wordomatic

Can you really judge a book by its cover?

2008-04-04T18:12:00.004-04:00

Whoever said you can't judge a book by its cover definitely missed these gems.

When Your Phone Doesn't Ring, It'll Be Me
If You Can't Live Without Me, Why Aren't You Dead Yet?!
Even God Is Single, So Stop Giving Me A Hard Time
Babies and Other Hazards of Sex: How to Make a Tiny Person in Only 9 Months, with Tools You Probably Have around the Home
English as a Second F*cking Language
Women Are from Venus, Men Are from Hell
Are Women Human? And Other International Dialogues
Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Human Intelligence but Were Too Dumb to Ask
The Joy of Sex: Pocket Edition
American Bottom Archaeology
Re-using Old Graves
The Joy of Chickens
Highlights in the History of Concrete
Greek Rural Postmen and Their Cancellation Numbers
The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories
People Who Don't Know They're Dead: How They Attach Themselves to Unsuspecting Bystanders and What to Do About It
The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification
High Performance Stiffened Structures
Living with Crazy Buttocks
How to Avoid Huge Ships
Oral Sadism and The Vegetarian Personality
The Theory of Lengthwise Rolling
How to Shit in the Woods
I Was Tortured By the Pygmy Love Queen
Cheese Problems Solved
How to Write A How To Write Book
People Who Mattered in Southend and Beyond: From King Canute to Dr Feelgood.
Drawing and Painting the Undead.
Squid Recruitment Dynamics
Glory Remembered: Wooden Headgear of Alaska Sea Hunters

The Passage for Clouds

2008-04-01T16:05:00.002-04:00

Not good today
clouds are talking
and they mean business
My soul is the conduit
the passage for clouds
a storm front, a cage
a silent scream
I am frightened, lost
alone
running circles
on the rat's wheel
spinning blindly
out of control

I dislike sharp angles
and irony after midnight
False smiles I do not trust
nor the colour of gun metal
and wide open spaces
I must be small
inconspicuous, hidden
within the fabric
of shadows

No time left, my thoughts
are trouble: a dark rage
I am not me today, only
misinterpretation, nothing
but self infliction
My blood flows backwards
in defiance, my heart turns
rebelliously black
I will not submit, I will not
succumb. I am the answer
I am the razor, I am
the wrist

Strip Joint John

2008-03-27T15:22:00.005-04:00

Ode to the piss and poetry
that litter these paint peeled walls.

The language of tile scum talking
its dirty dirt, and dark mysterious grout
gashing the straight slash
that underlines the scribbly smut.

The curly dark hairs like guitar-string
clippings laid out in hieroglyphic fashion
along with the black & brown bruises
that anguish an ancient bowl, and sink
the unsinkable sink.

The fracture of mirror, its vagueness
perpetuated by neglect, reflecting more
the filth it wears than the face it bares.

And the faucets, those tapity-tap taps
that dripity-drip drip with their barking
assault and marking of territory: Piss, rust,
weak & jaundice.

Let us bow to this delivery room,
this place of worship and redemption,
on our hands and knees; lets us pray
to the gods of acceptance and salvation,
and hold tightly the truth of our oneness
in this subterranean Hell.

For my friends, when all is said
and done (and often all is said & done)
we must stare down into that reflection
of loneliness and forfeit everything
we pretend to be true yet know to be false.

So together & alone lets grab
the crusted-black porcelain puppy
and rejoice in that familiar whirlpool; that big white
collection plate that’s seen every which way
this room can spin; that confession
booth with ears wide open
waiting for us to spill our guts.

‘Cause face it, boys & girls, in the end
we all could use a little forgiveness
from time to time, a little love
to keep us going is what I’m talking about.

Sing out loud, let your voice be heard, repeat
after me:

THIS IS THE REAL THING, MAN:
I AM HERE AND THIS IS NOW
AND ANYTHING OUTSIDE OF THIS
IS JUST WINDOW DRESSING FOR THAT.

Now say it twice…just in case.

And let me tell you, my friends, it matters, it all
matters, every bloody detail: this shitty poem
and the dirt under your fingernails;
the rotation of the earth & sun and the base beat
pounding from the dance floor above; and even
the stench of Boilermakers on your breath
and that damn cockroach
crawling up the inside of your pant leg.

