dog making their presence known, and wind chimes swaying in the breeze.

In all likelihood, this will probably be the last weekend that I'll be able to sit outside in my backyard and enjoy enough uninterrupted time to decompress and explore the many nooks and crannies of my memory. Not to mention enjoying the mountain in all of its naturally chaotic beauty.

Autumn is a time of rebirth and reflection on things that have passed and of things to come. Don't let it pass you by, especially since Mother & Father Nature are busy getting their palettes and brushes at the ready, 'cause you know Autumn 2012 will be the most original yet.

Oh, We Have A Video?

Yes, we have a video.

In between bouts of writing over the Labor Day weekend (got about 10 more pages of my latest story in the proverbial can), I decided to whip out my handy dandy cheap-o camera and take a video of my backyard.

Believe it or not, the only problem I had with the video was loading it to my computer, which unfortunately caused me to delete about 10 pictures from my flash drive. Nevertheless, I did successfully upload said video to YouTube, so for your amusement, or enjoyment, or mockery, or whatever you feel like doing on Lump Day, I have a super duper ultra squeaky clean triple G-rated video for you, which features not one, but one aminal for your visual amusement, and also features not one, but one human to tune out, and finally, it features not one, but more than one bird singing in the background.

So come take a walk with me to my backyard, located at the corner of Cedar Mountain and Shooting Suburbia.

And before I forget, fellow blogger and romance writer Angela McCallister has a nifty contest going in which all you have to do to enter is to leave a comment. Please stop by to check her blog Jaded Love Junkie.

One Early Monday Evening

Ever have one of those days in which you find yourself just a little bit flustered from the events of the day and you find yourself craving for just a few minutes of alone time?

A few weeks ago, I had a Monday just like that. I had some personal business that I really didn't want to take of that day but had to, and coupled with the fact that an unfortunate family crisis landed going into the weekend, left me more than just a little flustered and aggravated. I had spent the rest of the day at home looking for a brief respite/refuge from those particular events, but I wasn't having any luck.

Around lunch tie, I had originally decided to treat the family to lunch at Wings over Newington, but because a few family members were temporarily misplaced, I had to change plans. I instead went to Subway to treat the family to lunch and told Mrs. G. B. that she needed to take something out for dinner later that evening.

The evening's dinner eventually rounded itself out to be a homemade onion-bacon-cheeseburger, a fresh salad and some fries. I said to myself, "HA! I'll have dinner outside and enjoy the warm summer weather!"

So after nuking some Italian style minute rice to replace the non-existent french fries and pouring myself a diet root beer, I brought my food outside and planted my ass in my new outdoor writing area to have a bit of supper and some peace and quiet.

I say "new outdoor writing area", 'cause my entire backyard is one perfect shade zone. The sun approaches from our side of the street, and with the extremely tall shady trees to my left, one tall shady tree to my right, and Cedar Mountain behind me, I was in heaven.

So I sat there, having a rather leisurely mean, enjoying the warm sun and leafy shade (alas, no breeze to speak off) and basically emptying my brain, my spirit and my soul of the annoyances of the day, when I happened to spot an old plastic chair sitting in the middle of the yard.

I didn't think about why or how it got there, since earlier in the afternoon my daughter had decided to sit outside in the sun to play a game on her I-Phone. Yeah, you can now insert comment on how children have a tendency to do the opposite of what normal people do. But the chair got my attention in a way that most things do nowadays, and it got me to thinking.

Mostly, it got me thinking about the way it was situated, in that it wasn't quite balanced as it was resting on three legs instead of four. So as it sat there, an image immediately popped into my head. The unpleasant image of someone sitting in the chair getting ready to be executed by a firing squad.

Now, I'm not sure why that particular image popped into my head, but it seemed like a natural fit. From that particular image, I actually started creating a scene in my head to fit that particular image. Was the person sitting there strapped in? Sure. Was the typical firing squad there? Actually, no. It was one individual who was standing a few feet from the chair, and that idea I pulled from an award winning photograph taken during the Vietnam War.

