OH WHAT A PARADISE IT WILL BE

I’ve had lawn specialists provide me with the Latin names of several weeds taking over my lawn. They do this free of charge, and I always tell them I’m not interested in their chemicals when in all actuality I really am because my intention is to go to Home Depot and purchase whatever weed killer works.

I used to be envious of my brother’s perfect lawn—a nice lush carpet of forest green (sprinkler system too)—until it dawned on me while peacefully relaxing and throwing back a few cold beverages: there were no birds. Did the lawn chemicals have something to do with this? At my house, birds are everywhere, chirping and dropping wherever they see fit—on my wood deck, on the outdoor furniture, and even on the pool’s ledge.

I have another reason not to get my lawn sprayed—chemical runoff. As you can see from the picture, I purchased a roll of rubber liner made by Firestone to form a pond. I plan on having fish, frogs, and all kinds of small harmless critters inhabit my man-made paradise. I’ll show you how far I’ve come as the summer progresses.

GRASS

Not the kind you smoke (I know my terminology is outdated). What I’m saying is marijuana--I mean--not marijuana.

I’ve been sent on different occasions for random drug testing. Cancel your classes and go to personnel to pick up some forms, Jesse Vail, a former professional football coach in the leather helmet days and previous boss of mine, would demand. Personnel, where you go for forms when your boss can never seem to find anything in his office, but will tell you to improve your organizational skills.

I’d play this game with strict adherence to the UAW employee handbook each time. I’d request a state vehicle from the transportation coordinator (besides, why use my own gas?) to travel the three miles down the road to a third party drug-testing agency.

I’m drunk and I need a state car, I’d say.

Excuse me?

I’m high as a kite and need a car so I can pee in a cup.

They’d give me the keys to a car assuming that I was joking and couldn’t possibly be on anything.

But this is not about that kind of weed—it’s about grass—the kind you cut. Seems I’m spending a considerable amount of time pushing a lawn mower across ¾ of an acre. It’s a slight inconvenience, but the exercise is well worth it.

In today’s photo, two gentlemen are leaving the Bayshore Marina, heading for a small island on the outskirts of Wild Fowl Bay. They obviously have some grass of their own . . . . . to cut . . . . . of course.

PRIMITIVE

I was deliberate, planned, only turned the wrong way and brought my mother pain. He was breech born, she’d tell others, as if that’s how trouble begins; as if, later when I was in high school, this would explain why my father left my vehicle on our front lawn for everyone to see. He even broke the steering column, he’d tell visitors concerned for my well being.

I’ll admit, I lacked direction, one mistake away from ending up in prison myself. We all make mistakes; mine were often deliberate. Trust, they say, is very hard to regain. Imagine a convict, who did something so horrific, trying to convince the parole board to give him a second chance at life. I’m reminded of the time when I was a junior in college and I had the State Troopers over to my parents’ house at 3 a.m. so I could fill-out a property damage report on my car. My parents woke up and asked, What did he do now? I understood their logic.

But I’m surviving, just like I survived bad penmanship in grade school by switching hands (Don’t believe what they say about left-handers—they’re not all evil.). My wild days have since passed. I’m domesticated. I tackle "honey do" lists with renewed energy. I’ve learned that a happy home is a home where individual sacrifices are made, where commitment is key. I’m still trying to finish everything I set out to finish this Memorial Weekend. I’m still moving forward, in a direction that’s quite pleasing—to me—to my family.

OPENINGS

This morning I made my coffee and stepped outside into the warm breeze. I am a pool owner, and like most Michiganders celebrating Memorial weekend, it’s time to drain the water off the pool cover and remove it. It's time to hook up the filtration system, get the water level back up to the skimmer level, shock the water (a heavy concentrate of chlorine) and take the polar bear plunge. Some traditions never cease.

Other minor inconveniences include checking for Yellow Jackets under the pool’s ledge; It's a constant battle because they always come back. Sometimes when you’re most enjoying yourself, splashing water and kicking off from the sides of the pool, you’ll disturb them resting peacefully in their homes and they’ll come looking for you. How long can you hold your breath under water? It beats getting stung. Also, leaks around the skimmer and fittings need to be fixed. There is always a price to pay for a bit of pleasure.