Asamatteroffact, especially
that damn cockroach
crawling up the inside of your pant leg.

Newton's Law

2008-03-27T12:42:00.003-04:00

They quarantined gravity today.
Wrestled it to the ground
isolating it
within a sealed vacuum.

Big government secret
the report said, and warned that
the law of gravity will be amended,
and a new tax is to be expected,
as if we’d expect anything less.

I’m sure it’s no lie,
I read it in the Enquirer
(expiring minds and all)
right under the Hitler Cloned
article. And you know they tell
only the truest
of truths.

And no,
asamatteroffact,
it wasn’t my paper. Wouldn’t
catch one under my arm.
And I can say with all honesty
I’d have missed it completely
if it hadn’t floated by.

Thoughts from Inside My Mouth

2008-03-24T22:23:00.006-04:00

They’s changing things in my mouth
and charging me a bunch for the privilege
Not sure what really They poke and stick me
here and there good Charge extra for the xrays

I got no money Used to have a bunch
to throw at my friends
booze, drugs, partys every night,
but it’s all gone now, history

Mister Jackass say I been late
too many days Say he got no jobs
that start at 9:30 am, only 8:00 am
Say he better start seeing
some changes.

You’re fucking lucky I make it by 9:30
I told him that on the phone
when I quit

Don’t mind being poor though Except
the dentist he don’t care about it none
Only worry to him is whether I got enough
to help keep his kids in private school
and his wife in Andrew Lloyd Webber tickets

Can’t say I’d think any different
if I was him

But I’m not and I don’t

Sometimes the facts of life
aren’t nearly as poetic as they should be

Joey’s coming over, he cashed in
some empties

Pool Hall opens in 20 minutes

There's one last pint in the fridge
think I’ll drink it

Living the High LIfe

2008-03-24T22:14:00.004-04:00

MILK
BREAD
EGGS
SWANSON’S HUNGRY-MAN DINNER X 5
JACK DANIELS
U.S. STAMPS
KRAFT DINNER X 5
KETCHUP
CARTON OF PLAYERS
PICKLED BEETS
CHEDDAR CHEESE
PRUNES
CAPTAIN CRUNCH
.45 CALIBER AMMO
HUGGY’S DIAPERS
COORS LITE X 6
EXLAX
TOILET PAPER
PLAYBOY
OREO COOKIES
FOOT POWDER
POTATOES

Cracked

2008-03-24T21:56:00.003-04:00

tuesday 1:15pm @ the coffee time
queen & broadview
welfare cheque in hand
planning some
short-term future:

too-for of X port
26er of JD
dime-bag of crack from a guy named Elvis Star
& a peperony pizza (double cheeze) for tomorrow afternoons breakfast

theres 24 hours worth so far

lifes not hard
but ya gotta plan ahead

Conundrum

2008-03-24T21:48:00.004-04:00

I Love you

I Hate you

I Hate
loving you
I Love
hating you

I love
Loving you
and
hate Hating you

I would kill you
if I could

I would jump
in front of my own bullet
with no hesitation whatsoever
to save you
(PERIOD)

In The Wee Hours at the End of the World

2008-03-24T21:41:00.005-04:00

It’s all over now. Smashing our way
through the dead wood of this thick, old forest,
thick with destruction and mistruth. Each lie ticking away
with the perpetuity of an antiquated timepiece,
filling the silence between us for its own sake.
All gone and over and thank you very much.

Goodbye we say to all those things we never
managed to be. All those tricks that flattened out
the rough edges of truth we’d pretend not to notice.
All those happy little endings and expectations
dressed in white but false and empty.

I now wonder aloud, drunk with vodka
in the wee hours at the end of the world,
drunk with the clarity of loneliness and acceptance:
Who the fuck did we think we were fooling?
What right did we ever have to believe…

One thing’s for sure: No one ever said it would be easy.
And, as if it our ultimate excuse, that’s exactly
what we’ll tell everyone else. They were bloody well right,
is what we’ll say just as if it were true.

And when I look back on it, it becomes apparent
that for only the briefest moment between when the words
actually left your mouth and reached my ears, that
nanosecond of floating expectation when anything
can be anything, did I ever really believe you.

Don't Be So...

2008-03-20T17:19:00.004-04:00

Don’t be so… she started,
then lost her way,
to random thoughts.

And upon returning
found him gone
as if those three words
were enough.

