Is This What I've Become?

You may or may not follow me over at Facebook, but I will sometimes take a picture with a potty training book from the children's library and try to make an amusing caption for it.  YMMV, of course.*

I walk past that section of books approximately ten times a week, so it's something to keep me occupied . . . since I'm definitely not writing stories. 

Anyway, in the local toy group, someone mentioned they were looking to buy a Galactus figure (which I still have one of), and another guy posted, "Try the poop book guy."

His reply was "Poop book guy?"

Then: "I forget his name, but he likes poop books alot."

Well, that's where we are, I suppose.

Guess you know what to put on my headstone, huh?

Big Anklevich made this for me, specifically for this post.  Thanks, I guess.

*I alternated between Your Mileage May Vary and the abbreviation . . . and now I've done neither.

Yub Nub?

Me n' Big Anklevich were just the right age to love the Ewoks.  The generation before ours equated them with all that went wrong with Star Wars (in 1983-85, as short-sighted as that seems), and later generations had their own problems.  But hey, I like the Ewoks just fine, and had all the action figures Kenner made, except Logray (ironically, one of the least-valuable).

But Hasbro doesn't make a lot of them anymore.  I remember Toys R Us had a boxed set of Ewoks that was worth its weight in gold, even though they were mostly the same figure over and over with different accessories.

Anyway, that is unnecessary backstory that serves to a) provide context, and more importantly, b) to pad out this blog post a little bit.  The point of all this is that, when I was crossing the lawn the other day from parking my car, I saw something that had been dropped in the front yard, and I paused.

To my eyes, the first thing I thought I was seeing was an Ewok.  This looked like an action figure of a random Ewok, random enough I didn't immediately recognize it.  But Hasbro has done a lot of them over the decades.  And some of those figures have become pretty valuable recently (but only to people around my age, but with a lot more money).

So, back to the mysterious object in the grass.  It didn't look like an Ewok that belonged to me, but my nephews sometimes go to thrift stores and have bought Star Wars stuff in the past, so I thought it might have been dropped by one of them.

Of course, let me interrupt the narrative right here with a bit of metacommentary.  It may be that I look and see an Ewok where anybody else would look and see something else, and you, having seen the photos, know exactly where this is going.  But it looked like an Ewok to me, and in posting the picture here, it still pretty much does.

But no, it was not an action figure of any sort, Star Wars or otherwise.  Upon much-too-close examination, what was in the grass in our front yard was merely a dog turd.  Fun.

I don't rule out the possibility that the dog turd originated from the forest moon of Endor, though.

Legacy Progress - Day 19

Today was a long hard day of manual labor . . . but I am determined to edit a chapter.  Just not Chapter 22.  It's too long.

I ended up doing two chapters, though I found an error in the second of them (and will have to redo a line).  I am super tired right now, and even though it's hours before I normally go to bed (I got up before the sun today, so that might have something to do with it), I'm tempted to skip exercise and just hit the sack.

Shoot, that's what I did.

In other news, I hate the word "turducken," and loathe anybody that uses it.  I've got a friend in New Zealand, and he's absolutely revolted whenever he hears these dirty, shameful truths about America and our gluttony.  When I told him about our fast food culture here, he shook his head and said, "But that's just, like, rich teenagers you're talking about . . . or morbidly obese computer programmers."  And the truth is, it's everybody writing this or reading this, except him.  Sad, no?*

*I used to have a friend in Argentina, and she would ask me about American culture, because, as she said, there was so much anti-Yanqui (the vile word they call us) propaganda there.  And I asked, "Like what?"  And she said, "About how racist you guys are, and how wasteful and decadent."  I said, "Decadent how?" thinking it would be something sexual.  And she said, "Like, I read this disgusting thing that most Americans buy Christmas presents . . . for their dogs.  That's gotta be a lie, right?"

And I had to tell her that, growing up, my siblings and I would always get a present for our dog, every year.  Sigh.

Karl's Dilemma

Forewarned Is Forearmed

By Rish Outfield

A True Story

Karl Galen didn't believe in premonitions, although his mother had once had a dream that Mitt Romney would be elected president and overcome a vampire insurgence.  But today, right before leaving for work, he had a strange and sudden urge to go to his underwear drawer and open it.

