unfinished kiss

a squeeze of the hand
a soft hug
our bodies gentley caressing
our senses as one
her tender lips
looked up to mine
we touched
we kissed
she tasted so sweet
she held me tight
nuzzled my ear
and said so sweet
your kiss is soft and tender
and tastes so good
words needed\to restore
a wounded manhood

if only
i had tasted
those sweet lips more often
if only...if only...if only
word spoken in regret
words that cannot restore
a lonely man...a lonely soul...a lonely heart
if only
i had...i could
if only
she would
remember that tender kiss
given so long ago


a midnight dream

my self
 sometimes is found
in the depths
a midnight dream
swirls above me
in the twilight
my darkness
comforts me
in a mass
drowsy energy
challenges me
awake from my own
enforced denial
screams at me
 to take the path
I really desire
quitely whispers
my mind
not be
softly nuzzles
be brave
 not fear defeat

 calls to me
as i wake

only fools are
afraid of failure

yells at

my mind
turns back on

failure there is

i rise
my foggy mind

says to me

know there
was a midnight

just went by

cannot remember


nor do i


weird in retrospect

On my Old Grizz blog I responded to the "weird" prompt in "Sunday Scriblings" with the following entry:

"Junsend ocrav ortool

Mithrst inisano Scangsio
glyri collisan aphteted
mizan ourristu aphotet
gontl ingpro"

This is an old Grizzly Bear incantation recited just before eating an incompetant hunter
or before posting a comment on someone's blog

The words from the incantation were taken from "word verification" .  I have always thought these "words" were not and are not "words" and it is weird that they they are called words.  If they are words then my incantation would make some sense and the blogging world would not think my post "weird". I am not too sure if anyone reading the post realized where I was coming from.  Oh well, I guess I am weird for even going in that direction.


grandpa grunt

One of the God-Awful things about getting older is the dreaded Colonoscopy or as I call it, the "up-your-butt-a-recto my". You guessed it, my time has come and gone but I got another clean bill of health.

However when I go through those exams I always remember my grandpa. Grandma called him "Grandpa Grunt". He came by the nickname naturally enough by spending hours on the pot grunting.

In his later years, his whole life was eating, preparing to poop and then grunting for hours until he did.

In fact he made so much noise that grandma made him build an outhouse in the forest behind their house. Because he was ornery he only built the bench and he put it where grandma could see him from the kitchen window. She could barely hear him but when she looked out the window there he was in all his glory setting on the bench with both hands and both feet pushing down as hard as he could to give him leverage to complete his mission. In those days they did not know about Diverticulitis or as I like to call it "Diver-balloon-i-osis". Little balloons are formed in the intestine walls from pushing extra hard to create a bowel movement. Grandpa had never been told that he could cause this problem so he continued to eat and push. I believe he pushed so hard for so long that he created balloons in his stomach big enough to cause him to levitate. That's right, he would levitate. He would be grunting and pushing there on his bench and all of the sudden he would rise up into the air and then he would settle back down on the bench to complete his mission. I think he was to embarrassed to tell anyone about it but grandma would see him go up and say, “Grandpa has to stand half way up to complete his duty" She thought his feet were still on the ground but they weren't, he was levitating. It was obvious that some combination of the food he was eating created gases. The balloon pockets got big enough to hold enough gas to make him rise or as I said, he would levitate.

On the day after the Thanksgiving of 19 and 26 grandpa was having more trouble than usual and his grunts became actual screams. He was pushing so hard and creating so much gas that he began to levitate but this time he didn't come back down. He just kept going up. A half naked man levitated into the air and disappeared over the horizon. We never saw grandpa again. No one knows where he ended up or what happened to him. Grandma heard his screams and looked out the window just in time to see him disappear over the horizon. She believed the Angels came and took him away. I believe he rose so high that the balloons in his stomach exploded and he became fertilizer for some farmer’s field. However, that is just my theory.


to be or not to be.........honest

Several weeks ago I was in an accident on the freeway.  It was not a serious accident, only a minor fender bender.  I was the last in line of a 3 car rear-ender.  The damage to my truck was minor but the repair estimate was $500.00.  Not a great amount but an amount no one wants to cough up for something they did not cause.  My insurance said that since the damage was less than my deductable I would have to pay.  I said someone hit me.  I did not hit them.  Well, the response was, you will have to go after the other insurance company.  My big mistake was that I was honest.  Was anyone hurt they ask?  I said no, it was just a minor poke in the butt.  Had I been dishonest and complained about a sore neck I may have been able to collect enough to pay for my truck repairs.  Good old honest Grizz may have to pay his own repairs.
This week our writing instructor informed us that our class has been canceled.....again.  It had already been canceled by the school because we didn't have the requird amount of students in the class.  The instructor offered to continue the class and the members could donate a little money if they wanted to.  It was in no way mandatory.  We agreed to pay $5.00 a week so the instructor would not lose any money.  This worked out fine until the school admin said it was illegal and that our instructor could not continue the class.  This story also goes back to the issue of honesty.  At the beginning of the class we knew we were short of students and it was suggested we enroll our spouses, neighbors or anyone else we could get to put on the records.  The class was free, so we would not be cheating the school out of money but the instructor said no because it wasn't honest.  We were honest and the class was canceled and the instructor was not allowed to continue per an agreement with her students.
Two instances of honesty resulted in a loss of money and a writing class.  Should we or I have cheated?  Does our society encourage cheating?  I say no to the first question.  Some times I feel as if my honesty is the only thing I have.  The loss of the money won't break me and I will enroll in another writing class next semester.  What the hey, I always have blogging.
However, I do believe that our society does encourage cheating, expecially on insurance matters.  It seems most people believe that if they don't cheat they won't get a fair deal.  They may be right.  I do not know.  I do know that how I feel about myself is more important that money or a writing class.


the military & maj. hasan

As I watch the news about the Ft Hood Shootings I wonder who & what the reporters are.  I know the news "faces" only read the news.  They have to get their information from researchers or grunt reporters.

How could he have been promoted?  Doesn't anyone check these people out?  The answers are really simple.

First, we are afraid to question anyone of the Muslim religion.  Why?  Political correctness is my guess.  This fact can be verified by Obama appointing two Muslims to Homeland Security Posts.  The announcement states that they are devout Muslims.  That seems strange to me since we never never see an appointment of a Christian or  a Jew saying they are devout in their religion.

Second, in the Military, you get rid of people by promoting them.  All military slots are determined by rank.  If the commander doesn't like someone and that someone has not committed an offense to be demoted then you promote him and send him off for someone else to deal with.

Anyone with half a brain could see Hasan was trouble.  But how to deal with that trouble.  No one is allowed to question a Muslim.  His religion is above reproach.  God forbid (my God, not Allah) anyone  to question the "American Muslims".  That would be " sacriMusligious".  So Major Hasan gets promoted and transfered.  Problem solved.  His new base Commander would have no idea how big of a problem Major Hasan could be.

Everywhere Major Hasan served, his fellow officers knew he was trouble coming.  This fact will be verified in a soon to be released article base on interviews with people who knew him.

What if anything can be done?  How much trouble are in?  Only Allah knows.  Obviously our Politicians, our reporters and our Military do not seem to know.


the rat is the banker

My previous post, "the rat & the squirrel",  was based on a true happening in my back yard.
The Hawk grabbed the Squirrel and the Rat lived happily ever after.  I ended by saying the Rat must have been a banker.

Jeeves and Lion Chiller both wondered "why a Banker"?