The Party

2008-03-20T16:38:00.003-04:00

I’m no poet, he said,
only a scribbler. Not
an artist, nor a writer.
Nothing you want me to be.

More than a little disturbed,
she said (while turning away)
I thought you were...
someone else.

And he said, So did I.

G.I. Joe

2008-03-20T16:30:00.003-04:00

GI Joe’s a stand up guy,
with eyes of steel,
and a kungfu grip.
Won’t catch him
on Oprah or Geraldo
whining about
his nazi neighbors,
or his
homo’ brother.

No siree,
not me, he’d say;
too busy with dirt,
& tanks, & guns;
too busy
bringing up your kids right,
so they know how to
fight, and die.
No one likes a kid
who doesn’t die good.

And as for Barbie?
Well Ken can have her.
GI Joe
don’t need her trouble,
but if he did,
then look out Ken,
cause GI Joe
could snap your fucking neck
with his kungfu grip,
you flake!

Trucks With Rocks

2008-03-20T16:23:00.006-04:00

It’s simply a situation,
is what it is. I just don’t know
what to make of it. I mean, who cares
about big trucks with rocks anyway?
You know the ones.

I’ve sat here for three days, waiting:
drinking coffee & coughing, and counting
cars passing, yet still the big trucks
with rocks don’t pass by.

Maybe, just maybe, the stone cutter’s
sick and the graveyard’s full, or no one’s died
and they don’t need rocks. And if that’s
not it, then maybe someone’s
flattened their tire?
I don’t care.

Visiting Hours

2008-03-20T16:20:00.003-04:00

The haunting echo of hallway voices
suggest Sunday company as Mr. Hampton
strains a reach for his walker.

Unfamiliar faces pass his door with
no more than a glance: an open invitation
not to bother.

Difficult Peas

2008-03-20T16:15:00.004-04:00

Her hands on heavy hips, she straightens
her apron and watches, knowingly,
as Mr. Hampton tries to catch a pea
with a shaky fork.

From the pea to her face he looks,
feels the flush liven dead cheeks,
and remembers every single weight
he’s ever had to lift.

She Hasn't Gone Far

2008-03-20T16:08:00.003-04:00

It’s really okay.
She hasn’t gone far
Only another town
a little north of this one

Not far at all, just
another place
to go. I think
it will be good for her

I’m doodling small circles, like distant clouds on the cover of my notebook as these thoughts bubble to the surface

Been there myself once
Cold winters there, that
I remember well
even though I was only there
one late-autumn afternoon

It was long ago, before
I even knew she existed,

before where she went
ever mattered
to where I wanted to be

Not that
I’m admitting anything

It’s really okay. She hasn’t gone far

I’m writing that
on my notebook cover now,
instead of circles, distant clouds,
as if to convince someone
it’s really okay

She hasn’t gone far

Peter's Mindful

2008-03-20T16:03:00.003-04:00

Peter’s a schizophrenic,
but the doctors drain those voices
right out of his head
with the tip of a needle.

Lately he’s been listening
between stations
to a six-dollar transistor radio,
scribbling notes to himself,
while the four bare walls
of his room
gather together in anticipation.

Sometimes, when pressed for answers
with the threat of needles and padded bindings,
Peter crinkles up like a late-autumn leaf,
and, with a voice hardly his own, says:
“I just wanna go home.”

Back There

2008-03-20T15:58:00.005-04:00

They’s killin’ babies back there.
I can hear’em plain as day
but no one’s noticin’
and I guess I best don’t neither.

Then I’m next in the coffee shop line
last outta the rain, with no more
than a cuppa coffee
and a smoke on my mind.

Been walkin’ three days straight
those voices dead and damned
not far behind, not far at all.

They ain’t dyin’ for nuttin’
no matter what I’m aspose to believe.
And I ain’t the one’s killin’em either
not me, no way siree. Keepin’ m’nose clean
mindin’ my own like the doctors say to.

Just can’t get’em out, is all.
“Get Out!” I’m tellin’em but they won’t
let me alone. Those poor kids screamin’
screamin’ like there’s no t’morrow.

And me, my mouth full of horrors
just itchin’ to be let out, set free.
One endless blood-curtlin’ cry
‘til my lungs collapse into themselves.

No easy answers, say the doctors
in their glass-tower offices
with their pressed suits and pressed hair.
It all takes time, they say. It all
takes time.