I remember the summer of 1993. I did a very foolish thing and almost lost my eyesight. I was condensing pool chemicals in the shed outback. The previous homeowners moved out that winter, and they had left all the pool chemicals for me. Nothing was clearly marked. I thought I was consolidating super shock from two plastic containers into one. As I stood over the containers pouring one into the other it exploded, a regular sandblast of chemicals in my eyes. The next door neighbor heard what he thought was a shotgun. His initial thoughts, "the new neighbor killed himself." I stumbled out of the shed and my neighbor directed me to the pool where I dunked my head into the water. My eyeballs were on fire and I was embarrassed. My neighbor asked if he could drive me to the hospital. I told him I’d be fine, and went inside my house.

The burning wouldn’t stop. Don’t ask me how I did it, but I got a bucket of water and a washrag and drove myself to the hospital. In the emergency room, the receptionist handed me some forms to fill out. Yeah, like I could see them. By then, my eyelids were pasted shut. I gave her my wallet and told her she'd have to fill out the forms. To make a long story short, I had lacerated my corneas and my tear ducts quit working. I had to use medicated eye drops as a tear solution until my tear ducts healed.

When I was able to open my eyelids again, everything was blurry, fragmented. Today's picture reminds me of that initial opening. I'm just thankful for the early morning sunlight reflecting through a spider web in my backyard. I'm just thankful for my eyesight.

DISMANTLING THE WALL

Today I received a rejection email from Mr. Randall Brown of Smoke Long Quarterly, an internet journal that publishes flash fiction (smokelong.com). I was informed that they accept roughly 4% of the submissions sent to them. He encouraged me to "send more work." This is my third rejection from SLQ. I'll keep trying. The way I look at it, I'm increasing my chances of getting noticed.

This holiday weekend I am devoting my time and energy to a short story called "Conte Du Jour." Therefore, I will leave you with a snail-mail rejection letter from my office wall:

JIMMY HOFFA'S OVER HERE!

Federal Agents swarmed the Hidden Dreams Farm in Milford, Michigan, ready to look under a horse barn, which is probably torn down by now. Rumors of the barn’s siding showing up on E-Bay have left people eager to bid. Also, if you happen to be near "the dig" and your stomach is growling, the Milford Baking Company can offer you Jimmy Hoffa cupcakes—a hand reaching skyward from dirt-like frosting. And who created this media related frenzy? Donovan Wells, a 75 year old inmate, that’s who!

So, should I feel bad showing you another photo of me digging a very large hole? And would I, an honest, hard-working, Michigan taxpayer and card carrying UAW member, be out of line, if I said, I too, am searching for Jimmy Hoffa? Perhaps my power grab for attention could get the FBI to help me finish digging out my pond. Or will they turn their backs on my plea for attention? What do you think?

OUR TOWNE CLUB

The year was 1971 and Evel Knievel crashed his motorcycle trying to clear thirteen Pepsi-Cola trucks. I can’t recall whether his televised jump came with the mandatory message, "Don’t try this at home," but I do remember us neighborhood kids emulating his daredevil stunts. Back then, we shoveled enough dirt to make a nice sized pit in a field off Nardone Street, and we placed a small but efficient ramp on the one end near the pavement. Speed was the key. The harder and faster you pedaled down Nardone before veering into the field and onto the ramp, the better your chance of success. But that didn’t seem to matter. Why should it? Evel crashed all the time. Horrific crashes increased your chances of popularity. Mark T. heard of our pit at recess. After school, he rode his bike to our neighborhood to give it a try, racking his nuts on the crossbar. Chris M., my next door neighbor, hit the opposite side with his front tire and flipped over the handle-bars—not once, not twice, but almost every time because he lacked coordination. I, on the other hand, usually missed the ramp entirely, due to a last ditch effort to save myself.