I saw this event as a small scenario depicting politics and the Banking World.  The squirrel, (the tax payers) has been gobbled up by the Hawk (our government) and the Banker (the Rat) goes his merry way with our money  and does not consider the plight of the Squirrel (the tax payers).

A really long stretch but that is what I thought when I wrote the blog.  In fact I still do.

Also, I hear they are going to come back for more.

See how much can be learned by observing your back yard


the rat and the squirrel

The morning was cool with the sun just breaking through the morning marine layer. A strange occurance was taking place on the power wires running behind the house.  A squirrel going east and a rat going west on the same wire. I was drinking my morning coffee and watching the event on the wire.  Whicn animal would prevail, the squirrel or the rat. When they were with in 4 of 5 feet they stopped and stared at each other.  Would they fight or would they both turn and go their separate ways? Would one give in and back away?  If so, which one?

Then there was a hawk soaring above.  Would they see it?  Would it attack?  Which was breakfast?  The squirrel?   The rat?  They were oblivious of the Hawk.  I was hoping the rat would be the main course but that was not to be.  The Hawk swooped, grabbed the squirrel and was gone.  The rat continued along the wire as if nothing had happened.

He must have been a banker.


reversing decisions

In my Journaling class the the assignment is to write about a decision I have made that I would reverse if I could.

This is my story

Reversing a decision that I have made could result in very serious consequences to not only my life but probably the entire world.

You may think that I have over stated my premous and you may be right. In fact the odds are that you are right. But who can say or even know what chain of events happened because of actions they have taken. It is my belief that because of something I did or a decision I made the world is a better place. I have no idea in what way the world is better but I have to believe it is better. So if I selfishly decide to reverse a decision I made in hopes that it will make my life better, I may change the world and make it worse for you. Therefore I opt not to reverse any decisions I have previously made. I make this decision in order to help my fellow writers.

However I reserve all future rights to reverse the decision not to reverse any decisions that I have made.


the good, the bad and the ugly

Seems like I am stealing a title from somewhere so I will be honest, I am.
I stole this title from the movie or rather I am borrowing it from the movie.
They can have it back when I am done.
Also my sequence of the title will not be in that order.
I should call it:
"the bad, the ugly and the good".
It is always better to end on a high note.

the bad....
                I have owned my own business for thirty years. It is a small lettering shop.  We do silk screening, embroidery, tackle twill and chenille.  I have 10 to 15 employees, depending on how busy we are.  I am not getting rich.  In most years we barely make enough to want to stay open.  My wife supplements our income as a hairdresser.  But it is "our" business and we get by.
We have never had an accident in our shop.  No employee had ever been hurt.
This year we got a visit from Cal-OSHA and we just got our notice of a hefty fine for safety violations.
No injuries, no employee complaints but we were fined anyway.

the ugly.....
               Two weeks ago I got a virus in my personal lap top that I used to write with.  It ate my internet card, my sound card and who knows what else. It will not allow me to drag and drop or to copy and save and it will not allow me to load an anti-virus program.  I thought I was protected but somehow it got through.  Since I back up everything on a memory stick  I thought I was OK.  I took the stick to work to download  a story I was working on.  I put the unfinished article on one computer and then took the stick to another computer to down load some pictures I needed.  I guess the virus was on the stick because both hard drives on my business computers totally crashed.  Three computers down the stinking drain, and incidentally all of my writing.

update on virus
I am still not sure if  I can recover all my writing.  I do have a lot in my note books but will probably never go back and re-type it all.

I bayed at the quarter moon last night and that seemed to help.

the good....
               In the mean time, we have puppies, lots and lots of puppies.  Chewy, our gray and white Schnauzer had 4 puppies one week ago and Shy-lo, our black Schnauzer had 8 puppies Thursday morning.  They have all been to the vet and are in good health.  Chewy's  puppies are fat little butter balls but Shy-lo's puppies are small and look like little black moles.  The father of both litters is Lo-Jack, our gray and white Schnauzer.  He is rather perplexed by the whole thing.  He is curious and wants to check them out but Shy-lo and Chewy will not let him get near them.  Since Chewy only had four we gave her two of Shy-lo's so that each mom would nurse six.  It seems to work out quite well and both mothers treat all the puppies as there own.

Shy-lo is my on personal dog or rather I should say that I belong to her.  She follows me where ever I go (except to class).  Wednesday night I was on puppy watch but around 4 A.M. I fell asleep in my recliner with Shy-lo on my lap.  I was sure she would not have the puppies that night because she didn't seem to be in labor.  I woke up at 5 A.M. with shy-lo cleaning herself and a little wet puppy down in the side of the chair.  She had the puppy while setting on my chest.

Don't ever hire me to guard your house.  Thieves could take what they wanted to, Cal-OSHA would fine you, your computers would go wacky and you would end up with a house full of puppies, while I peacefully dozed away,


I write.....I change........I am alive

When you get old the physical changes are not so obvious to other people. No one can see your aches and pains but you feel them. I accept the aches and pains as reminders that I am still alive and still in the game. I am grateful that God has not benched me.

The changes that are occurring in me are mental.  These are also changes that others cannot see. These changes are more than the normal age changes of the mind. They have nothing to do with forgetfulness that I have from time to time because of my age.

My mind changes have to do with my writing.  Writing has forced me to  see things more clearly and to  ask more questions and to listen to what is being said. I have learned that writing requires me to think and look deeper. Writing is different than talking. When your thoughts are published they cannot be denied. When I present something in writing it requires thought and honesty.  When I write I have to write what I know and not what I think.

I have to evaluate what I am going to write. I want  my writing to be as honest as possible. When I look at a scene or a person I think, "how could I write what I am seeing so that a reader would clearly see what I see"?   I now realize that if I want others to read and enjoy what I write it requires a lot of time, thought and effort on my part.

I have learned that as long as God leaves me on the playing field, I need to strive to get better at what I do. I need to work at improving myself, not only as a writer, but also as a person.

I have learned that since I have started writing I have become more sensitive to the world I live in.

I have learned that I am not a man cemented in the "Stones of Age" but a man still mold-able and changing.

I am writing, I am thinking, I am changing, I am alive.


blind sided

The other morning I was blind sided by the morning news.
Hey, my wife yelled as I was taking my shower, there's a way to make money with your blogging.
They are going to tell you how in a minute, hurry up.
Oh no, I groaned to myself.  Now blogging is going to be a job.  Damn, I thought, I just want to write some thoughts.  I do not want it to be  a business.  I knew what was coming.  Join Ad Sense and get paid for advertising.  Advertise your business on your blog and the readers will spend all their money on your product.  I groaned to myself again.  I finished my shower and joined my wife in front of the TV and I was right.  The local news jockey was explaining to her all about ad sense and making money on your blog.
See,  she said,  you can make money with your writing.  I didn't say it out loud but the only money I ever want to make with my writing is by selling it.  I answered that I wanted people to come and read what I say and not be worried about fighting through the ads.

If you read my blog I am sure the ads that you have seen are only the ones forced on me by
I have purposely stayed away from "ad sense".  I know my wife and a lot of other people would say I am not so smart not to want to make money.  Maybe I am a little on the short side when it comes to brains but I want my writing to be enjoyable for me.  I have fun writing and I feel as long as it a hobby I can enjoy it.
Now my wife will want to know when the check is coming.

