Reflecting Upon A Brief Relationship Between Two Financial Anarchists Who Like To Play Banjo Kazooie

He's prone to handing poor downtrodden sods a dollar

Because he's a deep believer in faith, hope, and charity

                                                  Those are the rudimentary requirements, he swore

        To living a righteous, deliberate and unrehearsed life

He's been walking the straight and particularly narrow

Ever since he heard the great and glorious word

                                      That saved him from the evils of pilates and acting

         Elevating his consciousness from banality and strife

He whistles while he works and listens to Marlowe

All the while calculating how long it would take him

                      To memorize all the lyrics on Angelic 2 The Core by Feldman

       While cutting through a frozen banana with a rusty butter knife

                                           Ooh Mao Mao

                                        Zedong Mao Mao

                               Falling asleep on the dance floor 

                                    Bicycling to Pao Pao

She's got him on at least three charges of using trigonometry

To seduce a thrice-divorced matron he met at the automat

                                             A woman of high-standing though low morals

         Who claimed to be great in geocaching but really lousy as a wife

She's been known to use caressing a well-used cheeseboard 

As a means to gathering insights while meditating

                                 Being as how it had been cleaned with potato whiskey      

         By an under-assistant barber found running down a Saharan saif

She cannot afford to be out in public without her trusty blue apple

It helps to soothe her mind when she's feeling a little saudade

                            Like a butterfly she deftly plays the hydrocrystalophone   

        Much to the delight of both the woefully wealthy and offensively rife 

                                             Ooh Mao Mao

                                         Zedong Mao Mao

                            Falling asleep on the dance floor

                                      Bicycling to Pao Pao

                 

It's National Photography Day! Whoo-Hoo!

    Yes folks, it is National Photography Day. A grand and glorious day indeed! Somewhat better than National Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Day (which was last week, btw), but not quite as noteworthy as International Whiskey Day (that's March 27th).

   To celebrate, I did what I do most every single day - I took some pictures. Here are a few from my walk around the reservoir this afternoon:

   Slap me on the  ass and call me Galen Rowell.

How Schools Inadvertently (Or With Malicious Subtlety?) Encourage Innocent People To Join Cults*

    It's the class projects.

   That's it, TLDR right at the get go.

   Kids are subdivided into smaller groups and told to work together as a group in order to accomplish a compulsory goal.

   And if you, as a kid, reject the idea of having to be in a group in order to succeed, you are written up for it, as in "doesn't play well with others."

   That right there is the first glowing ember of cult recruitment. 

   As kids progress from grade to grade, the group projects become more and more important grade-wise, and participation is closely monitored.

   "C'mon Jonesy, where's your school spirit?"

   Until, eventually, you are being dinged on your report card for not participating, and in the comments section your teachers start writing "not a team player, does not exhibit a desire to cooperate with others."

   We will teach you how to be one with your fellows indeed.

   At the college level it amps up to eleven making it a graduation requirement, essential to the actual awarding of the degree you so assiduously have been working toward by requiring you to volunteer with some group or other. 

   Of course, the college labels it "community service" and states that it's necessary in order to develop valuable life skills and may even be beneficial for your career progression, but the truth about community service is it's just cult prep.

   Take a look around you and do a little research into how cults recruit, and then tell me I'm wrong.

*Look, I'm being half-assed sarcastic here...let's not take anything I write too seriously, eh? 

A Time & Place Best Not Discussed

The morning walk was going as uneventfully as ever

Until a woman walked up and said "Didn't we know each other in '94?"

In over twenty years of morning walks the total times anyone 

Had ever said anything to him at all

Equaled a grand total of, well, never

Staring intently at her face as if it were an unusual flower

Wondering if maybe she had mistaken him for the guy who lived next door

He repeated the question to himself and replied

"If we did that would mean we were locked up in the same psych ward"

The woman seemed to stop breathing when she heard that 

And then laughing said, "Well, now I'm quite certain that we did."

