June 3, 2012: Finally, I want to get to this issue of the Killer Bees, because tonight they're feeling like the perfect metaphor for the new Fear that's gripping me around the ankles, throat and genitals, and all simultaneously ... And wasn't it Anne Sexton who spoke of that "awful rowing toward god?" ... or perhaps that was Dan Woog, referencing those idiots on the Saugatuck River in Westport.
The point is, I'm drowning in the awful visions of corporate domination and one-percent control and private GOP armies and the like, and the Fear has me, like it did in the early '80s when Reagan first came to power and I was sure a nuclear strike was imminent, and that it would be hitting ME in particular ... It's like the Killer Bees, which were poised to attack when I was just a little lad, if you can imagine such a thing, me being all grown up and devilishly handsome and all, but at that time existing on pure Fear, adrenalin, and iced tea ...
But you see the question comes to mind for me: What the hell happened to the Killer Bees anyway?! I mean, I was told they were attacking. We all were! They were allegedly flying north from Mexico, as all dangerous things are wont to do. There were kitcsh TV movies about them, where dopey victims were stung repeatedly beyond recognition and the heroes outran them to the last, but not before stomping a few of the worse ones into pulp ... So where are they now?!
It's interesting, for I remember someone telling me -- some idiot in the never-ending series of idiots I've known -- that "the scientists" -- and that's what he said -- would merely meet the Bees at the border -- the Rio Grande River, I guess -- and they would spray them and solve the whole problem. Such a comforting image it still evokes -- a small group of Gary Larsen-type white-coated nerds shooting a few puffs of gas out over the water with one of those little metal pumping cannisters, and halting dead the rampaging cloud of gangland Bees in an instant ...
I guess that's what happened, because after the 70's I stopped hearing anything about Killer Bees ... Except, just three weeks ago I found a book at the library that's right now, at this very moment, sitting in the other room (probably overdue, actually), and there are probably additional answers there waiting to be realized ...
But you know what? I don't want to know them! I don't want to know anything, except that SPACE CASE is selling and you're going to buy a THIRD copy and will bring a harum of gorgeous women to my speaking engagement this Wednesday night at the Westport Library ... That's all I want to hear about! F*** the Killer Bees and Reagan and the crooked governors ...
But no, my stomach is being wrenched by the new knowledge of widespread corruption and union crushing and proletariat neutering and supreme court stacking and graft, and ongoing corporate malfeasance and chicanery and scum selling lies and scum telling lies and liars lying with straight-faced sociopathic integrity and old fools believing them and young fools as well ... Ouch! It makes my stomach hurt! Ouch! I AM Charlie Brown, you see, and my stomach always hurts ...
But wait! For now I'll quote Robert Plant, who bubbled so specifically in that lovely "The Song Remains the Same" movie rendition of "Stairway to Heaven," "But there's good news! Listen!" Yes! Why not?! Why not good news, for the Killer Bees are away from my radar after all, and all dead and buried at the bottom of the Rio Grande, for all I know ... and that's where one day soon we may find all these malfeasants and supplicating nitwits and schmucks and greedheads after all ... Aren't they just Killer Bees, really, on a demented rampage to keep alive and sting out at anything they THINK threatens them -- a fear-fueled frenzy of sociopathic stupidity ...
Even as we speak, there are probably focused, intelligent scientists in nerdy white lab coats who are developing vaccines for bullshit and marketed media manipulation and stupidity, and they'll be innoculating mankind before I know it ... And these lovely simply honest smart men (and women -- a few hot ones, with horn-rimmed glasses!) will be using their antiquated DDT puffer devises to soundly gas the bloodsucking parasites and heinous stinging bastards ...
They'll wait for them by the side of the River Styx, or some such river, and make it clear to them that they'll never be allowed in to heaven, which is probably here on earth after all ...
And heaven should be a place without sociopaths, Killer Bees or plastic surgery, and we'll all sit together by a quiet springtime stream and read aloud from the Bagvhad Gita, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and Space Case ...
Showing posts with label Killer Bees. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Killer Bees. Show all posts
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Memories of Coleytown Cafeteria Food
May 29, 2012: Before I talk about the Killer Bees, as I've been promising to do (and the Brady Bunch), let me spend a few heartfelt minutes recounting the marvelous memories of the food they used to serve in the cafeteria of my old elementary school.
In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.
For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)
Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)
Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)
Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).
Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)
Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.
And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)
Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"
She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)
Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)
It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!
In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.
For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)
Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)
Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)
Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).
Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)
Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.