When I feel a blog is being used only to sell products I quit reading it.  But I now I am in trouble.  I spend a lot of time writing and blogging and my wife is now convinced that I will get rich or rather, "we will get rich" with my blogs.  The world will go nuts about my blog and click and click and click and click on the ads and at a penny per click we will be rich.  No amount of hemming and hawing will dissuade her.

 So in order to keep peace in the household I an going to to join ad sense but not on this blog or any of the other blogs I write.  I have created a new blog devoted to animals.  Actually it will be mainly devoted to dogs but all animals will be included.  If any money is generated I will donated one half to animal shelters.
I will link to this blog on each of my other blog posts.

I am hoping with this plan I can solve two problems with one blog.
                                                                                                                                                                                  Love Dem Puppies

This is the famous "Kentucky Fried Chicken" dog.  Obviously bread and raised to protect the colonels private coop



Richard awoke with a start.  He wiped the drool off of his short beard and rubbed his eyes.  His glasses had fallen on the floor and the room was a blur.  He had sat down to cool off with a cold beer after mowing the front lawn. He fell asleep before he drank half the beer.   He had dreamt something  weird  and it had left him in a cold sweat.  He sat there in a daze trying to remember the dream but it wouldn't come back.  He took a sip of the beer but it was warm.
The dream bothered him.  He felt nervous and jittery like there was something wrong but he couldn't figure it out.  His body felt strange.  He seemed to have lost control of it.  He couldn't move.

The room seemed strange.  He knew it was his and part of the house he owned.  Maybe he felt strange because he rarely spent time there.  There were too many painful memories.   The furniture, pictures, decorations and books were just as his wife left them.  He hadn't changed a thing but everything seemed different and the room was as if it was in another world.  He wondered if he had fallen asleep in someone else house.
The chair had always been comfortable and now it seemed lumpy.  The room had always been bright and cheerful but now it was cold and damp.  He was sure someone had moved the paintings but he couldn't remember where they belonged. He wanted to get up and leave but his body wouldn't move.  He struggled to get up but he had lost all control over his body.

His eyes focused on a picture of his children and suddenly it was important that he touch the picture.  Somehow he willed his body to move towards the picture.  He felt as if he were in a trance and that he wasn't walking but gliding across the room.  His hands grasped the picture and pulled it to his chest.  He held it tight like it was alive and not just an object.  To him it was alive, it was his children, it was his life, it wasJoe, Mary and Kaye when they were ten, eight and six.
The picture came alive.  He felt the warmth of their bodies.  He could hear them laugh and giggle and hear their voices saying "we love you daddy".  He felt better.  He felt warm again.  As long as he held the picture he knew he was alright.

The pictures brought back memories of them as they grew up and he felt a tremendous desire to be with them.  He wanted to touch them, hug them. hear them laugh and talk.  He needed them to need him as much as he needed them.  Vivid memories of the last time they were together came to him.  They had arranged a party for his 50th wedding anniversary.  They had invited all the old friends and all of the relatives that could attend.  It did not matter that his wife, their mother had been dead for ten years.  It was a wonderful gift and one that he had not expected.  Now they were gone.  He missed them and he missed his wife,  He was so alone and the house was so cold. He looked at a bigger picture in the room.  It was his wife.  He thought back to when they were first married and he remembered her as his bride.  He remembered their courtship. his proposal, their wedding and their honeymoon.  His mind did not dwell on the physical union of their first night together.  His mind could only see her bright blue eyes and her radiant red lips.  Her eyes always had a sparkle and her red lips always formed a smile.  His mind longed to see those eyes  and that beautiful smile again.  He remember that her eyes sparkled and her lips smiled even as she was dying of cancer.  Why, he wondered, had God taken her?  Why had god taken his children?  Why had he been left all alone?

He wanted to see them again but they were all gone.  First his wife had died of cancer and then his children were killed in that horrible plane crash while flying back to their homes in the east.  The plane went down and he was alone.  His body moved itself.  He found himself looking at a shotgun in the closet.  His hands moved as his body had.  He couldn't or ' wouldn't stop them. The picture fell to the floor smashing the glass.  The sound startled him and as he looked down he could see the faces of his children through the broken glass.  He could hear their voices pleading to him to stop.  "No daddy,  we love you and want to see you but not like this.  Please daddy do not pick up the gun". He began to weep.  He did not pick up the gun but instead walked outside into the sunshine.

The sun warmed him and felt the coldness in his soul recede.     He sat down on the steps of his porch and wept.  As his body shuddered a warm tongue licked his face and his dog Judy nuzzled him with her nose.  She had been his only companion since his wife had died.  He hugged her and felt her warm heart beating.  He looked into her brown eyes and said, no old gal, I won't kill myself.  I need to stay around to take care of you.  How about you and I going for a walk.    


prejudice barks again

Meet my friend Shylo.  She and I room together along with my wife, mother in law and three other dogs.  I belong to Shylo.  I am her human.
She adopted me so that I could feed her, love her, bathe her and clean up after her.   She allows my wife to tag along because she needs someone the give her a hair cut.  She just tolerates my mother in law.

She is a great mother.  She has had two litters.   She  had eight in the first litter and 7 in the second litter.  They were all healthy and she did a great job of protecting them and mothering them.  She is just an all around great dog in every way that dogs can be great. 

Why do I bring this up?  What is the point?  Well I just learned that people are prejudiced against "black dogs".  That's right, black dogs.  I not saying it is political, it is just a fact.  At least it is here in California.  Black dogs are rejected at the kennels at a much higher rate than other dogs and therefore more are euthanized.  In order to get more people to adopt black dogs they paint their cages white and tie colorful bandannas around their neck.

I beg of you America, go out and adopt a black dog.  Lets show the world that we are not prejudiced.
Also, Shylo is pregnant again and her puppies are going to need loving homes.


frustrated male

Today I went shopping at my favorite store, "Home Depot".  The Macy's for men.
Tools, lumber, pipes and various other items for a man to dream  about while he shops.

Here's a little information for the women reading this blog.  A man shops different than a woman.  We know what we want when we leave the house. We go directly to the store, walk directly to what we want to buy and we are done.  We do not want to look all over the blasted store to find what we need,

Dreaming about tools and projects is what we do to kill time when the wife expects a project to be worked on.  When we want an item we want it to be where it has always been.

Today's trip was to buy rat poison and bug spray.  No big  deal.  It has always been on the shelf on the north wall of the store.  But today it wasn't there.  They moved it.  They moved my rat poison.  Now you might not think that is a problem,  All you need to do is ask someone.

With a man that will never happen.  When we are lost we will never stop to ask directions.  It's much better to wander around hoping for the best.

As I wandered around hoping for the best I noticed a gigantic picture of the store manager hanging high up on the front wall.  There "she" was in all her glory with a great big smile and a promise to be of service.
Then it dawned on me.  "She" moved my rat poison.  "She" was trying to force me to shop like a women.  "She moved everything so I would have  to hunt all over the store and end up spending more money.  My wife would love it.  She can shop and hunt for hours.  I hate it.  I want in and I want out.

Now we have  women messing in the last place where men can go to hide.  I know what's coming next.  They will tag me when I walk in and when my wife calls looking for me, the lady clerk will say "yes ma'am, he's on aisle 9. Yes ma'am,  I'll have him pick up some milk on the way home.

I did find a skill saw and power drill on sale.  I got a great deal.



"Golden Retriever dies in hot car".  This was not a TV news story.  This was not a news paper headline..  I don't think it even made the back pages of the local paper.