And I think, “But what about those kids
what about them?”

Then I wonder, “Maybe they know sumtin’
maybe there’s more!”

Outside, a streetcar all red
and screechin’ iron passes.

I look up into each window, my hands
graspin’ the cold formica countertop

and in their reflections
I see a bloated, angry sky
watchin’

Just Another Day

2008-03-20T15:53:00.003-04:00

I found a foot today

Walking down Parliament Street
on the cracked dirty sidewalk
with the sun low and in the right sky
peeking out from between low buildings
in various states of dilapidation
with cars passing
and people in them looking

There it was waiting
just left of the right streetcar track
about twenty feet up from Carlton Street
laying around in the late afternoon sun
on its side with vehicles speeding around it
obliviously heading to other locations

But I wasn’t making any excuses for it
It was there and I was there
and there was no denying that
With a trot out and a dart back
I now had the foot in hand

Not much of one really
less than I would have expected
if this story were told to me
in a cloud of cigarette haze, lie, and laughter
But no lies here just me and foot
as true as day as real as life

Took it home what else could I do
Plus the more I looked at it
the more I began to question
the familiarity of the thing
like maybe this isn’t my first foot

It’s common knowledge
once a foot’s on its own
it’s okay to call it a thing

Pulled it out of the size 10 ½ sneaker
and put it in my Fridgidaire to keep it fresh
I then taped the appropriate note to the shoe
and left it in the skinny hallway
outside my apartment door
just in case the owner happened by

I’m waiting till Friday (two days)
then it goes with the garbage
I market on Saturday
and don’t have the room for it
That’s just how it is
Sometimes things like this happen

She Doesn't Like Goodbye

2008-03-19T21:51:00.000-04:00

She doesn’t like goodbye.
Scared to death of it she is.
Don’t ask why, she’s not talking.
Won’t even admit
to knowing the word.

Instead, she wants something…
Less permanent.
Something palatable
she can still hang on to, or bite in to,
like: so long, or see you, or call me,
but not tomorrow or for a while.

When I was a boy, my dog got hit good.
I carried him with tears up my driveway
and around back of my father’s woodshed.
Laid him down, his busted head disturbing the untouched snow.
With blood and accusation he whined: What did I do?
One eye watched, one ear bled, one paw scratched.
But I closed that eye with a single shot from my father’s .22,
didn’t even think twice.
Dog knew it was coming and so did I
didn’t need goodbye to tell us that.

I waited up for her, watching with my ears
for her crunching tires eating up the driveway snow.
Made her tea past midnight, waiting for her to repeat
what Neil Young had whispered earlier
with the soft melody of an acoustic guitar.

Asked me to write her a poem called I Don’t Know.
She always says “I don’t know” when she lies,
gives her away every time.
Said I would and tried, but discovered “I don’t know”
was poem enough.

Once, when I was no longer a boy yet still not a man,
I fell in love with a girl who fell in bed with a friend.
It was late and cold and through fogged windows
I could hardly see their heads mashing in the back seat.
I didn’t have my fathers woodshed, or his .22,
but I did know how my dog must have felt,
all broken and betrayed in the February snow.
The door swung wide, her bare breast cupped in his hand,
the stereo competing with the heater,
and I knew what was coming.
Her eyes caught mine with a lie too big for their sockets,
and mine stared back with teardrops full of truth
didn’t need goodbye to tell us that.

Talking, talking, and some tears too.
Hate when she cries, love when she laughs.
Always had a way to make her laugh – not anymore though.
Put my heart into us, took a chance,
but she never did get it.

Wrote a poem, gave it to her. No good-byes in it,
only big dreams, always big dreams – used “Love” twice.
She folded it neatly and forgot to take it.
I hugged her gently and forgot why she was here.

Snowy Sunday Coffee Dog

2008-03-19T12:17:00.001-04:00

It’s early Sunday morning. The air is frigid, almost brittle; it plays in the lungs like broken shards of glass. The sky is a sharp, cobalt blue – cold and relentless.

I’m sitting at a small table in a quiet café with walls the colour of old brick and a ceiling dressed with stamped tin panels. On the table in front of me rests a coffee cup with the café’s logo on the side, half-full with murky coffee, and a tarnished teaspoon with a drop of coffee pooled in its shallow palm. A gust of wind kicks powdery snow at the café’s large picture window.