Which, if you factor in that he now was living seven states from there

Meant that a random coincidence of geography was afoot 

The chances of such a meeting had to be a phenomenal stat

The woman stared at him and realised he was being serious

As he stared right back with almost irrational intensity

Trying to remember a time he had spent years working to forget

Which made his efforts an exercise in futility 

"I must apologise," He said with courteous grace

"For I cannot rightly recall you or your name at this moment"

The space between them seemed to widen a little

And she spoke an apology with a hint of sadness

"My mistake, I thought I recognized your face"

After slight mutual hesitation they both resumed

Their walking in opposite directions on the same path

Both leaving the presence of the other with the same thought

That sometimes it's best not to revisit an old wound

                               

The Hardships Of The Laboring Classes

Quitting Is For Winners

    I saw a decal on a car bumper the other day that stated "Quitting Is For Winners" and due to the fact I was driving along behind said car on a fairly hazardous road, I was not able to get a picture.

   I was able to get a picture of the road I was on (see above) because I quit driving, put the vehicle in park, and got out to take a picture, even though the car that was sporting the decal had long since driven out of eyesight.

   The picture I did take is fairly nice, what I would call a "winner," so yeah, in certain circumstances, quitting is definitely for winners.

   Which I believe I have seen elaborated upon on signs somewhere - signs that say "If you find yourself stuck in a deep hole, quit digging," and "If your job requires you to lie, quit now." and so on.

   Now that I've been thinking about it for a long minute, several other examples of when quitting is the best way to be a winner have sprung to mind, such as when you are reading a dull book with a lousy plot and no character development - just skip to the last few pages, find out how it ends, and then go out and find a better book to read.

   Same advice applies to bad television shows and movies. Your time is pretty damn valuable, don't give it over to undeserving tripe.

   Heck, if this little diatrible I'm putting together is boring you, quit reading it. Respect yourself and use your time, resources, and energy for whatever you find fulfilling or at least interesting. 

   Hmmm...that is advice I should heed myself. I'm outta here, maybe I'll change my front brake pads or some such more important (and productive) chore.

   

The Lure Of The Thrill Of The Stage

   He said his biggest thrill in life had been the two years he spent trying to break into comedy, which took all of us by surprise. 

   We had been sitting at the small table in the bar located across the street from the restaurant which had become our usual Sunday evening gathering spot, and the question of the night was "What is the biggest thrill you have ever experienced?"

   All of us had answered with a singular event - sky-diving, solo sailing between several Hawaiian islands, climbing Mt Elbert, the birth of a first child, going on a dive bomb run in a fighter jet, and becoming a published writer. 

   TCR was the one who answered with trying to break into comedy. Most of us had known TCR for at least the past decade, and none of us had ever known about his foray into comedy.

   So he pretty much had our collective undivided attention as he elaborated on his biggest thrill.

   He started off by explaining that it was at a time in his life when he didn't have much going on - he had dropped out of college for the third time (all three attempts at a higher education had been at different colleges), was living by himself in a studio apartment, and hated his job as a shuttle bus driver at a large amusement park.

   Pursuing comedy as a career was, he said, something he had thought about since his high school days, when he had dated a girl who was way out of his league but had told him she went out with him because he was funny.

  So five years after that one girl had made that comment to him he finally found the courage to get up on stage at a local comedy club's open mic night and spout off a few jokes and wisecracks.

   He told us that the first experience was fairly innocuous, but he did get a few laughs, and most importantly, he wasn't booed off the stage.

   Furthermore, he said he met another comedian that night who asked him how much time he had spent preparing his material, and when he told that fellow comedian that he hadn't spent any time preparing his material, that he had just got up on the stage and winged it, the guy nearly fell out of his chair.

   That fellow comedian recommended that he stop winging it and start preparing at least 15 minutes of material that he could recall without thinking, as the well runs dry pretty quickly when you rely on the sporadic funny bits you can come up with on the fly.

  Realising the truth he was being told, he said he then started writing down everything and anything he could remember saying or experiencing that was even remotely funny, and that he would spend hours putting it all into a cohesive routine he could readily recall.

  He elaborated that, as it was in the time when television was limited to three, maybe four channels, and you watched whatever the channel masters wanted you to watch, his only exposure to practicing comedians was limited to whoever Johnny Carson or Tom Snyder was giving a few minutes to, or to occasional visits to Comedy clubs when it was open mic night or when he could snag an opening slot or get comped a seat.