I heard about it in my writing class.  It was an awful thing to hear.  My mind and attention immediately left the reader and went to the dog.  I pictured it going from window to window, pawing at the glass, trying to get out.  It was going from back to front, licking the window, looking for air, panting frantically, needing water.The temperature rising baking the poor animal like a pig on a spit, but the pig is always dead,  The dog wan't dead, it was dying.  It was dying a horrible death.  It was locked in a hot car.  The temperature rising. 100 degrees, 110 degrees, 120 degrees, 130 degrees 140 degrees...When did it die?  How much did it suffer?  I was oblivious to the reader.  I had shut her out.  My mind, my heart and my soul was with the dog.  Who would do this?

The class prompt was "where are you?"  The writer was feeling sorry for herself.  Her nephew had fallen from a car and had been killed.  Someone in the family had left the Golden Retriever in the car and had forgotten it.

What kind of family was this  The writer wrote and read her words with with absolutely no emotion.  My mind was screaming "my god lady, do you know what you just wrote"?  Where are your feelings, your heart, your soul, your life.?  Are you really dead and no one has told you yet?

A boy died a tragic death.  A dog died a horrible death.  You wrote about these events the same as you would describe the time of day.  You want to write?  Are you kidding?  If you are ever going to be writer you had better develop some  feelings.  You teach music.  Do only teach dirges?  If you are going to write you had better learn to write words that are "hummable".


the lesson

the lesson

We sat in the police station's waiting room,  My wife was crying, I was mad.  Why would she do something so stupid.  I know she's not guilty my wife sobbed,  She wouldn't do that,  she doesn't need money.   She confessed I replied.  She is guilty, she took the money.  But why?  It's so stupid.  Who knows?  I guess she thought she wouldn't get caught.  My wife couldn't stop crying.  Where's the lawyer?  Will she get bail?  Damned if I know, this is all new to me.  He should be here any time.  He walked in, are you her parents?  Yes, can we get her out tonight, my wife asked?  I don't' know as I want to get her out, I said.  Maybe she needs a lesson.  Maybe a night in jail would be good for her.  But she so scared, my wife sobbed.  She was crying when she called.  "Please mommy get me out of here. I don't like it in here".  She seem so scared. 

She damned well ought to be, embezzling $30,000 dollars is no joke.  The lawyer said he would see what the charges were and if bail had been set.  He went in to talk to her.

As we sat there waiting and wondering, my mind went back to my  youth. 
I was in my parents back yard.  They had friends over, people they had know for 30 years.  I could picture them as if I was right there.  Tom and Brenda Parks.  Tom worked with my dad at the steel mill.  They were both pipe fitter welders. Tom and Brenda were also rock hounds as my parents were.  They belonged to the same club and had gone rock hunting together for years.  They were truly close friends. Tom was a big strapping man, tall, strong and proud.  But that night he was a defeated man.  His wife was sobbing then as mine was this evening. 

Back then they had faced much the same problem as we did this evening.  Evan, their only son, had committed a crime.  He stole some money.  But he didn't steal from a store like our daughter had. He stole from them.  He stole from his parents.  But it was much more complicated that that.  Evan was mentally handicapped.  Not severely handicapped, but handicapped. He went to regular high school but had to receive special tutoring.  He did graduate but only because they couldn't do anything more for him. 

After high school he made friends with a wild group.  They took him with them because he would do anything they asked.  He liked them because they were the only friends he could find.  The "friends" dreamed up a plot where Evan would steal his parents check book and they would get some money to party.  It wasn't a great amount, only $500.00 but it was enough to be classified as a felony.
Of course Evan got caught by his parents.  Instead of handling the crime at home, Tom chose to call the police and have Evan arrested.  Tom was really mad.  The boy needed a lesson.  He wanted no thief living in his house.  Over his wife's pleading he pressed charges.  A little prison time would do him good.  Evan went to prison.  2 to 5 for check forgery.  They said he would be out in 6 months.  Fine Tom said, he will damn well not steal when  he gets out.  He will be a better person.  Every man has to pay for his mistakes. 

It didn't work like that.  Evan was bitter.  He hated his parents.  He never wanted to see them again.  He had been forsaken, abandoned.  He didn't understand.  He was sorry, but for Tom sorry wasn't good enough. The boy must be taught a lesson.

Evan was a bitter prisoner.  He couldn't adjust to prison life. He was a dummy. The other prisoners tormented him.  He fought back.  His Sentence was extended.  He refused to see his parents.

He was killed in a prison fight eight years after his father had him put in prison.  The lesson had worked.  Evan would never steal again.  Tom's heart was broken.  He knew he had been wrong.  But now it was to late.  Tom would live the rest of his life with a broken heart.  He had wronged his own flesh and blood.

The lawyer came out.  They set bail, he said, $50,000 dollars.  I know a good  bail bond company.   If you can come up with $5000.00 dollars, we can get her out tonight.  Call the bail people I said .  I'll put it on my credit card.  Will she have to go to prison?  She did confess.  Well sometimes, he explained, if this is the first offense and restitution is made the store won't press charges. Then it's up to the D.A.'s office if they want to prosecute.  Most of the time they do not.
I said,  I'll take a loan on my house.  I'll pay every dime back.  I don't want any child of mine in prison.


goodbye america

I think America needs to be mourned.  After centuries of being the big man on the block America has finally given up her space on top and now grovels in the slop and swill of the pigs with the likes of all of the mid-eastern countries.  We now march up and down the streets in protest of bullshit.  We now fight over things that do not exist and things we do not understand.  We now murder and kill over religion and politics.  We now have street brawls.

What really makes all this great is that we have a "king" or probably an Ayatollah because our king just died,
The King is dead, long live the king.  Kennedy is gone, drifting out to sea on a pyre of fire.  Mary Jo Kopechne  is being vilified even after the death of her murderer.  She better not come back to tarnish the memory of good old Teddy.   She should be happy that she gave her life for the king.  Mary Jo Kopechne should be happy that she was not avenged,  Our King was needed to help the poor.  But the poor, the downtrodden are to bow before the new Rulers.  The people pay taxes, the new ruling party does not think they need to pay them.

The king of Los Angeles  Mayor Antonio Ramon Villaraigosa   does not feel he should conform to the laws they are shoving down the peoples throats. You poor plebeian bastards better not use to much water.  We, the elite,  need it.

Oh how I pray for the reincarnation of Robespierre.  Cutting all their flippen heads off seems like a thing the middle east does and after all, we are down there groveling in the slop with them.