And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)
Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"
She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)
Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)
It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Write Makes Right, and Dan Woog ... and SPACE CASE
May 10, 2012: There are so many things to talk about, I'm afraid the Killer Bees may have to wait another week ... Big news for SPACE CASE fans (and avoiders)! ...
To begin with, when you're doing one of these entries, don't hit the tab button, because your cursor will somehow just disappear and it could be hours before you find it again. This time I was lucky, but next time I may not be ...
I'm very happy to report that my recent Blah-ugh!, which extoled (or extolled -- I'm not sure which it was now) the virtue of trees and chastized the heinous greed-centered practices of Connecticut Light & Power, may have done some little good to spread awareness and motivate change after all. (Please keep in mind that I'm telling you this not so much to brag -- although there is that element -- but to demonstrate my still-remaining potential to eventually show some worth, contrary to what some people -- (people like EJ and my wife) -- might otherwise think.) ...
Now where was I? You see, people think it's easy for me to write those intricate run-on sentences, but it's not, especially late at night, when I'm nauseous from overeating mangos and cream ...
Ah, yes!: The scoundrels at CL&P and Dan Woog ... No, no! Don't lump them together, for Dan is a noble soul -- the brains behind the notorious Westport-based blog called 06880, or Danwoog06880 -- something like that; it seems to keep changing. Anyway, Dan was -- once again -- kind enough to lend his ever-strengthening forum to one of my hissyfits -- this time this tree business. And now, thanks to his exposure (and nerve in even being associated with me on so many occasions), the tides of malicious tree destruction -- which is, after all, such a stupid brand of destruction -- may be getting assuaged, or at least curbed ... And while a good deal of credit should also go to my lovely neighbor, who took the time to rant and call the tree warden -- although not necessarily in that order -- there's a good chance she won't be reading this, so I'll emphasize that it was MY work that really broke things open. (My god, several people even called me the Lorax after Dan's piece was out, while usually they just say, "Hey asshole!")
Which reminds me that I was thinking of this terrific line in the movie Die Hard II, where Bruce Willis tells the great John Amos, "I thought you were an asshole?" and Amos replies, "Oh, I'm an asshole alright, but I'm YOUR KIND of asshole!"
This makes a lot of sense to me. (My god, is there ANYTHING that action/adventures movies CAN'T teach us?!) But now that I think of it, it made a lot more sense earlier, when I had some point in bringing it up relating to this woman who brings her dog to poop in the graveyard down the street from me ...
But I can tell you this: this whole experience has me thinking I should start using my Blah-ugh! forum for good instead of evil. And this in turn gets me to wonder what other wrongs around me I should focus my virulent energies in trying to make right. Probably it would be a campaign aimed at restricting dogs, or dog owners, who generally drive me crazy and let their dogs poop everywhere. I'm not sure Dan would support this effort, but he doesn't know everything. I don't think he has a dog, but for all I know his blog is sponsored by dog-related industries and, therefore, he may shy away from confronting certain dog-related topics because of politics and corruption. I'm surprised at Dan! I've always admired his work, especially when he writes about me, and while he's not quite the clever wordsmith I am -- I'm actually pretty sure at this point that no one is -- he's probably a much better reporter, and so I would hope he could maintain his objectivity where things like dog poop are concerned.
And that's a good transition to mention my novel SPACE CASE, which I believe Dan is reading and wholeheartedly enjoying at this very moment! Believe it or not, it is now available in hard copy at Amazon! (I can't even believe it, and I worked like a dog getting it up, if you'll forgive the awkward dirtiness of that image ...) Of course, I have to kudos my friend Tom Hughes for his tireless work in creating a new cover, and while I supplied the cartoons, he supplied the resentments and it all just melded beautifully ... So there is no longer an excuse for you NOT to read this book, except for the fact that you may despite my work. But if that's the case, you shouldn't even be reading this, and I suggest you go over to Dan's blog and bother him ...
Alright, we'll try and get to those Killer Bees next time ... Meanwhile, think about saving a tree while you're having a hard copy of SPACE CASE shipped to your house. You won't regret it, at least until it arrives ...
To begin with, when you're doing one of these entries, don't hit the tab button, because your cursor will somehow just disappear and it could be hours before you find it again. This time I was lucky, but next time I may not be ...