Behind the sleek, narrow counter a “twenty-something” brunette with warm eyes and an athletic body is fussing over fancy coffees for her customers. Sturdy looking muffins are lined up proudly in tight rows, shoulder to shoulder, occupying the display case under the cash register. She’s a distraction, the brunette with the athletic body, but she’s too young or I’m too old, something like that.

An older lady with a long wool coat comes in and orders a cappuccino to go. In her gloved hand a leash tethers a scraggily mutt. The mutt and I meet eyes, and for a moment I honestly believe he understands my lust for the girl behind the counter. If he could talk, surely he’d say, “Don’t go there, Man, don’t even wish for it.”

I look at the ragged leather leash – just short enough to dull any dog’s life – and ponder his name; not that he cares as long as it means food. He lumbers around and watches the counter, or maybe his master, it’s hard to say which. His skinny black tail swats the air with nervous energy, lots of things still unexplored out there.

The brunette is making change for the lady with the wool coat. I stare out the window and sip my coffee slowly. A loose tendril of steams gropes blindly over the edge of my cup. Another gust of wind rattles the tall windowpane at the front of the café. The mutt sticks his head between his master’s legs, between the folds of her wool coat. She does nothing to stop him.

The lady leaves with the mutt close behind – the leash taut like a tightrope between them. The mutt’s scrawny arse waggles out the door, his tail still batting at the possibilities. A rush of cold air swoops through the café like an unseen ghost, its shivery fingers wisp against my spine. Outside, cars and big trucks grumble back and forth, churning up clouds of loose snow in their wake.

On the other side of the counter that separates my world from hers, the brunette slides in a filter to brew another pot.

A radio in the back is playing Lou Reed.

The mutt is barking out front. The large window muffles his voice.

I begin to write this down in a tattered notebook I carry around. “It’s early Sunday morning,” is the first line I write.

Remembering Mom

2008-03-19T12:06:00.001-04:00

Last Friday (December 1^st - 2007) was my Mom’s birthday. She would have turned 72 years old, had she lived to see it. She passed away in July 2004 peacefully in the night in her own bed. That’s just how she wanted to go. That’s how she deserved to go. Her adult life was marred with illness and suffering, and we all hoped and prayed her final days would not be spent wasting away in a hospital room. After the life she endured, that was the least God could do for her.

I was very close to her, being an only child and all. She had a heart of gold and loved me dearly. She was kind and always wanted the best for me. She probably mothered me too much, but I didn’t care. She was always there for me during my tumultuous school years as a bullied, acutely shy kid.

When I moved out at 18 and started my own life as an adult, the three of us grew apart. I had a life to live and I wasn’t great at finding time for my family. They understood this and gave me my space. They knew I needed to find my own wings.

My Mom lost both her legs to poor circulation in 1987 and was confined in a wheelchair. She also suffered from heart and kidney problems. I was coming on 30 years old at the time and began to rekindle the close relationship I once had with my Mom and Dad. I guess on a subconscious level I worried she might not be around too much longer, and I knew she needed me to be there for her, for them. I would talk to my Mom on the phone every couple of days, meet them at the mall for coffee at least once a week, and drop in for Sunday dinner regularly. We once again became a tight knit family. We remained close right up to the day she passed away.

My father was amazing. He took total care of her. He’d been a bit of a drinker before she lost her legs, but afterward, he quit drinking and smoking, cold turkey, and never looked back. He knew she needed him more than ever and he had no intention of letting her down. And he didn’t. To me, he is the world's biggest hero. When my father passes on, I have no doubt there will be a place waiting for him in the highest levels of heaven.

The day my Mom died, my Dad had gone out for his morning walk and upon returning discovered she had not risen yet to start her day. His heart sank. He knew. It wasn’t a surprise, considering she’d been ill for quite some time. She’d had a stroke a year earlier and had never fully recovered. They both knew her days were numbered.

I had just gotten in from a job site—a basement renovation project in the beaches (I was a home improvement contractor at the time)—and was beginning my day at my desk when my phone rang. It was my Dad. As he never phones me in the morning like that, I knew immediately why he was calling. I dropped everything and rushed up to their apartment.