I'm moving to Australia with "whitesnake"  he does it better and he will behead the "bastids" for me

goodbye america


Obama, now you've gone to far

Admittedly I didn't vote for Pres. Obama.  However I am a person that likes to support my president.  I don't always have to agree but I think it's necessary to pull together.  So when the president came up with the idea of back yard gardens I jumped on the band wagon.  I decided on tomatoes, cucumbers, green squash and watermelon.  I ordered the hanging garden from the net and set out for home depot.  Potting soil, several kinds of tomato plants, 1 cucumber plant, 1 squash plant, 1 water melon plant  and  $30 bucks lighter, I headed home.  By Friday I received my hanging gardens  and Saturday I spent a couple of hours planting my food for next winter.  Yes sir Pres. Obama, I am going to do my part.  I over watered the plants in the hanging garden and they all died.  The ones I planted in the ground seemed to doing fine.  Back to home depot to get more plants and leave more money.  That was OK because I knew I was going to have fresh food all summer.  I replanted the hanging garden.  This time I choked them to death.  I didn't give them enough water.  Not a big problem, the land based plant were  doing fine.  I threw out the hanging gardens and concentrated on ground game.  My wondrful garden was growing just fine so I let it tend it's self for a few weeks.  When I checked  my squash plant I had one giant green squash.  I harvested that one and never saw another squash again.   Well I still had the maters the cukes (notice how I'm beginning to speak the farm lingo) and the melon plant was doing just fine.  I would go out every day and check the "garden"  The cukes and the maters were growing and beginning to ripen.  Ah Saturday I'll harvest I thought.  When the glorious day of harvest arrived all the ripe maters and cukes were half eaten.  Some damn varmint  got my harvest before me.  I watched and set traps to no avail.  Every time the damn maters and cukes were just about ripe, that damn varmint would get to them first.   Then one morning I saw racoon tracks on my drive way.
A sneaky raccoon was stealing my garden.  I pulled out all the plants but the melon.  I googled raccoons and it said they are not partial to melons,  (I wouldn't bet on it).
I think Pres. Obama knew about the raccoons and had a secret plot to feed the raccoons of America.
Yes pres. Obama you went to far this time but I got even.  I caught that raccoon and dopped him off  on the white house front lawn,  I hope he eats all your Easter eggs.


on writing

crazy, crazy thoughts this a.m. Thinking about Hemingway and other great writers and it dawned on me that they could not blog. Who did they get to read their daily dribble. No one. They wrote and wrote and wrote and hoped they could get someone to publish anything. Did they get depressed? Maybe, maybe not. But the point is, they continued to write without a pat on the back. I think the writers that really are good paid their dues. Years of writing without pay or that pat on the back. They had courage and conviction.

Why do I bring this up? How does this relate to writers in the world of blogging?   Maybe it doesn't to others, but for me blogging takes to much time and interferes with my story writing. Maybe I use the blogging as a procrastination tool. It is difficult to keep a story line moving. It is easy to write a short snippet in response to a prompt, post it and then pay my dues by commenting on other blogger's snippets, hoping they will drop in and say a few words.

Is my writing any good? Hard for me to judge. I have never been published but I haven't submitted that many stories. I certainly haven't paid any dues. However, I do enjoy blogging and it does give me writing practice. Maybe we bloggers are lucky because we can write and have someone read us.

I do think I need to find someplace to submit short stories for a critique. We bloggers are to nice. Every one pats the other on the back. No criticism of any kind. Maybe we could figure out a way to send each other money.

I wonder if Hemingway could have blogged, would he have become the great writer he turned out to be?


handicapped parking

One of my pet peeves is the abuse of "handicapped parking". It galls me when I see someone using the space and they obviously are not handicapped in any way unless you count "mentally handicapped". But the worst of the abusers are the people who some how get the "handicapped" card or sticker and in no way need it. They use their "parent's" card or car and take advantage of the system. I have often thought of various ways to "teach a lesson" but since I am not a "handicapped parking" officer it is not my place to issue punishment. I just boil over silently when I see it happen. One time a friend of mine screamed at an abuser, "how do you qualify as handicapped, no brains?" The person just walked on without looking or responding. I wanted to flatten her tire but I didn't. Just recently I came across an interesting situation. What qualifies a person to be handicapped enough to get the parking pass? You would think that a heart transplant patient might qualify and to be sure, he or she does. However, if that person has recovered from the operation, does he or she still qualify? I have a friend that had a heart transplant. He has recovered nicely and in fact plays golf. We both played in a tournament in Palm Springs last summer and shared the same room. It was an interesting weekend. He had a ton of pills he had to take. He was well organized and took them exactly the same time each day. All of this information is really secondary and is just to show that he is handicapped but yet he can play golf. He does have the "handicapped parking" pass and used it where ever he went. I became confused. Who could deny a heart transplant patient "handicapped parking"? Why does anyone who can play 36 holes of golf in 3 days deserve a "handicapped parking" pass? You tell me. What do you think?


god and the body

Last week I wrote about faster horses. This week I thought I was going to discuss younger women and in a way I am. My original idea was to write about "men" and "younger women" but I spent a few days on the Colorado River with one of my children and her teenage daughter which of course is my granddaughter. She (the granddaughter) bought two friends with her, All three were 15, giggly and into boys big time. All three are very beautiful girls with awesome bodies. They spent the entire time in bikinis. Spending time with them caused me to ponder about religion,God and human development. My thoughts are very simple. Their bodies are fully developed and ready for business but their minds are obviously very immature and need a lot of developing before they are ready to go into business. I know this is the way of the world. We all went through it. Our bodies pushing us to find a mate and reproduce, our minds not knowing the first thing about how and when to mate. Today society makes it even more difficult for the young. Sex is everywhere. The shows on TV are just short of "R" rated. The results are lots and lots of premarital sex, children born to single mothers, a high rate of divorce, the list goes on and on and the resulting problems are horrific. On the other side of the coin we do not educated our children properly. We teach them basic language, math and science but we do not help their minds grow. We do not teach them how to cope and deal with their basic desires. We (the U.S.) are a nation of animals when it comes to reproduction. If it feels good, do it. Anytime, Any place, any person. I read in the paper last week that the Poet Laureate of the United States is only paid $35,000 dollars and someone said that is to much because no one reads poetry. Actually that person has a point, "no one reads poetry". I thought, how sad. Poetry is so beautiful and powerful but it takes some thinking and reasoning to get the full power of the writing. Another thing I have noticed is that very few people understand "Logic". They do not know how to think for them selves. They do not know how to look for the right information to make decisions with. Today's issue in the U.S. is health care. There is so much bad information coming from both sides of the issue that it is impossible for a honest decision to be made. Yet, people are screaming at each other. They do not have the slightest idea of how to have an intelligent debate. And then the big question slammed my mind. Why? If God designed us and we are made in his image why did he put reproduction on the front burner and mind development later, if at all? Why didn't he create a body that couldn't reproduce until the mind was smart enough to control the body? This is not a slam dunk question. In Southern California we have a large Hispanic population that reproduces very prolifically. Their customs lead to large families and the women have children early in the lives. The babies have few problems and are quite healthy. On the other hand, the white population is waiting longer to have children. Women are putting careers first and children later. They are using fertility drugs to aid them in getting pregnant. The result is more multiple births, more premature births and more problems with the babies. Maybe God knew what he was doing after all.


faster horse pucky

Old Grizz, my super 3D alter ego, or as those who know me say "the only part of me that can write" (that's a long way around the bush) says.....can you remember where I started?. Oh yea, Old Grizz says "the only Philosophy that is worth a dam is from the song by Tom T Hall where the skinny cowboy says the best things in life are "faster horses. younger women, stronger whiskey and more money". Whew, that's a mouth full. Well I happen to know that at least the horse part is a bunch of hooey. You may get the faster horses but you have to know how to bet em. (if you don't bet em what does it matter if they are fast or not?). So as the old saying goes, "if you got em (fast horses) bet em or something like that. So I did. An old track tout gave me 9 horses at Santa Anita and said if you want to make money "Parlay, young man, Parlay". Don't get excited. I didn't say, "party, party", I said , "parlay, parlay. So, knowing good advice when I hear it, I rushed right down to the corner phone booth and called a bookie I knew. Gimmy $200 on "old john in the first, parlay that to "old Mary" in the 2nd, old Henry in the third, old pud nuts in the 4th and old Ginny in the 5th and make it for every dam horse to win. You notice how I go for the "old" horses. Well, john won, Mary won. Henry won, pud nuts won and my heart was about to burst, but what burst instead was my ego, Ginny lost. Lesson learned? Not me! I went for the last four. Gimmy $200 on Big Dan in the 6th and (of course parlay, I had only parlayed once and parlay, parlay means twice), Big Bubba in the 7th, Big Horace in the 8th and finally Big Donald (playing my Trump horse) in the 9th and every every dam horse to win. Did you notice I changed to "Big" horses. OK, here we go again. Dan won, Bubba won and Horace won, but my "Trump" horse was a true "Beetle Bomb". The point of this whole story? Faster horses is not the answer to a better life. I had 7 winners and 2 seconds and lost $400 bucks. Next week I'll get into the younger women thing. That otta be a hooter.