   Saturday Night Live was a show he watched religiously, along with a few other variety shows of the day such as the Carol Burnett show and Shields & Yarnell.

   Albums, he said, was where he was able to hear the great comedians - he told us of the hours he spent scouring flea markets and garage sales for old albums by Comics such as Newhart, Bishop, Pryor, Wilson, Diller, the Smothers Brothers, Rickles, Cosby, Bruce, Rivers, Foxx, Youngman, Warren - even the Firesign Theater gang.

   Those albums, he claimed, were his textbooks for comedy school.

   With somewhat of a wistful look he told us that It took him a few months of listening and repeating and showing up at open mic nights to practice performing until he felt confident enough to take his act on the road and see if what he had would play in Peoria, and so he did,

   For almost two full years he said he traveled around the country, living out of his car or staying in cheap motels, working as an opener or a middle/second act to earn $25 to $40 a night, and sometimes as much as $100 to $200 if he got on a long weekend bill - which would be Thursday through Sunday and usually require 7 or 8 thirty minute routines.

   He paused his story for a few long seconds after that revelation, then continued by saying that, after nearly two full years of non-stop travel and performing, he was not only broke and worn-out, but he had an epiphany.

   And that was, he almost looked ashamed to admit, that not only did he not have the stage presence or charm that most of his contemporaries had, he was also not anywhere near as funny as any of them.

   At that point a few of us looked at him with expressions of disbelief regarding what he had just related, and KAP, with her usual blunt (though not crass) manner, asked TCR if he had ever met up with anyone during those two years who actually made it.

   TCR nodded his head affirmatively and said he had shared the same stage as Barry Crimmins at a club in Boston that Crimmins owned, and an Irish comedian named Dave Allen who smoked like a chimney but was probably the funniest person he ever met - never got big in the states though (which was obvious, as none of us had ever heard of him).

   KAP followed up that question by asking if he had met anyone that they had actually ever heard of, and TCR nodded his head again and said that, while he did open for a few comics that either were big or got big, and listed Gilbert Godfrey along with Barry Sobel among them, he said he never got to actually hang out with any of them. 

   We all kinda nodded our heads after that in a mutual silent agreement that that was most likely because TCR wasn't now and probably wasn't then the most sociable person to be around - he was a fairly quiet guy and for him to claim that he once made a go out of being a comic...well, it's not that we didn't believe him, but we all were thinking it was quite the stretch.

   Finally, RBG asked TCR to tell us one of the jokes from his routine, and after a few seconds, TCR cleared his throat and said that he always got laughs with this one:

   "The other night I played poker with a few of my friends and it did not go very well for me. I had to go home and tell my wife to pack her bags because I'd lost her to Jimmy Keaton on the last hand of the night. As you might imagine my wife got a little angry and asked how I could possibly have lost her in a poker game - I told her it wasn't easy, I had to fold with a full house, Aces and Kings."

   No one at the table laughed, though DV smirked a little.

 

   