You could say, Evel Knievel had a lot of influence on us—except of course for the type of soda we drank. Towne Club had all those assorted flavors to choose from; so there was no way Pepsi could compete, let alone survive. On the other hand, Evel consumed us during the summers of ’71 and ’72. What’s also amazing is that no one wore bike helmets—grown-ups and children alike.

As you can see from the photo, my dad (his shadow is evident) snapped the picture before letting me pedal away shoeless. If you look even closer, you will see a small bandage on my leg indicating a past injury, an obvious clue to my involvement in our Evel Knievel jumps. Unfortunately, my crashes were not spectacular, which made me average at school.

IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN

In my inaugural blog I felt froggy (still do), and today I’m quoting Kermit: "It’s not easy being green." Yes, I’ll admit, blogging is new to me; therefore, I owe an apology to J.W. Here it goes:

Sir, I am happy to hear that you have three blogs to read. And Sir, with the utmost respect to you, I apologize for my negative comment in regards to your positive comment about my blog. I should've never said, "I’m not so glad you found it," (meaning my blog). Please let me explain. We work together. In a correctional facility. My blog in the wrong hands could spell catastrophe. That’s what I meant by my comment. It wasn’t meant to be personal. Plus, you can never be too careful.

Sir, if you still want to confront me, then I suggest you read the posted article. We could put on some gloves and go a few rounds. However, I’m sure this would be an unwise decision on your behalf. My thirteen and a half inch guns are like popcorn. You wouldn’t know what hit you. Pop-pop-pop, pop-pop-pop! So pleeeease … accept my sincerest apology … or else?

I Float like a butterfly!
Sting like a bee!

CRAFTY

You are looking at a butterfly feeder, which I painted when I was at the community art fair on Saturday. The sign at Tent No.#12 prominently displayed the following message in big bold letters: Garden Club Fund-Raiser. Crafts Available. You had to buy tickets, 25 cents each, and depending on which craft you chose to do, you had to hand-over your tickets to a garden club member, so he or she could explain what had to be done as they slid your tickets into plastic covered coffee cans. It was easy to see that the adult supervisor at the cash box devised a sophisticated system and that the children understood their duties.

There were numerous stations. I could have made a caterpillar out of half a Styrofoam egg carton, pipe cleaner, construction paper, top soil, and grass seed (4 tickets); or built a bird house planter from a kit donated by Home Depot (6 tickets); or assembled a germination necklace with a small plastic bag, ribbon, water-soaked cottonball, and bean (2 tickets); or bought an already assembled bug sucker made with a small prescription container and two straws protruding from the top (1 ticket); or, as you can see, painted a butterfly feeder (4 tickets).

This was not an easy decision to make because a small child (he said he was 11 ½ years old) demonstrated the bug sucker for me. He found a bug crawling on the tent’s mesh fabric, held the container close to his face with one straw in his mouth and another flexible straw carefully aimed at the bug, and with one long drawn in breath, vacuumed up the bug. The entertainment value alone was worth the price of admission (0 tickets). I explained to the energetic youngster that I only purchased $1 worth of tickets, and his rebuttal: I could get 4 bug suckers. I told him no thanks, that I’d rather feed the insects instead of capture them. In one last-ditch effort, he said I could capture them and feed them. I politely declined.

DIGGING

Let’s start with some simple math: after ten postings I’ve had—what?—one hundred fifty hits—fifteen hits a day? In the words of a past American Idol contestant: "Not too shabby." Am I, in the words of my coworker and horticulture teacher, dying on the vine here? I don’t think so. Even if no one visits my blog (not counting my brother) I’ll still keep doing it for the sake of writing. Yeah, you’re probably thinking it’s time to put the boots on. But hear me out. The reason I started this project is to loosen up my writing style, to become undisciplined. By undisciplined I mean writing every day about whatever strikes my fancy, which in turn, means not beating myself up over an unproductive day. In other words, being undisciplined is my solution to dealing with perfection, thus blogging. Striving for perfection, you see, drove me down a dead end street. Every day became Ground Hog’s Day. I’d rework two or three stories ten feet into the ground until the hole collapsed. Once the hole collapsed I’d have a whole new set of issues to deal with regarding the same two or three stories. Sometimes it’s better to just let go, to quit being afraid of your own shadow (pardon the pun). Also, it’s not good to be, as some of my students would advise me, "white and uptight." Yesterday morning I sent out two stories to four different journals. Now I can generate some fresh ideas, mainly through blogging.