My mother was still in her bed. A policeman was sitting with my Dad at the kitchen table having a coffee. A kind man, he was. He seemed to know instinctively how to act and what to say to help my Dad and I get through this catastrophic event. I looked in on my Mom and then joined them in the kitchen, waiting for the coroner. The following week was a blur, really. Arrangements were made, meetings with the funeral home, family coming in from out of town, it was crazy. But somehow we got through it. Right before the funeral, I placed the urn with my cat's ashes into the coffin with my Mom. She loved my cat as much as I did and I know she would have wanted it that way.

My one regret is that the evening before she passed on, I was doing some housecleaning and during a break was thinking about phoning her for a quick chat. But since we’d planned to meet for a coffee at the mall the next day, I figured it could wait. Should have called. That will always pull at my heart.

At the time, I wasn’t nearly as close to my Dad. We never seemed to have anything to talk about when it was just he and I. Our relationship revolved around my mother. She was our anchor. Now that she was gone, we knew things were going to change. It’s been 2 ½ years since she passed, and we are closer than we’ve ever been. We meet once or twice a week for coffee, just like we did when Mom was alive, and we do Sunday dinner here and there; we’ve even traveled together to visit other family members out of town. I know my Mom would be thrilled to see how well we've worked things out between us.

See the photo? That’s my Mom and Dad in the early fall of 1961. I’m in the baby carriage, only a couple of months old. The photo was taken on Dunn Ave. in the west end of Toronto. My proud new parents were both 27 years old at the time.

That photo sits in a frame on the mantle over my fireplace. The other evening I was thinking about my Mom, missing her on her birthday, and I went and looked at the photo. It’s funny how photographs isolate forever these little moments in time. With the click of a shutter an image is captured, but we never know what sort of power or impact that imagine will hold in history. I don’t know who was holding the camera—I think it was Mrs Pallet, she was my parent’s landlady at the time—but I’m sure none of them ever imagined that that photo would still be around 45 years later, taking its place on the mantel as a sentimental reminder of my wonderful mother and how fortunate I was to be born into their family.

Happy birthday, Mom, I miss you and I’ll never forget you.

Contact Me

2008-03-19T11:09:00.000-04:00

Got a comment or question? Feel free to drop me a line.

email.dbot (at) gmail (dot) com

No spam, please.

About Me

2008-03-19T10:31:00.007-04:00

This is where some might write a long rambling description of themselves, listing everything from how they felt about the first time they shit their diapers to why one political party is better than another. I could do that, but instead I think a short point-form list is a better fit here.

Recently turned the page on my midlife crisis, but still suffering from post traumatic stress over it.
I'm very shy, especially with women.
I recently had a really bad time with social anxiety disorder, but seem to have it somewhat under control now.
I'm about midway through my 40s, but often feel as lost as the freckled-faced teenager in that weepy after-school special.
Too organized for my own good. I have a love/hate relationship with structure in my life.
I own a laundry hamper and I'm not afraid to use it.
I would never tell a child there is no Santa.
I love Lobster but could never drop one in a boiler pot.
I'm not much of a drinker.
Don't smoke cigarettes or drugs.
Love to read and write.
Junk food addict.
Collect rare and antiquated first edition books.
Careers included: Residential renovations contractor; building consultant; magazine editor; home energy auditor.
Where some are married to their work, I am married to my free time, and she's a jealous bitch who doesn't like me cheating.
I like to be right, but will accept when I'm wrong.
I can be stubborn, but also fair.
Own a lovely home in east Toronto, where I live alone.
Never married, never going to be.
Disappointed my life never amounted to much.

That's about the gist of it. I will entertain questions if you have any, but reserve the right to be evasive and dishonest as I see fit.

You Must Be This High To Ride

2008-03-18T22:44:00.000-04:00

So what's this blog all about? Simply put, I need a venue to write.

I tend to be a lazy writer. My head is filled with ideas, but I never seem to find the time to put them to page. Maybe if I had a blog, I'd be inclined to write more, I figured. And with that thought, this site was born.

I like to write poetry, but haven't done so in a long time. I'm hoping to start doing it again. I also want to write short stories. I can be political too and will likely have stuff to say about politics and current affairs. You may or may not agree with my views, but that's okay. I respect other viewpoints and encourage debate.

So that's about it. To begin with, I'm going to populate my blog with some of my writing from the past. Hope you enjoy it. Please drop by again. Don't forget to visit the gift shop on your way out.