Never Stop Pulling The Weeds, Never Stop Tending The Garden

Pull the weeds, feed the flowers

Sound advice from the Gardener

That applies to all aspects of life

Pruning is not just for bushes and trees

It's also for eliminating all causes of strife

For when you fail to eliminate weeds

They grow and grow and grow

Until they take over the beautiful garden 

And turn your lawn into a golf hazard from hell

Think about this the next time you bargain

With a family member or even a friend

What weeds did you allow to take root

That are now the cause of such woe

The beautiful flowers you used to water and feed

Have now wilted from lack of attention so watch what you sow

Think of the relationships you've let wither away

Because you couldn't be bothered to stay in touch

Or were momentarily turned off by a perceived slight

And let the wound fester until it had gotten out of control

Pull the weeds, prune the flowers - before they blight

Eliminate the ones that bring nothing but trouble

And tend to ones that add joy to your life

Careful pruning makes the flowers bloom brighter 

Which carries over into magnification of the joy you receive

Opposed to the sorrow felt when brambles are allowed to grow wilder

Every time you step into the garden

But you have to make it happen through proper actions

You have to make the effort in order to get the results you want

And never relent, never give up

Persistence and perseverance are your entente

The simple, easy, everyday chores

Of pulling the weeds and pruning the flowers

Let your friends and family know you appreciate them

Be the ray of sunshine in their lives

It they give you grief or sadness think before you condemn

Search for the reasons that compel the unseemly actions

And tend to those reasons as fast as you can

Whether they are caused by factors outside your control 

Or they are caused by something you didn't or did

Make the necessary adjustments with all of your heart and soul

Without unnecessarily sacrificing your id

For you are valuable and you deserve respect and affection

But never, ever forget

That respect and affection are best when earned and not taken

And what you give is what you get

PayPa!: Scamarama Ding Dong

 

Received this text on my phone. If this is not an example of the worst attempt at a scam by text, it surely must be in the top ten.

The Not-Lunch Non-Date Meet-Up

She looked right past the magazine I was reading

And into my face

'said, "Whatcha reading?" like interrupting 

    Was a desirable social grace

I replied sarcastically but not smarmily 

"An article on the lack of propriety in the modern world."

She laughed at that and retorted 

"You're a funny lot, eh Mr. Penforasword?"

Setting aside the magazine I gave her a quick once over

 And smiling, replied with little hesitation

"Doing the best I can to further international relations."

She laughed again and sipped her drink

While her fingers twirled

   The silky brown hair that perfectly framed her features

       Like a dirty cop ignoring legal procedures

"Didjer once around with your eyes suit your fancy?"

        She said with syrup dripping from her lips

I raised my brows in affirmation and nodded to be certain

    "You know how to drape your frame." I said

    With a second appreciative glance 

 "A lost art these days, which makes life difficult for us art connoisseurs"

                       

"You're quick with the flattery kind sir

Not that there's anything I didn't mind hearing

Does make me think you are in the habit, though

Of casting about compliments as if baiting a hook

     At least you're not shmaltzy about it, which is somehow endearing."

"Name's Sidney," she then announced, "though I'm known as Dis.

        Which makes sense once you get to know me."

         "I'm Kirby," I replied,  "A name my mother anointed me with  

         As she was a big fan of the serial Sky King from the 1950s."

"Introductions out of the way, I suppose now we start the interrogations."

She stated that much like DC Reid would, in the later episodes

  But before she married DCI Holmes

"Shall we draw straws or paper, rock, scissors for first question privilege?"

I quipped, trying my best to banter as a Southern Scot might

  Carefully, like before the first seven or eight pints

                 

She looked at me directly, switching gears to serious mode

       And said, "I'll go first. 

       Are you married? Involved? Inquiring minds want to know.

Because I may be forward, I may be a flirt of sorts

 But I'm no homewrecker, and I hope you're not a jerk."

My quick laugh was sincere, and I hoped she understood it to be.

      "No,"  I said as firmly as I could, "I am not married or involved.

I am decidedly single, free of any cumbrance, save for a cat

        That's honest full disclosure, I'm not even a beard, got tired of playing that."

"Not even a beard? That's an interesting statement - never met a cis-het man who rolled

        For leading ladies that aren't interested in drinking at the tap

         Then again, cis-het women do, so I guess the opposite must be true

       In the spirit of your pronouncement of full disclosure then

             I don't judge any of my sisters for the choices or inclinations they profess           

But as for me, I don't shop or slop at the Gap"

    We looked at one another as if staring at rare animals in the wild

      For a second I could swear we both breathed sighs of relief

     The modern world has made it easier to meet people

    Websites abound so every variety of human walking the globe has access

    Takes all the work out of searching for that elusive clover with four leafs

   So we sat chatting and laughing and thinking

   The minutes turned to hours and our glasses became coffee cups

When the waiter came over with the bill I noted she was particular but not finicky

  And wondered which one of us would be the first to screw this up

Utah Morning, July 2026

 

Mounted Shooters Show At The Weld County Fair

   Know what's really cool about the Weld County Fair? It's free and fun for the entire family. Even the parking is free, which, in this day and age of monetized everything, is exceptional. 

   The fair is held at Island Grove regional park in Greeley, and it's well worth the drive. There is a lot going on now that the fair is in full swing and the midway is up and runnin'.