LESS THAN SIX DEGREES OF EXPLANATION

Yesterday morning in the pouring rain I volunteered my time pitching tents for a local community art fair – fifteen tents total. When we got to the fourth tent I started humming the theme song to "Bewitched." I was so into the moment, so at peace with myself (often happens to good Samaritans) that I didn’t realize what sounds were coming from my closed mouth. Soon the other volunteers were looking at one another in very peculiar ways. Soon I made the connection and knew to stop humming—why make everyone feel uncomfortable?

Later that evening while sitting on the couch at home I had an epiphany as to my, for lack of a better word, bewitchment. Please follow my line of thought:

I. Conscious Level:
1. Thinking of my blog.
2. Recalling catfish tournament pictures.
3. Remembering picture of me fishing in my underwear(don’t ask).

II. Subconscious Level:
1. Will Ferrell in his underwear. (Again, at the subconscious level.)
2. Humming "Bewitched" theme song.

The mind works in mysterious ways. It could have been worse—a young Tom Cruise (Think"Risky Business") wandering into my cerebral cortex spouting his narrow-minded views.

LOUDER THAN BOMBS

Back when I was in my late 20’s I’d rewind The Smiths’ "Louder Than Bombs" cassette tape to "Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now," and internalize Jim Morrissey’s broody message. Sometimes I’d mumble along while having an Old Milwaukee or two or three, usually making trips to the refrigerator during the rewinding process. The Smiths’ song did not influence my state of mind so much as it amplified what I was going through. I had just finished my student teaching at a nice suburban high school where the principal took me under his wing, made me feel like a valuable commodity, suggesting that I become a permanent substitute teacher for their school district. I thought of his offer as a tour of duty. Unfortunately, he was rather taken aback when I told him that I would be more than willing to sub for one school year if, and only if, they could guarantee me a teaching position somewhere within their school district. After all his hollow compliments, his demeanor changed. I remember him telling me that the only way to get into the public schools was by subbing and that there were no guarantees. He said I wouldn’t get hired any other way. Say I’m crazy, but I did not get my college degree and teaching certificate so I could sit around the house waiting for phone calls. He wished me well, and I told him I’d call him as soon as I found a permanent teaching position—my way of saying… ________ (you fill in the blank). With the wave of his hand I was dismissed as insignificant.

And yes, I felt miserable. The song validated my mood; it spoke to me. Within two months, in the middle of the summer, I had a teaching job educating delinquent youths from the Wayne County Youth Home. Not an easy task. "I was looking for a job, and then I found a job," Morrissey sang, "and heaven knows I’m miserable now." My sudden employment did not stop me from applying to every public school district in Michigan (excluding the Upper Peninsula). It didn’t matter though—I received nothing but rejection letter after rejection letter. I did get some temporary relief when I made that promised phone call, yet I was hoping that maybe I’d gain some insight into an opening in his school district. I wanted to be where I thought I belonged. That never materialized. My misery increased.

I don’t know exactly how, or even when, I broke out of my downward spiral. Perhaps Morrissey’s voice became too overbearing. I can’t even say whether I eased into the teaching profession slowly or whether I had an innate ability to work with the downtrodden from the start. I do know this: I have the best students a teacher could ask for—the failures of our public schools. Also, I have plenty of character sketches to add to my arsenal of fiction. Hopefully, some day, through my writing, I shall be heard … louder than bombs … louder than bombs.