Anyways, I spent the rest of my dinner quietly building the rest of the scene and trying to figure out why that particular image originally popped into my head. The best I was able to come up with, was this:

Sitting in my quiet backyard, with the sun beating down and looking at a semi-dried pond and the tilted chair, conjured up the image of the quiet aftermath of a battlefield, and I somehow got transported to that very same scene in my mind.

What do you think? Did the stresses of the day somehow pushed me into a particular direction that under normal circumstances I wouldn't have even given a second thought to? Or do I simply have an incredibly vivid imagination?

It's The Simplest Things That Often Gives Us The Greatest Pleasure

Laundry day.

Every two weeks I do my laundry and for the majority of either one Saturday or one Sunday, that day is pretty much shot to pieces. Being tied to a washing machine and dryer is not my idea of fun, especially when there are things that I really want to do on my day off.

But if I get the opportunity to actually enjoy doing my laundry, I grab it and slog my way to the end zone. Last Saturday was one such day.

It was a beautiful day and the sun beat down. There was a cool breeze alternating from the mountain and from the town blowing through my backyard, the family was pretty much gone for the weekend, so I decided to take full advantage of the stars alignment for that day.

Right off the bat, I decided to go semi-green by hanging my laundry outside. I used to do this for many years while living in East Hartford, so I decided to take full advantage of the street's orientation to the sun. In other words, the backyard was in the east, thus the sun rose and hammered the backyard with enough sunlight to make a blade of grass sweat until it died.

So after hanging a small batch of laundry on the line, I took a seat under one of the few remaining trees in my backyard, inhale the sound of a few birds chirping and the leaves rustling in the breeze until my soul was drenched, check out scenery such as this:

and write.

Periodically, I would look up and check on the two dogs that I was babysitting that weekend to see how they were doing. Each one was laying down in the shade, chillin' out and enjoying the afternoon breeze that was blowing through the yard. After making sure that they were okay, I returned to my writing.

About twenty-five minutes after I had sat down, I got up and retrieved the next batch of laundry and repeat the process again.

After doing this three or four times, I pretty much lost track of time. I never took out my phone to check what the time was, but instead, would glance at the time whenever I would go inside to retrieve another load of laundry.

And thus, my Saturday went pretty much like a lazy summer afternoon, in which the only thing I really had to worry about was having to move the chair so that I wouldn't get a sunburn.

Can I Ride A Bicycle?

Over the very long b'day/Memorial Day weekend, I decided to get a little bike riding in. I sort of did a baptism by fire a couple of weekends ago, but this was the first time that I really wanted to get serious about it. However, as people are want to say, the best laid plans often go kablooie, and such was the case this particular weekend.

For starters, my bicycling got off to a very rocky start. How rocky? Well, for one thing, it didn't start on the day of my vacation, it started on the day before.

I had left work earlier than originally planned, which was due to a particular troublesome issue raising its ugly head at home. Once things managed to calm down, I decided to take my bike out for an early afternoon spin. About twenty minutes later, I found myself downtown near the park. So after taking a nice spin around the park, with only a brief stoppage supplied by Mr. & Mrs. Goose and their goslings, I decided to check out the new senior citizen's housing complex that the town had recently built.

So as I'm cycling through the complex and checking out the new housing, I'm also making my way to the far end of the parking lot, with the reason being that since one of the side streets dead ends into the complex, I can simply cut through and scoot on home without any problems.

"No problems," he says.

Unbeknownst to me, not all of the curbs were made handicap accessible/rounded. I only realized this particular fact when I was less than two feet away from smashing into a solid square curb at a moderate rate of speed. I buried my brakes mere inches from the curb.

While yes, I did come to a stop, it was the kind of stop that would thrill a youngster and his/her friends and scare the shit out of an adult.

With the curb acting as a mini-fulcrum, the back of my bicycle went a couple feet in the air, I slid forward and sang soprano, and my bicycle chain popped of the main gear.

After spending a few minutes fixing my bike, I hopped back on and bicycled home, none the worse for wear. However, in so much that I am a glutton for punishment, we decided to repeat the incident, which had a far more gruesome outcome.

About an hour and a half later, further household strife necessitated that I take a leave of absence to retain my sanity.