   On the first day of the fair there were not a lot of people in attendance, which was most likely due to the fact that not a lot was going on. There was the dog show, which I already covered, and there was the Mounted Shooters show, which featured men and women on horseback shooting at balloons on posts.

                      Ten post with ten balloons as targets...it's a speed and accuracy challenge 

   You read that right. Men and women on galloping horses, shooting guns, at balloons.

   It was kinda exciting to watch.

   Now, before anyone gets in a lather over the use of live rounds in an open air competition in which the public is invited to watch (which they sadly didn't, as can been seen in the pics), allow me to explain that the rounds used by the competitors are black powder blank .45 Long Colt shells with military crimped ends - these rounds generate enough gas and powder to break a target like an inflated balloon, but they wouldn't penetrate a T-shirt at six feet.

   Basically, Hollywood blanks, but without the Rust effects.

   Also, the balloons had it comin'.

   

Weld County Fair Dog Show (Ponies Later)

   I for one had never been to a dog show. Admittedly, I never much wanted to attend a dog show, but the opportunity to do so fell into my lap a few days ago, so I did.

   The dog show I attended was small - maybe 30 to 40 dogs were being shown, as best as I could ascertain. However, what the competition lacked in quantity in more than made up for with quality.

   All the dogs seemed to be bright and happy, as did the owners. Happy dogs preening and prancing were everywhere.

   The Weld County Fair Dog Show has been around since the 1970's, so there is no doubt of the enthusiasm and commitment of the participants.

It's More Than A House, It's Art

 

Lisa's Taste In Men

Lisa and the deliveryman sat transfixed by the television

True crime couldn't get much better than this

The deliveryman kept checking his watch but wouldn't leave his seat

His appetite for blood soaked stories with ludicrous twists

Knew no limits despite the deadlines he'd already missed

Lisa wondered to herself if the chief suspect in the crime

Was doing time and if so, where

Maybe he would be receptive to a penpal relationship or conjugal tryst

A girl could hope, a girl could dream, that such a man exists

The deliveryman finally broke away and said he had to go

So if she could text him later who was revealed to be the killer

He would be much appreciative and perhaps maybe next week

They could repeat the days reverie, he'd bring barley pops and chips

And be sure to schedule his lunch to coincide with a murder mystery

Lisa looked at the deliveryman and wondered if he was safe

Or a deviant, bad tempered monster waiting for his chance

To get his hands on her body and visciously tear off her dress

A girl could hope, a girl could dream, that such a man exists

 

A Hot July Wednesday Morning

The air seems to be full of magpies 

chattering like bingo players in a union hall

That coarse sandpaper sound

Wrinsh-wranch-wrinsh. Wrinsh-wranch-wrinsh. Wrinsh-wranch-wrinsh-wranch.

As if they bear the burden of awakening the world

And are bound and determined to do just that

Until we all dutifully arise 

Wrinsh-wranch-wrinsh

Chapter 27 of The Assassin From Malaga, A Cripes B. Expressionist Crime Noir Novel

    The minivan pulled up next to a nondescript mid '80s sedan that had a faded Atheists Against Abortion bumper sticker applied to the rear bumper. The decal was old and weathered and was probably put there 4 or 5 owners ago.

   From the passenger side of the van a man short for his weight opened the door and then gingerly stepped out onto the asphalt, as if he was dealing with Plantar Fasciitis or some such malady. 

   He walked gingerly toward a large roll-off dumpster where two men were standing next to a chair. In the chair sat a man who looked to be at least twenty years older than everyone else present in the lot at the rear of the large warehouse.

   The driver of the minivan, who looked to be the youngest of the group, followed his passenger, deliberately slowing his pace as to ensure he could not overtake him.

   The short, heavy-set man walked delicately up to the man seated in the chair. The man in the chair looked up as he approached but made no movements of his own, primarily because he had been secured to the chair with ropes that were wrapped around all of his limbs.

   The short, heavy-set man looked down at the older man in the chair and asked, "Have you decided to tell us what we want to know Mr. DeCamps? From the look of your face I would say Mr. Marcora and Mr. Uchida have certainly made it clear we will stop at nothing to get that information."