READERS DIGEST THIS

I’m tired of these rainy overcast days. Give me my eighty-degree weather pronto! I’ll take my chances, I’ll lather up with my SPF45, slip into my long sleeve UV protected shirt, and don a big floppy hat. What better way to enjoy the sun? Also, the warm weather will help with my stink bait – the smellier, the better. I need to be on the water A—SAP! I’ll open up a package of rotten chicken gizzards, listen to the other fishermen gag and complain—"Why can’t you use night crawlers like the rest of us?"—and bait my hook.

Once my line’s cast, I’ll catch up on reading short stories from back issues of literary journals such as: Orchid Literary Review, Witness, Driftwood Review, or Third Coast. I’ll reflect on each story, study technique, transition, plot, dialogue, character and whatever else catches my eye. There’s so much writing talent out there and so little time to show my worth. Sometimes, if a story is awesome, I’ll become depressed – thinking, I’ll never write half as good as what I’ve just experienced. Other times I’ll make a mental note to contact the writer. It’s an interactive process and I enjoy doing it even if my stink bait doesn’t always work.

Reading these journals outdoors on a warm sunny day is what life’s all about. It beats perusing the Reader’s Digest cooped up in the can. I shouldn’t complain too much though—RD saved my life with their photographs of ugly asymmetrical moles. Now the doctor plays connect the dots with my back, legs, and arms every six months and scoops pieces of skin off me. I'm the Swiss Cheese Man. "We’ll send it to the lab for a biopsy," I’m told. This means a follow-up appointment to have the results read. They refuse to do it over the phone; their way of getting another office visit, another bill sent to you and to your health care provider. But hey – I’m alive and ready to catch some cats! Meooow!

BEING EARNEST

Rodney Dangerfield referred to it in his monologue. Aretha Franklin spelled it out in a song and suggested we sock it to her. And in order to receive it you needed to earn it. Yep – "Tensegrity." What the hell did you think I was referring to? Trust me, I’m not "dissing" you intentionally; there’s a line of thought with this, a string of coincidental tie-ins (pardon the accidental pun).

A few years back I discovered "Tensegrity," a word R. Buckminster Fuller created by combining "Tension" and "Integrity" to describe the durability of his prefabricated home called The Dymaxion House. A mock real estate agent walked me through it at the Henry Ford Museum once. Anyway, I wrote a short-story aptly titled "Tensegrity" and sent it off to The Furnace at Corktown Press. In retrospect, the story wasn’t polished, and if, in the words of Cher, I could turn back time, I would have. That’s neither here nor there; water under the bridge as they say. The fiction editor enjoyed the story and passed it on to the main editor for final approval.

Here’s the first coincident: The main editor, a civil engineer by day, emailed me, claiming to be a big fan of R. Buckminster Fuller even though her ex-boyfriend helped assemble The Dymaxion House when it arrived in Dearborn. I didn’t know of any of this prior to sending the story out – honest – I have no reason to lie to you, I am not much of a risk taker, and I am certainly not a corrupt, immoral man.

The next circumstance is even more bizarre (maybe internally on my part). The editors wanted to include an illustration, so they had a former student from The Center of Creative Studies in Detroit (and guitar player for The Twistin’ Tarantulas) do the artwork. I had never met him (what is psychobilly music anyway?), nor did I know of him during that time, and vice-versa. If you take a look at the illustration you might see a slight resemblance to someone. What do you think? Not only do I feel that I wrote a mediocre story, but I also feel like I’m looking at the clown nose of Dorian Gray. I’m telling you, I get no respect – inadvertently, of course -- and self-inflicted perhaps.

MANNY

Manny is my pet Preying Mantis from the Order Mantodea. He is the lone survivor of over one-hundered mantises that hatched from a foamy shell. I should have taken him (or is it a her?) to the Science Olympiad event this past Saturday, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I brought his brothers and sisters that aggressively killed one another during the maturation process. They were displayed at Station #18. There were 20 stations total, so you can see I was still contemplating whether Manny would be on display. It was also nice listening to the elementary school kids arguing whether the insects at Station #18 were walking sticks or preying mantises. It did not matter that they were looking at a family massacre -- the ultimate sibling rivalry.