So once again, I hopped on this:

and took off for the center of town. About twenty minutes later, I was on my way back home, only this time, I decided to approach home from the other side. So I'm blitzing my way down Main Street for the other end of town, and about a half mile from the intersection that I needed to take a right on to go home, I came up with the idea of taking a shortcut through a restaurant parking lot.

The reason as to why I wanted to take the shortcut was primarily due to safety, specifically, mine.

The last time that I rode a bike with any degree of consistency was the summer of '07, which was about six months prior to being diagnosed with C.M.T. Since that time, my balance, coordination and dexterity had noticeably decreased to the point where I have modified the way I do things. Like, making turns on a bicycle.

Instead of making the moderately fast turns of my youth and pre C.M.T. days, I make what I like to call, lollipop turns. A lollipop turn is simply a turn that has a more elongated circumference, about the size of a decent size backyard above ground swimming pool. It's also easier to control and it makes you less prone to have major wipe outs.

So I made my lollipop turn in what I thought was the restaurant parking lot. Epic fail, as the driveway I had hit was for the apartment complex next door. I immediately went off the driveway and into some heavy mulch. Unable to get out of the mulch, I immediately came up with the brilliant idea of simply pedaling my way out. Epic fail again, as I hit the perfect corner where heavy mulch, sidewalk and driveway come together, much like The Four Corners.

Yes my friends, I went airborne. I flipped over the bike and the bike flipped over me. Having been in enough of this kind of brainless stupidity during my life, I quickly covered my head with my arms as well as tucking my head in so that I wouldn't smack concrete. I also executed a barrel roll of sorts too.

When I stood up, I brushed off the dirt, picked up my bike, and noticed a car some twenty-five feet away, waiting for me to move. I moved my bike down the sidewalk, inspected the damage to it, then happened to notice a small trail of blood running down my leg.

Upon closer examination, I discovered that I had shredded my knee in two places and shredded my elbow as well. After repairing my bike, which consisted of taking the chain completely off so that I could untangle a gear cable from the sprocket then putting it back on, I hopped on my bike and slowly pedaled my way home.

Suffice to say, riding this:

isn't quite my forte yet, but I should be back to my semi-abnormal loudmouth self in about a month. Which is good for me and bad for everyone else who happens to motor around on four wheels, because while being on foot patrol can be dangerous, being on two wheels is downright hazardous to your health. And acting like a doofus around me will get you yelled at quicker than mouthing off to a state trooper.

Revisiting The Tree

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the tree in my front yard, and how it seemed to be out of sorts because its feathered friends weren't visiting. In the comment section, my good friend Lynn suggested that I should post an update on the tree once it was in full bloom.

My friends, here is the tree in full bloom:

And a very short video clip of the tree's feathered friends visiting and saying hi.

The reintroduction of the bird feeders is what ultimately did the trick as the tree is now restored back to its former glory, post storm Alfred, and is now the center piece of that ultimate resort destination, G & J's Excitingly Exotic Emporium of Ecstasy.

Sometimes all it takes is just a little help from your friends to make you right, be they feathered or be they human.

Peacefulness With My Feathered Friends

Over at Shooting Suburbia we have part two of "Birds Of A Feather Flock To The Fauna".

Over here, we have Mother Nature touching our spirit in a way that shows us that sometimes, it's the little things that gives us the most pleasure when dealing with the valleys in our journey of life.


Last Saturday, I finally got my bicycle fixed. After having lunch at my favorite local restaurant:

I decided to take the bike out for a spin.

Destination: Mill Pond Park.

After taking a twirl around the park, I was bicycling down the homestretch, when I came across a most unusual sight.

I immediately cruised to stop, hopped off my bike and quietly walked it over to a park bench that was located on the far end of the pond and sat down to write this post.

My friends, as I write this post, stationed some 25 to 50 feet away from me are a gaggle of geese, some goslings, and about a half dozen ducks and mallards snoozing.

Words can't really do justice to the scene I'm witnessing, but suffice to say that simply sitting here quietly with only the sound of chirping birds, honking geese and leaves rustling in the breeze to keep me company, leaves me with an indescribable feeling of peaceful contentment.