what do you think

a beautiful day, sun shinning, gentle breeze cleansing the mid-day air college quad a buzz with the young girls a twittter boys agog two as if they are on a log one boy muses what do you think of the oriental girls the other his eyes big and round breathes a sigh of concern oh, I think they're wonderful so sweet and nice yes replied the oriental young man but don't you really think some are sour and some are nice good words to live by the round eye thought some people are worthy of your love and some are not



While sitting on my dad's patio way back in the days of yore, a Monarch Butterfly flitted in under the awning and sat his pretty orange and golden wings on my shoulder. I made a move to brush it away and my dad said DON'T. Why? I replied. I don't like bugs. No son, my dad said. That is not a bug. You have been blessed with a touch from God. You see son, the Monarch Butterfly is a messenger from God. When it lands on you it is a sign that your soul is one that God has chosen. Chosen?, I said. Chosen for what? I don't know son. That's between you and him. The next time you talk to him, just ask. I'm sure he will tell you. I never ask. I wonder what God wanted?



REFUGE Where is my place of refuge? Home would seem to be a natural choice. But home seems too simple. When I think of home it is not really a place of refuge. Even when you are relaxed there is always something nagging at you. The lawn needs mowing, the door squeaks or the sprinklers need to be fixed. Repairs never seem to get done. My home may be comfortable and warm but it is not my place of refuge, A place of refuge has to be somewhere your worries or cares are pushed aside. But where could that be? If not home, then where? What place or location? I do find some refuge in my writing. But writing is not easy and I am always fretting as to whether it is understandable.. Am I really saying what I mean? Will this word do the trick? Am I missing anything? Sometimes "spell check" can be more of hindrance that a help. Writing is a great outlet but it is not my refuge. As I pondered this dilemma, I decided to go for a walk. I decided a walk might clear my head and I could rethink my problem. As I walked I forgot about my place of refuge and began to enjoy the world around me. I sifted different ideas through my mind. I thought about my childhood, my life, and my family. My mind jumped from place to place. I dreamed. I won the lottery. I ran the marathon. I thought about my writing and I even decided a direction for a chapter of my "book". Then I realized that my place of refuge was in my mind. Planning, dreaming, fantasizing is my place of refuge. When I got home I did the dishes.


what the hell happened

garbage trucks and garbage men are meant for spurn and scorn. who in the hell would want to be a garbage man. a man's place is at the top with a job of power and money. no man worth his salt would drive a garbage truck, unless of course he was hungry. there are a lot of money and power men wishing they could get the job of a garbage man.. what the hell happened


the jacket

For some reason certain things stick in your craw. They never leave. I call them poppers. They keep popping up when you least expect them. They usually mean nothing. They are not harbingers of doom or bad memories that depress you. They are just poppers. Pop, there it is again. Why? No one knows. Certain things we never remember. Certain things we never forget. "Poppers" are those unforgettable things. The jacket is one of my poppers. It happened 52 years ago in the fall of 1956. I was seventeen, full testosterone and stupidity and I had five good buddies that were exactly like me. We were shopping for school clothes in Provo, Utah. Provo was not our home town. We were from Orem but in those years Provo was the place to shop. Provo was one of those quaint small towns with one main street going east and west and another going north and south. Both streets were lined with trees and parking was at a diagonal in front of the stores. 1956 was the year of the "Car Coat" and we all wanted one. However, they were quite expensive. They ran about $40.00 and by the time we had our Levis, dress pants and some different styles of shirts we didn't have much money left. We all went onto the jacket store and wandered around looking at the different car coats. I was trying on a gray wool one with a lapel collar. It was mid length and hung just below my butt. I walked over to the mirrors to check out the look and then I just wandered around the store wearing the jacket. One of the group said come on lets get out of here and they started to leave. I looked around and both clerks were busy and not paying any attention to me so I just walked out with the jacket. Oh my God, one of my buddies said. You stole the "effen" jacket. That's really cool. I "was" the "man". They all laughed and giggled and said how great I was to steal the jacket. I was elated and excited. I did it. Wow, I had a "Car Coat". As we were driving home it dawned on me that I couldn't take the jacket home. My mother would know that I stole it. I told that to the others and one of them said he could fool his mother and he would pay me for it. I thought boy am I stupid. I took the chance and if I had been caught it would have been my butt at the police station. Now I wasn't even going to get the jacket. He took the jacket and came up with a story about winning it in a drawing. I was the thief. He had the jacket and you know what, he never paid me a dime for the damn thing. I have never stolen another thing. Maybe "poppers" are really my conscience talking to me.


Mother and Child

Silent night, holy night

He began singing as the injections were started.

All is calm, all is bright

He was guilty of murder. He had exhausted all of his appeals.

Round yon Virgin Mother and Child

Those were his last words.

Holy Infant so tender and mild

The state had committed another "legal homicide"

Sleep in heavenly peace

A mother had lost a child

Sleep in heavenly peace

he died singing "Silent Night"
Silent night as sung in Irish.
Listen to the beautiful lyrics
pray for the victims of the convicted and the victims of state


I'm on a Mission

No, it's not a religious mission. It's a crap mission. To be more precise, it's a mission to expose crap. Internet crap. E-mail crap. I am tired of getting BS passed along because someone is to lazy to check it out. The latest being "the postcard virus" scare. "Beware, do not open any email that says it is a hallmark card. You will get a virus that will burn a hole in your hard drive" Dam, I thought, Maybe that's what happened to the plane that popped a hole this week. Somebody left a computer upside down in the overhead and the virus burned right through the top of the plane But alas, the hole burning virus is another net hoax. I know because I "snoped" it. I am sure most of you know what "snopes" is. For those who don't, it is a site to check out the truth of the e-mails that go around. However, it seems that a lot of people do not like me "snoping" their emails and then reporting back that they are sending BS. I have come to be called the "great snooper". Hey GS, are you going to snoop this one? I find that interesting because I am tickled when someone points out a piece of bad info that I have been using as fact. Embarrassed but thankful. I certainly know how to apologize for being stupid. I have had enough practice. I have to believe that a lot of people do not like to be corrected. I guess it makes them feel stupid. It should, because they are. Well maybe they are just lazy. "Look at this. It's great. Can you believe this? No, I can't because it's BS. These things go round and round and round and never seem to die. So I'm asking you to check out the stories. Be like me, "Snope" them and if they are not true, delete...delete...delete. By the way, how do like the picture of my new pet? It's a "Dogakeet". I call it "Bowsolly" Please, whatever you do, do not "snope" my "Dogakeet"


Dog doo and writing

She was a grouchy person. She never seemed to smiled and her comments were usually surly and mean. She lived alone and I rarely saw anyone visiting her. "Oh, she said, how can you stand to pick up that dog poop?" "Don't those dogs drive you crazy?" No, I replied I love my dogs and I certainly wouldn't leave their poop for someone else to pick up."Well, she replied, I wouldn't have a dog, they're way to much trouble." I walked on with my 3 schnauzers. As I continued my walk I began to think about the dogs. Why do I have them? They are a lot of work. As I walked and pondered, it dawned on me that they bring me love and enjoyment. I love having them around. Yes they are a lot of work. But so is anything that is worthwhile. If you want friends, you need to work at it. Friends, unlike dog doo, don't just happen. She did not seem to have any friends and I felt sorry for her but I realized it was of her own choosing. Then a thought came into being. I'll write about it. I began to think about writing, my writing. What is it that makes a good writer, I wondered? What makes an article or story worth the readers time? The answer is easy. Good writing is not like dog doo. It does not just happen. You have to treat writing like a friend. You have to work at it and when it smells like dog doo, you need to pick it up, throw it in the trash and keep on walking.