Manny voraciously eats flies, crickets, mosquitoes, and midges. I’m often seen running around my front and back yard with a butterfly net rustling him some grub. Manny is doing quite well in my kitchen. I took the following picture as proof; however, my neighbors still think I’m crazy.

FISHERMEN FOUND

After three weeks, the bodies of two missing fishermen were found. May they rest in peace. Their families can now plan their funerals and get a sense of closure.

I remember my other grandfather’s funeral. He had an unusual request before he died which my grandmother chose to honor: "No women allowed at the burial." I know, I know—sounds terrible—but as us men went to the cemetery we shared hunting and fishing stories. Not being an avid hunter, I could never understand why they’d take someone with Alzheimer’s (including sundowners) out West. Wyoming, to me, was just too far to drive, and I couldn’t understand how my grandfather, in his diminished capacity, managed to bag a buck the last two years of his life. As we drove to the cemetery, I learned that his hunting buddies took his ammo away. I could imagine how his heart was pounding as he raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed at God knows what, and pulled the trigger. "The mule deer," my grandfather had explained, "never had a chance." In the retelling of my grandfather’s hunting successes, his hunting buddies commented on his fine marksmanship. It was then, that I understood how much they looked out for him.

When we arrived at the cemetery, my dad commented on how they dug the hole in the wrong place. We were puzzled as to what piece of real estate belonged to my grandfather. Phone calls were made. Soon we discovered that his burial plot, according to the blue print specs delivered by the cemetery caretaker, had been switched by his sister to accommodate another family member getting up there in age. I also suspect that my grandmother knew about the swap, and to avoid any arguments, chose to stay at the church hall with the other women.

It didn’t matter to me where my grandfather was buried. What mattered—was knowing that before he died, he continued to do the things he loved while his hunting buddies looked out for him. I know that at this year’s catfish tournament, the fishermen who drowned on Lake Huron will come up in conversation, and hopefully, others will realize that we really need to look out for one another.

WOODY'S ROUND UP

I like to be in control of my own destiny. I’ll self-regulate a situation right into the ground more times than a kamikaze pilot during World War II. Okay—bad analogy—that’s a one shot deal. My take-offs and landings (yeah plural … as in repetitive) have never resulted in a crash and burn scenario (yeah singular … and fatal). Besides, let’s not talk about planes or the air; Let’s talk about boats and the water ... and freebies … and healthy lifestyles … and authority figures … and freedom.

More than a year ago my mother-in-law took us on our very first cruise. She’d been on plenty of cruise ships, and at her suggestion, said we’d enjoy a little R & R. Let’s be honest: the only boat I enjoy being on is my dad’s fishing boat where I don’t have to jockey for position in a buffet line with a bunch of seriously overweight young couples. Not good. No, I’d rather pull on a seaweed-entangled anchor over and over again, knowing that the next fishing spot would be just as bad. Well, maybe that’s taking it a bit too far. But cruise ships are not for me, unless you consider how I discovered that my key card was under my mother-in-law’s name and could be used, not only to enter my prison cell of a room, but also to purchase whatever I wanted. So I snuck off to the Cadillac Lounge every chance I could get and drank expensive Berritini’s served by a young Pakistani. The pianist wasn’t too bad either, considering it was her first cruise gig and she put up with my requests for anything by Norah Jones. Also, she wasn’t overweight and aggressive like the passengers, and the lounge lacked patrons. I kind of wished I’d’ve bought her CD. It wouldn’t have cost me anything; it wasn’t until the next night that my mother-in-law found me sipping on a chilled Berritini that she said, "I hope I’m not paying for that." She already knew the answer. We weren’t allowed to use cash. Against the rules.

My R & R came from that dark cavern of a lounge where I vowed to get back in shape and shed a few pounds once we returned home. (Remember: I like to be in control of my own destiny.) So I went back to work, pressed the inmates to study study study, and exercised my ass off on a regular basis. I even told one young lazy convict that I’d drop thirty pounds before he got his GED. He didn’t take me serious. A year has passed since then and the young man transferred to another prison still GEDless while I, on the other hand, became known as "a buck forty-two soaking wet" instead of "a buck seventy-five."