I'm very happy to report that my recent Blah-ugh!, which extoled (or extolled -- I'm not sure which it was now) the virtue of trees and chastized the heinous greed-centered practices of Connecticut Light & Power, may have done some little good to spread awareness and motivate change after all. (Please keep in mind that I'm telling you this not so much to brag -- although there is that element -- but to demonstrate my still-remaining potential to eventually show some worth, contrary to what some people -- (people like EJ and my wife) -- might otherwise think.) ...
Now where was I? You see, people think it's easy for me to write those intricate run-on sentences, but it's not, especially late at night, when I'm nauseous from overeating mangos and cream ...
Ah, yes!: The scoundrels at CL&P and Dan Woog ... No, no! Don't lump them together, for Dan is a noble soul -- the brains behind the notorious Westport-based blog called 06880, or Danwoog06880 -- something like that; it seems to keep changing. Anyway, Dan was -- once again -- kind enough to lend his ever-strengthening forum to one of my hissyfits -- this time this tree business. And now, thanks to his exposure (and nerve in even being associated with me on so many occasions), the tides of malicious tree destruction -- which is, after all, such a stupid brand of destruction -- may be getting assuaged, or at least curbed ... And while a good deal of credit should also go to my lovely neighbor, who took the time to rant and call the tree warden -- although not necessarily in that order -- there's a good chance she won't be reading this, so I'll emphasize that it was MY work that really broke things open. (My god, several people even called me the Lorax after Dan's piece was out, while usually they just say, "Hey asshole!")
Which reminds me that I was thinking of this terrific line in the movie Die Hard II, where Bruce Willis tells the great John Amos, "I thought you were an asshole?" and Amos replies, "Oh, I'm an asshole alright, but I'm YOUR KIND of asshole!"
This makes a lot of sense to me. (My god, is there ANYTHING that action/adventures movies CAN'T teach us?!) But now that I think of it, it made a lot more sense earlier, when I had some point in bringing it up relating to this woman who brings her dog to poop in the graveyard down the street from me ...
But I can tell you this: this whole experience has me thinking I should start using my Blah-ugh! forum for good instead of evil. And this in turn gets me to wonder what other wrongs around me I should focus my virulent energies in trying to make right. Probably it would be a campaign aimed at restricting dogs, or dog owners, who generally drive me crazy and let their dogs poop everywhere. I'm not sure Dan would support this effort, but he doesn't know everything. I don't think he has a dog, but for all I know his blog is sponsored by dog-related industries and, therefore, he may shy away from confronting certain dog-related topics because of politics and corruption. I'm surprised at Dan! I've always admired his work, especially when he writes about me, and while he's not quite the clever wordsmith I am -- I'm actually pretty sure at this point that no one is -- he's probably a much better reporter, and so I would hope he could maintain his objectivity where things like dog poop are concerned.
And that's a good transition to mention my novel SPACE CASE, which I believe Dan is reading and wholeheartedly enjoying at this very moment! Believe it or not, it is now available in hard copy at Amazon! (I can't even believe it, and I worked like a dog getting it up, if you'll forgive the awkward dirtiness of that image ...) Of course, I have to kudos my friend Tom Hughes for his tireless work in creating a new cover, and while I supplied the cartoons, he supplied the resentments and it all just melded beautifully ... So there is no longer an excuse for you NOT to read this book, except for the fact that you may despite my work. But if that's the case, you shouldn't even be reading this, and I suggest you go over to Dan's blog and bother him ...
Alright, we'll try and get to those Killer Bees next time ... Meanwhile, think about saving a tree while you're having a hard copy of SPACE CASE shipped to your house. You won't regret it, at least until it arrives ...
Saturday, May 5, 2012
The Dead & Me
May 5, 2012: I planned on doing a post about the Killer Bees, but then I saw this dead body on I-95 and I thought it might make a better Blah-ugh! (And yes, Space Case is still available ...)
Apparently this poor wretch jumped off the overpass just minutes before I got there, getting hit by three cars before settling in to his demise. Of course, I'm grateful I didn't hit him -- and would have, had I left a few moments earlier -- but as I zipped along in the left lane, I still almost ran over him, because he was lying half in the edge of the road. (His arm was severely twisted under his body, while his torn shirt showed a smattering of blood ... but I didn't get a terribly close look at him, and I didn't feel like stopping to study.)
The oddest part was seeing a body there with no police lights signifying the event. It was dark and the vehicles -- four of them -- were pulled over yards and yards past him. A few people were standing about there, dumbstruck, talking -- one man appeared to be smiling maniacally -- but no one was going near the guy. It was surreal, almost as if they didn't know he was there, or he were a squirrel ...
