All Humans Are Tumblers

Grandpa fell in the ocean, I hauled him out, soaked, embarassed, didn't even change his slacks or polo.

Dad fell on the floor. Got up. Lit a smoke. Finished his story.

Important Earnest just went the Hemingway on the bed side shelf.

Cucumber sandwiches and calling Mr. Henry James to the night stand.

Not reading yet because the topic of men and our aging is fresh by the fire side.

There is a fireplace in my old room at my parent's shack, but I don't light it much. The crackle distracts from reviewing my old vinyl.

Tough choices to be made when you can only fly with 26kgz. You can't mail Zappa to an assumed name at your new bedsit.

Parent's just don't understand why I can't explain twitter. Grandparents won't fathom why we vote how we vote, or why the royal "wii" don't vote.

If anyone can invent a methodone for this internet craze, we are buying. Don't say friends, sex or fun. They are part of it.

I will blog this blog, then look at ocean, lights and mountain. Just...one...more...click...

"Chem Bros Electro" is not enough to google the video you want.

Not even in 2011.

Somebody get me Prof Gore on the phone.

Here's an inconvenient truth, dude couldn't outrun a Bush.

All zoo patrons are advised, not to feed the Blairs.

Kate Middle-claws will be such a beautiful bride (I read in the evening standard newzzzzz).

Give me Standard Lager and an Adirondack to watch our patriarchs age.

Me, my old man, my Grandpa

30 - 60 - 90

Lottery numbers or clues to a riddle.

The answer is 666.

For it is a humane number.

You were told to keep checking back at this location. Fear not, proper journalism will jump off as soon as the cheques are signed, third drafts are mailed to ones-selves and the vacation is over.

There is no break for the funky drummer.

Dude works always, forever.

Timeless.

I'll sleep when I'm paid.

This blogging is amateur sport.

We approach it like amateur skateboarding.

No money, but travel and shoes for free.

Stay free 2.0 threadcount embedding.

The internet should have never been about money.

Somebody subsidize my downloads.

Like the elders used to.

Word to the natives.

I can see the olympic mountains through this dawn.

Yes dear reader, it's still on.

Back To The Grill Again

This long dormant blog was once a source of joy. You read it, you loved it, you checked it - and it was always there for you.

We've grown up together. Not like family, lovers or colleagues, but the way you grow up with movies and records; the very things this space was intended to get hyped about.

To anyone reading for the first time, yes, I realize the last paragraphlette is reason enough to stop for ever.

Do not stop.

Until we can paint the store and build new shelves, we are back at this address.

The glut of mediocrity on the internet is no reason to pause. Be not intimidated by the hubris of the weak. Get what you have to give because they do not, or can not, or never will.

Grab your drink, walk over to the internet and say anything. It doesn't matter, she wants to talk to you. After she's left your apartment/office/playroom while you are in the shower, see a doctor if it burns, call her if she left a number, but smile at the exercize.

Our culture is too fat. Get up, indulge and work it off.

Liposuction for the fat egos of the new "me" newbies.

Tricks and tweets.

This is not about me.

This is not about you.

It's not a break-up, it's a break.

Dance to the break.

The break is the inexplicably short part of the permanent record.

We still grill.

The Trillness is not fatal, but it will not be cured.

Cure meat.

Sniff at the sickness.

Sew your patches on.

Smell the paint.

Breathe out.

Hit send.

It can only get better.