Just as engineers solve old problems and in the process create new ones, I became healthier and gained several personal trainers from the prison yard weight pit. This also meant challenging my authority daily—a regular damned Woody’s Round Up of characters. Too much testosterone in one place. See where I’m going with this? Neither do I. But I’ll keep it clean. Something to do with it being a Disney cruise--SERIOUSLY. Not as many kids as you would think either; although I’m sure a few were conceived on that trip.

Moral to my ramblings: When a little boy trapped in a man’s body doesn’t get his way I’ll say, "Look, this may be Disneyland but you don’t get to pick and choose your rides. You say bumper cars and I say ferris wheel. Deal with it! We all got to answer to someone."

SMALL ENTRY

Just a small entry for today as I learn from my past two blog postings. After checking other blogs (mainly Michelle's Spell--yeah, I'm envious), I see my topic headings for the previous posts are a bit messy. I'll figure the damned thing out eventually; I'm stubborn that way. Got to keep doing and learning.

Today's pic--small catch for a small entry. Hey, at least they make great catfish bait once they're nice and stinky.

USED-CAR SALESMAN

Sometimes I feel like a used-car salesman--usually when I've convinced some bag-of-meat doing natural life that it's important he get his GED (hillbilly talk for Get 'Er Done). I'll say stuff like, "Hey, I can't quote Chuck Taylor on this one, but in the words of that great NIKE God--Just do it!" And if they're still not convinced I go into my tire-kicking mode with a rah-rah chant saying, "What's the last four letters in the word American? I-C-A-N! I-C-A-N! I CAN! I CAN!" Of course none of this works, but for entertainment purposes more than anything my captive audience is amused.

In today's picture I'm weighing a cat. Of course it's not a winner--however, if I had enough sinkers to shove down its throat I might place. I still haven't heard anything about the missing fishermen. Haven't read a newspaper in days (something to do with the Selepak idiot!). Should a person give up hope? When is all motivation lost?

In other news, on Saturday I'll be dealing with approximately eighty elementary schools as the event coordinator for "Don't Bug Me." The young Science Olympiads will identify various insects at twenty different stations (one minute per station). These third through sixth graders are self-motivated and want to learn. What a concept! And on their own too! Wish me luck. It's the largest elementary Science Olympiad in the United States.

CATS & DREAMS

Huh? What? God I blogged for the very first time and now I'm feeling kind of froggy. So where do I begin? Here I am at last year's Good Old Boy's Catfish Tournament in Bayport, Michigan. Don't know much about blogging liabilities -- so there I sit -- all alone! I can't wait for this year's tournament which is in June. My dad informed me that some of our beloved tournament members turned up missing on Lake Huron two weeks ago. Their boat was found: no men, empty gas tank, and a dead battery. Tragic news. I lost my granddad to Lake Huron when I was a child. Coming home from a bar he drove his car off a dock and drowned.

From Corktown Press (The Furnace): I was asked to define vagary. What is it? A vagrant performing an indecent act? An angry bum with a vague sense of social injustice? Or is it the victim: "I've been vagarized?" All my life (I'm now 40ish, matured at 28, married at 29) I've wondered if I've made the right choices. Think Chaos Theory: We're all just particles moving through space, sometimes colliding into one another. Blogging???

Is time linear? First dimension: Length. Second dimension: Area. Third dimension: Volume. Fourth dimension: Time. How do we measure time? Is there a starting point (birth), middle (where I'm probably at now), and an end (beyond?).

When I quit engineering school, how did my actions affect me? Others? I'm often asked by prisoners, "Why would you teach here?" My response: "When I was little, my parents would ask me, 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' and I'd answer, 'I want to teach convicted felons for the Michigan Department of Corrections -- that's my dream!'"

Chaos Theory again: the flapping wings of a single butterfly can affect the weather.

I looked up the definition of vagary -- a flight of fancy. Think of that butterfly.