Are you alive?

does your god live does your god exist in your heart does your god exist in your mind does your god exist in your soul are you one you and your god do you feel your god in your heart do you see your god in your mind do you find your god in your soul if you do not see your god in your mind feel your god in your heart find your god in your soul you will never be with your god you are already dead


"Bombs bursting in Air"???

I think a tradition is a bout to die. 4th of July "FIREWORKS".
They are gone in towns all over America. No Money. Damn....Damn...Damn. What could be more stimulating than our July 4th fireworks and we cannot afford them. I think "The Stimulus" people missed a great opportunity here. I heard that they have only managed to spend only 5% of all that money they had to have so quickly. They did not even take time to read what they were signing. What are they waiting for? Fireworks for America would have stimulated a lot of people and put put a lot of bucks into local economies. Hey, Los Angeles is stimulating their police by hiring hundreds of officers at $50 to $80 bucks per hour for the Michael Jackson Memorial and they are laying off workers and crying about being broke. Yes, President Obama, I think you missed a great opportunity to really stimulate America.


My Crappy Neighbor

OK, here it is, the crappy neighbor story. I guess everyone has a crappy neighbor or maybe if you are really unlucky, more than one crappy neighbor. What constitutes a crappy neighbor? There are a lot of ways to qualify as a crappy neighbor. My neighbor qualifies by being a yard slob. Do not get me wrong. I am one of the leaders in believing a man's or woman's home is his or her castle. My neighbors have to go a long way to upset me. In my case the neighbor is a him. He is the world's leading conservative on saving water. He never waters his yard. It is a show case for dried weeds. Also, he has an orange tree planted in his front yard right next to the property line and he never picks the damned oranges. The funny things is that I really can put up with the dried weeds and the mildewed rotten oranges. I have a bigger gripe to air. It's oil. No, he doesn't have and oil derrick in his yard. He has an oil leaking piece of junk parked on the street in front of his house. Or rather I should say that some lady living there has the oil leaking piece of crap It seems like every time I go into my front yard I see her putting oil in the lousy thing. I do not believe it even stops in the engine. I've wondered if someone forgot to put the drain plug back in. The car is dirty and has several major dents in it. Maintenance and cleanliness is obviously not part of her daily routine. I shudder to think what a pig sty her living space must be. The car looks like it could be in red neck video. You know, the ones that are so popular to email to all your friends. I know every one cannot afford an expensive top of the line car, but damn, do not drain your oil in the street. They fine people for putting it in the garbage and here she is draining it on the street. I have noticed that when she parks the car in the driveway (street sweeping day) somehow there is a big pieces of cardboard under the car to catch the oil. And wouldn't you know it, the ugly old oily cardboard just lays in front of the house day after day. After several weeks of draining the oil on the street it is now creeping towards my house. Every time she moves the car the rear tires pick up the oil and track it further down the street. It is getting closer and closer to my driveway. It will not be long before my car starts tracking it into my driveway and then everyone will think I am a redneck. Actually in some cases I am a redneck. However, I am not a redneck when it comes to how my home looks. Well I decided to complain to the city. Of course you know what happens then. They have to investigate. Then they send a letter. Then? Well I really don't know what happens next. In the mean time the oil creeps closer and closer.


I'm Cute

How about that for a title. However I really I do not think I am cute. I do not think I'm good looking. I think I am just plain looking. I'm not easy to look at and I am not hard to look at. I guess you could say that I'm just an ordinary looking male. However, I had a very nice lady tell me that I am cute. Now I have an enlarged head. It is getting very difficult to go through a door. Who would tell me that I am cute? No she is not blind. She does not even wear glasses. Her name is Geisula and she is a German lady visiting my neighbors. There are several people that walk their dogs every morning. We do this as a group. While Geisula was visiting she walked with us every morning. Geisula is in her 40's and very nice looking. I am in my 70's and married. I did not make any advances towards her. We all liked her and treated her as if she was one of the regular group. On her last day visiting, we were talking and I was telling her goodbye and the neighbor told me that Geisula thought I was cute. What a great compliment. Thank you Geisula. If any of you want to know how to make an old man feel good, tell him he is cute. Even if he isn't.



I have know about her all of my life but I never tried to meet her until just recently. She has an illusive quality that makes her hard to grasp. I try to catch her but she keeps darting and weaving and eluding me. She is toying with me. No matter how hard I try, I cannot sem to catch her. She Laughs at me. she is always just beyon my reach. She taunts me. I cannot catch her. She says to me, I am here but without a personal effort you cannot catch me. I say to her, If I cannot catch you how can I grow? How can I improve? She replies, I am always here but you must try harder. You must want me beyond all your other worldy posessions. To hold me and feel me you must get rid of your old friend procrastination. You cannot wait until tomorrow. I move with the wind. If you are not quick you will never catch me. I am tomorrow and you remain as yesterday. I will hold out my hand to you but you must take it. You must embrace me. If you falter and let go you will never grow. You will never know me. I am change. I am not as easy as some may think.



I worry about me and I worry about you
I worry about the things I say and the things I do
I worry about day and I worry about night
I worry about doing and saying the thing that are right
I worry about the stars and
I worry about the sun
I worry about work and
I worry about fun
 I worry about the birds and I worry about the bees
I worry about the plants and I worry about the trees
I worry about my age and I worry about my health
I worry about taxes and I worry about wealth
I worry about the way I write and the way I think
I Worry that what I write will really stink
But most of all
I worry that worry will drive me to drink


God Bless you Otto

Dedicated to Granny Smith and Otto
When I read "Granny Smith" on Sunday Scribblings and saw that her husband had died from a fall, I was deeply saddened.. I did not know him. I had only read Granny's blog a few times, but seeing this news seemed to affect me deeply. I felt saddened for her loss. I thought about the sorrow of losing a loved one. I know Otto would have enriched my life if I had ever known him. Granny, I send this poem to you with sadness in my heart. My heart is with you. May God bless Otto and may God be with you in your time of sorrow.
I think of you often and make no outward show, But what it means to lose you, no one will ever know You wished no one farewell, not even said good-bye, You were gone before I knew it, and only God knows why. You are not forgotten nor will you ever be, As long as life and memories last, I will remember thee. To some you may be forgotten, to others a part of the past, But to me who loved you dearly, your memories will always last. Nothing can be more beautiful than the memories I have of you. To me, you were someone special, God must have thought so too! If tears could build a staircase and memories a lane, I would walk all the way to Heaven, and bring you back again. unknown