   The man bound to the chair closed his eyes momentarily before answering. "You can torture me all you want Kachmazov, there is is no way in hell I'm telling you anything."

   "Torture you, Mr. DeCamps? These two gentlemen have but administered a beating. That is not torture, let me assure you of that".

    The short heavy-set man turned toward the man who had driven him to the site. "Daniel, did you bring my case with you?"

    "Yes, Mr Kachmazov, here it is". The short, heavy-set man took the small black case that Daniel proffered and unzipped it along three sides, then flipped it open. Sitting in a pre-cut foam block lay a small handgun, a SIG Sauer P365 9mm. 

    Kachmazov picked up the gun, then turned his head to look back at the seated Mr. DeCamps. He cleared his throat after a few moments of silence and said. "Torture...is a filthy business Mr. DeCamps, it's despicable, really. Undignified for all involved - the tortured as well as the torturer."

   The seated man spit angrily onto the hot asphalt of the parking lot. "Screw you, do your worst. I'm not go...". The shot rang out before Mr. Decamps could finish his statement.

   The four men watched in silence as Mr. Decamps now-lifeless body slumped over in the chair.

   "Wow Catch, what the hell did you shoot him for? Mr. Pospisil is going to be pissed we didn't get the info." Mr. Uchida's expression as he spoke was more one of surprise than concern for the sudden passing of Mr DeCamps.

    "DeCamps wasn't going to talk - men of his generation never do, they are a different breed. It would be a waste of our time and energy to try to make him. Mr. Pospisil understands that. We need to grab a younger member of the Cabal, someone like Daniel here - his generation cracks if you breath heavy on 'em - no offense, Daniel.

   "No offense taken sir."

    "Good. Al, you and Zubie get DeCamps into the back of the van and take him to the crematorium. Jade will be there for at least another hour - she'll bake him and give you the ashes to take to Mr. Pospisil. Make sure you take him DeCamps wallet and all his jewelry too - Mr Pospisil is a stickler for that. Daniel and I will take the sedan, have to make a few more stops. We'll meet up with you at Pops place around 7:00, see if he has anything else for us to do tonight".

    Al handed Daniel the keys to the nondescript mid '80s sedan and took the keys to the minivan from him. Zubie quietly joined him and they both lifted the chair holding the deceased Mr. DeCamps and carried it over to the rear of the minivan. 

   Daniel walked over to the rear of the sedan and popped the trunk. Inside were two half gallon rectangular metal cans of mineral spirits. He walked over to the spot where Mr. DeCamps had been sitting with one of the cans, opened it and poured a small stream of the contents onto the asphalt where Mr DeCamps blood had pooled.  

   Kachmazov smiled as Daniel performed this task and thought to himself that he had taught the kid well - he watched patiently as the kid followed the trail of small blood drops to the back of the minivan and poured a little of the mineral spirits on each and everyone of them. 

The Echo of Passionate Joy off the Steep Canyon Walls of Impending Sorrow

                                    Doesn't get any better than this

                                         Doesn't get any better than this

                                         Doesn't get any better than this

                                         How could it get any better than this

                   And I can't take it anymore

                                        Can't understand why it should be this way

                                        Feelin' overrated and underappreciated

                                        In the same long drawn out minute

                                        By the same long drawn out people

                  Can't stop wishing for more

                                       Will it get any better than this

                                       Can it get any better than this

                                       Could it get any better than this 

                                       Should it get any better than this

                 Have to stop wishing for more

                                       Fingerprints all over the bedroom window

                                       From the one that was trying to get in 

                                       Or do they belong to the one trying to get out

                                       Too late for regrets maybe hope for absolution

                   But I can't take it anymore

                                       Does it get any better than this

                                       Does it get any better than this 

                                       Does it get any better than this 

                                       Why won't it get any better than this 

                  See If I can take it anymore

                                        Oh how I miss my peace of mind

                                       ¿Cómo perdí mi paz mental?

                                       L'ai-je jamais vraiment eu ?  

                                       Ar tas jausmas buvo tik melancholiškas sapnas

                   How can I take it anymore