Of course, the event brought up memories of the time I found a dead woman on the way to work. She was just lying in her driveway, having had an asthma attack after a brisk walk that freezing morning. Her asthma inhaler was lying on the ground next to her, and her gloves were off and to the side. I was bleary-eyed as I traveled this back road in Redding, Connecticut, and I went yards and yards past the driveway before it fully registered that I'd just passed a woman lying there ...
After pulling over and running back, I found her there seemingly frozen. Her eyes were open and her mouth snarled in that gruesome rictus of death. (I finally have a reason to use the word "rictus" in an essay and I can't remember if I'm spelling it right.) I shook her and said, "Hey, lady!" (I didn't know what the hell else to do; it didn't even occur to me to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (and probably because I never would have had the nerve anyway!)) Anyway, by the time some other people pulled over, we all agreed she was dead and there was nothing left for us to do ...
My last death-related story -- at least to date -- involves the tour of the dead body I took with my doctor friend, which I recounted sparingly (yet exquisitely) in my now-famous Fray magazine article. I'll hope you enjoy it, if you haven't already ...
On another note, it may be time for me to relocate my Blah-ugh! As every company, business, software program, television show will do, this site -- which has been so good to me, I guess -- has decided to change everything for no good reason. (I'm reminded of the time Hunter Thompson told me, "If it works, don't fix it.") And now I'm struggling to get this stupid thing out and over the airwaves, and I don't feel like struggling.
Unfortunately, if I were to finally decide to create and maintain my own site, it would doubtless require more work, and I just don't know if I'm up to it ... And on still another note (EJ), it may be time for you to finally buy Space Case -- that book I wrote that no one is taking the time to write 20-word reviews for on Amazon (excepting blessed Kathy & Eric -- both of whom have the good taste I expect my Blah-ugh! readers to possess).
NEXT WEEK (or sooner): I really AM going to talk about Killer Bees ...
Apparently this poor wretch jumped off the overpass just minutes before I got there, getting hit by three cars before settling in to his demise. Of course, I'm grateful I didn't hit him -- and would have, had I left a few moments earlier -- but as I zipped along in the left lane, I still almost ran over him, because he was lying half in the edge of the road. (His arm was severely twisted under his body, while his torn shirt showed a smattering of blood ... but I didn't get a terribly close look at him, and I didn't feel like stopping to study.)
The oddest part was seeing a body there with no police lights signifying the event. It was dark and the vehicles -- four of them -- were pulled over yards and yards past him. A few people were standing about there, dumbstruck, talking -- one man appeared to be smiling maniacally -- but no one was going near the guy. It was surreal, almost as if they didn't know he was there, or he were a squirrel ...
Of course, the event brought up memories of the time I found a dead woman on the way to work. She was just lying in her driveway, having had an asthma attack after a brisk walk that freezing morning. Her asthma inhaler was lying on the ground next to her, and her gloves were off and to the side. I was bleary-eyed as I traveled this back road in Redding, Connecticut, and I went yards and yards past the driveway before it fully registered that I'd just passed a woman lying there ...
After pulling over and running back, I found her there seemingly frozen. Her eyes were open and her mouth snarled in that gruesome rictus of death. (I finally have a reason to use the word "rictus" in an essay and I can't remember if I'm spelling it right.) I shook her and said, "Hey, lady!" (I didn't know what the hell else to do; it didn't even occur to me to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (and probably because I never would have had the nerve anyway!)) Anyway, by the time some other people pulled over, we all agreed she was dead and there was nothing left for us to do ...
My last death-related story -- at least to date -- involves the tour of the dead body I took with my doctor friend, which I recounted sparingly (yet exquisitely) in my now-famous Fray magazine article. I'll hope you enjoy it, if you haven't already ...
On another note, it may be time for me to relocate my Blah-ugh! As every company, business, software program, television show will do, this site -- which has been so good to me, I guess -- has decided to change everything for no good reason. (I'm reminded of the time Hunter Thompson told me, "If it works, don't fix it.") And now I'm struggling to get this stupid thing out and over the airwaves, and I don't feel like struggling.
Unfortunately, if I were to finally decide to create and maintain my own site, it would doubtless require more work, and I just don't know if I'm up to it ... And on still another note (EJ), it may be time for you to finally buy Space Case -- that book I wrote that no one is taking the time to write 20-word reviews for on Amazon (excepting blessed Kathy & Eric -- both of whom have the good taste I expect my Blah-ugh! readers to possess).
NEXT WEEK (or sooner): I really AM going to talk about Killer Bees ...
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