Silence-Again & Again & Again

When I wrote my original version of "Silence" for "TAT" I wrote about a writer that was dejected because of a rejected book. I did not choose a gender for "The Writer" because I wanted to present something about the silence of disappointment. The disappointment happens to all writers from the very accomplished to the beginning blogger who wants to write. Bloggers are exploring their ability to write. We Bloggers want to write something really great and have the world discover us and send money. Maybe some just want to be read but you must admit it would be awesome to get a few bucks for writing. When we do not get any response for what we have written we really get disappointed. I guess having my writer commit suicide was a little drastic but I did want to make a point. Amias wrote, "Oh my, Grizz, did he have to kill him/her self? I didn't expect this ending." That comment made me think about the story again and again and again. So I rewrote the story adding gender. In the first rewrite the subject was a young girl disappointed in romance and she ended up offing herself. I thought "why am I always ending the story with suicide". I have had my share of romantic disappointments and I have never considered suicide. So I rewrote the story again opting for a male subject who was also disappointed with a bad romance. In this version I was able to end the story with hope. Here is my hope version and I simply called it "HE". If it works better for you, go ahead and change the gender. I dedicated this version to "Amias" "HE" He sat alone on the cold wet planks at the end of the pier. His legs were dangling over the edge and his bare feet almost touched he water but not quite. He wanted to feel the cold water with his feet but he did not want jump in. Well maybe he would jump or maybe he wouldn't. He really wasn't sure.what he wanted to do. The silence was eerie. The water did not move and it seemed as if the fog was a blanket someone had just taken out of the freezer. At first it shocked him but the coffee helped. He was holding the cup between his legs and using it to warm his hands. As he looked at the water it seemed to call him. It was hypnotizing him, daring him to enter the silent water and he was ready to take the dare. Why not, no one would care, especially her. She had left no doubt about that. He could still hear her saying "I'm sorry, I'm leaving, I have too". The words echoed through his head. He could still see her face. She was young and beautiful. There were tears in her brown eyes and on her freckled cheeks. Her long auburn hair was beautiful even in her sadness. He could see her standing on the water just out of his reach. He could hear her saying, "I'm sorry. I was wrong, I love you, please come home". Her beauty was drifting in the silent fog. Her tears were falling into the silent water. He could see her. He wanted her to be there but she wasn't. A fog horn echoed a low sounding wail from across the bay and nudged him back to reality. The silence of the night had been broken. The silence of the water interrupted and the cold silent fog seemed to disappear. He shivered. No, he thought, I will not give in. I will go back. I will find her. I will fight to win her back. He rose and walked silently through the lifting fog with new found hope. A silent voice urged him on.



Has your soul felt the depths of hell? Mine has Has your soul felt the urge to kill? Mine has Has your heart been ripped apart? Mine has SHE LEFT ME WITH THESE THINGS Has your manhood been neutered? Mine has Have you cried for a lost child? I have Have you been alone among thousands? I have SHE LEFT ME WITH THESE THINGS Have you fought to regain your soul? I have Have you fought the urge to kill? I have Have you fought to mend your heart? I have SHE BLESSED ME WITH THESE THINGS Have you fought to regain your manhood? I have Have you fought to keep a child? I have Have you fought to overcome loneliness? I have SHE BLESSED ME WITH THESE THINGS HAVE YOU FORGIVEN SOMEONE? I HAVE

Religion and Grizz

I grew up a semi-religious child in a very religious community. It was sort of like being a weed in the middle of a garden. Some of the flowers want you to mutate and look just like them, some want to leave you alone and some want to destroy you with religiouscide. My mom was religious but did not attend church. My dad never discussed religion, never went to church, was an alcoholic and a better father a son could not have had. I think I was lucky. I was not forced to be a good religious anything. I was allowed to find my own way. I was allowed to discover the way I wanted to live. However, I was taught all of the basic fundamentals of religion. Although my parents were not church goers, they lived and taught us the basic fundamentals of being good people. After all, what is the basic fundamentals of religion except learning the fundamentals of love and brotherhood. We were never read to from the bible. We were never told we had to read the bible. We were never officially taught the ten commandments by my parents. They just lived them. Swear in our house, especially using the lords name and you had soap for dinner. The never swore. Lying and stealing were not tolerated. I do not ever remember coveting my neighbor's wife but I am sure I coveted their children's toys. It would have been a big mistake to take them. Other Gods, Idols and graven images were not discussed either. I do not believe we even knew that there were other Gods and if some one had sold golden calves or graven Images they probably would have been tarred and feathered. The Sabbath is a different story. It was OK to go to church but not mandatory in their eyes. God could also be worshipped on a camping trip, or God would certainly understand that some had to work, chores needed to be done and of course a back yard cookout was much more fun than church. I guess what it boils down to is that my parents lived a religious existence without trying to stuff it down other's throats. They believed in the teachings of the Ten Commandments. That is how they lived. That is how they taught. That is how I grew up



The sunset, the ocean, the colors, the sounds of nature and the winds whispering to me from the trees and over the cliffs, these are the things that are beautiful to me. In nature you can find beauty everywhere. It is there from the moment you wake until you close your eyes in the evening. The flowers in your yard, the neighbor’s trees, the hummingbirds darting around the patio are pure and unaffected by the miseries created by man. The flowers do not shoot the birds, the birds do not make fun of the squirrels and almost certainly the squirrels do not destroy the trees. They are the simple but beautiful things in our lives. Get lost in them and you will find a peace that cannot be found in any other place.


Arrrrrrrrrrg, shiver me timbers........I promised myself, no politics and I did it any way. I apologize to no one because s0 far no has read any of my thoughts. Oh well, at least I am able to blow off some stream. But politics, Arrrrrrrrrrrg, shiver me timbers, I may as well have named this blog Burnt Toast and forgot about the coffee. Or, maybe Burnt Coffee and Toast. I could dedicate this blog to Starbucks. More on Starbucks later. I am actually a Starbucks nut but only the coffee. I am not into Frappuccino's or Cappuccino's. In my opinion they are the slickest way anyone has ever invented to steal your money.

Political Whores

Washington politicians and for what it is worth, all politicians are a bunch of whores. Souter proves it. He has no values except those that keep him in Washington, whoring for his personal welfare. The Democrats have just bought and paid for years for partying and living the good life with the stimulus packages. If you do not think you are paying for it, you had better wake up. California is a prime example of whores in politics and Schwarzenegger is the biggest whore of all. The lying commercials are coming hot and heavy in California. They ask us to vote yes and we can control the politicians. That is a bunch of Bull Shit. They will find ways to change the bills to be whatever they want them to be. Cutting spending or capping spending is not on their agenda. Take note, the only people that want these bills to pass are the groups that get the MONEY. They are throwing a lot of BS SCARE TACTICS at us trying to scare us in to voting for the measures. Do they ever cut taxes? Will they ever cut taxes? Vote yes for these new taxes and you will pay for all of these blood suckers for the rest of your life or at least until the company you work for is driven out of California. However, I do understand, that if you are one of the people who do not pay taxes, you probably do not give a dam. What the hell, who cares if they raise taxes. You will never bother to care until you have been driven from the welfare lines to the soup lines In fact if you really want a job for life, get hired by one of the groups that actually pay someone to pour the soup. They are going to be in great demand.

About Me

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So Cal, United States
I am an apprentice writer of short stories and I also attempt a little poetry.