No matter what the upcoming week will bring to me, I will definitely have this wonderful memory to draw upon whenever I need a little restoration of my inner chi.

Late spring in New England definitely don't get much better than this, and if it does, I'm certainly not there to experience it.

My spirit soared a little bit during that early Saturday afternoon, and that my friends, is all that you can really ask for on a gorgeous weekend.

The Tree

Today's post is a about a tree, and to a lesser degree, Father Nature, spirituality, animals and the meaning of life.

The tree in question is this:

Not because it looks like that, but it now looks like, after its been battered from pillar to post in the past couple of years, death warmed over. This particular tree has some family history behind it, as it was planted by my late father shortly after we'd moved to Newington in '69. So it managed to survive almost 45 years of bad New England weather, although in the past year or so, the weather and lack birds, conspired to send it on to the great mountain in the sky.

Yes, you read correctly.

Birds.

Last year, with the economy being so crappy, I had to cut back on a few non-essentials, like birdseed. Because there was no bird seed to be had for the late summer of 2011, G & J's Excitingly Exotic Emporium of Ecstasy was closed for business.

And because it was closed for business, no birds came to visit the tree. And as hard as this is to believe, I think that deep down it bothered the tree

Yes, you read correctly.

Think about this scenario for a minute: Picture yourself as an old tree sitting in a quiet neighborhood. You're a bit weathered, got some broken branches, your bark won't bite anymore, but overall you're in good health. The one thing that you look forward to every spring and summer are your feathered friends from the mountain stopping by to eat some of the delicious birdseed, take a bath and to say hi.

Then for some inexplicable reason, the birds stop visiting. You can hear them merrily chirping away in the mountain and yet, they don't stop by to visit anymore. Without your friends stopping by to chit-chat, your days soon become unbearably long and dull.

Pretty soon, the sadness from being all alone becomes too much for you to bear, so you start thinking of ways to end your time on this wonderful little planet. Perhaps you decided not to stand as tall when the rain and windstorms start to hit. Or maybe instead of shaking off the snow with a snarl and a scowl, you choose to open your branches as far as they can go, as if to say, "take me, I'm yours."

To be honest with everyone, it really did look like,that for all intents and purposes, the tree simply gave up.

Anyways, I decided during the spring that G & J's should re-open. So I took the remaining bird feeder (the other one got demolished during storm Alfred) and moved it to the tree, and filled it up with some birdseed that was purchased earlier in the day. I also spread some on the ground near the tree, the bush were a few smaller birds had made a nest, and near the birdbath.

And waited.

And waited.

By the middle of the week, the wife pointed out that the tree was producing new buds. Not quite believing what I was told, I went out to see for myself. Sure enough, the tree was indeed sprouting some new buds.

Elated over the prospect that the tree still had some life left in it, I spent the next couple weeks making sure that the bird feeder and birdbath was kept reasonably filled. However, it still seemed that the feathered friends quotient was still sub par. Thinking about it for a spell, I got nailed with a blinding case of the obvious.

So last week, I went out and bought more birdseed, a dual bird feeder and some suet. Taking the old suet hanger, I transplanted it to within ten feet of the tree, hung the filled-to-capacity bird feeder, and waited

Sure enough, the tree's inner chi was completely restored, as if once again became the center of its own little universe. Birds of all kinds now stopped by to eat, bathe and chit-chat.

Do trees have souls? Some people think that they do and some think that they don't.

As for me, it's quite possible that a tree has a soul.

After all, without a soul, do you really think that the mountain would come alive in symphonic pleasure every Spring and Summer?

I Stand Corrected About Spring

A few weeks ago, I lamented over the fact that it looked like Spring wouldn't be sprung on the mountain this year. I would now like to state for the record that I have been happily corrected.

Moving in the same vein of resurrecting my adult blog, I am now happy to inform my readers that I blew off the Playboy dust bunnies and have resurrected Shooting Suburbia. Today's post will kick off a new sub-chapter, as we introduce everyone to the world of cheesy video shooting.

So please, come join me across the street, literally and figuratively, as we make a genuine attempt at giving everyone a taste of Spring in my neighborhood, and thus put a capper on what has been for me, for the first time this year, a very relaxing weekend.