Karl squinted at the bueruaeueo, wondering why he was looking at it, since he was already dressed and two minutes late for work.  But he had a feeling that he was forgetting something, so he crossed back through the room, opened the drawer, and looked inside.  There were several pairs of underwear, as well as an errant sock.  But nothing more.

Even so, Karl picked up the first boxer shorts on the pile and gripped them in his hand . . . as though they held significance.  "But what?" he heard himself say.

The answer was not forthcoming.  It was just a striped pair of underwear, one he'd had for a couple of years.  Nothing special.

"I don't have time for this."  Twice he had talked to himself today, which was not his habit (though, of course, neither was feeling like he was missing something vitally important about a pair of shorts).  But he couldn't put the underwear back in the drawer, even though his brain told his hand to do so.

He needed the underwear.  For some reason.

"Alright, alright," he said, thinking aloud for the third of four times that day.  And he closed the drawer, and headed out of his room, through his apartment, and out the door, the extra pair of underwear still in hand.

He drove to work, and made pretty good time, the lights seemingly working with him for a change.  At the one light he missed, at the corner where the Der Weinerschnitzel faced the First Communion/Quinciñera dress shop, he looked over at the truck's passenger seat, and the underwear that still sat there.  It was strange, but he still felt like it needed to be there.

He got to his job on time, which was nice, and drove around to the main office trailer to start work and find out today's assignment.  On his way in, he glanced back at the extra boxer shorts there on the seat, and grabbed them out of the truck, just in case someone came by and noticed him and, I dunno, made fun of them or something.  After clocking in, he stuck the underwear in his half-sized work locker.

JonJon, his boss, told him to go over to the site on Sica and Nicolas, where they were building a Target (one that had been scheduled to open almost six months ago and was still at least two months from finished).  He'd have to inspect all the ceiling tiles, which had been installed over the last week, making sure they were all there, all secured, and all undamaged.

It turned out that two of them were missing, in the far corner of the employee restroom, and he'd had to physically accompany the junior workman who'd marked it off as done from location to location to make sure it was finished.  "You hear that?" the workman asked, as he was coming down the ladder.

"Hear what?" Karl asked, though he'd been a little distracted by his stomach gurgling to listen for anything out of the ordinary. 

"I think one of the pipes might be backed up," the kid said.  "It was a sloshy water sound."

"Are you able to check on that yourself?"

"Not my department," said the kid.  But hey, the ceiling tiles had been his department, and look how well that had been done.

"But you think that a pipe was--" Karl began, and then his stomach made a wet, ominous rumble.  "Oh."

"Huh.  It was you, not a pipe," the workman said, rather obviously.

"Right," Karl said, trying to see the humor in it.

"But I guess that's kind of like a backed-up pipe, isn't it?"

"I guess so," Karl said, and signed the inspection certificate, tearing off the top sheet and holding it out to the kid.

"Oh no, you're supposed to give this to my supervisor, not me," said the workman, who'd wasted an hour of Karl's day by not having the keys to get into the trailer where the ceiling tiles were stored, despite having driven over there for that exact purpose.

"And where can I find him?"

"Her.  It's the twenty-twenties."

Karl thought that, if it truly were the 2020s, the operative pronoun would be They/Them, but didn't say it out loud.  "Okay, where can I find her?"

"She's probably with the forklift guys.  She likes to yell at them."

"Can you find out?  You have a walkie talkie," Karl said, though that should have been obvious.  It's how the workman had been called to accompany Karl on this irritating little errand in the first place.

"I turned it off," said the kid.

Karl was able to control himself enough not to yell at the guy to turn it back on and help him do his job.  "Could you find out where she is, please?"

She turned out to be outside of the building, on the other side, which Karl only found out after trying the wrong side first.  She was indeed shouting at the forklift driver, but shouting at him to go faster, since she was timing him in a race from the loading ramp to the fence.  She seemed irritated at the interruption, but was happy to have the inspection passed.  "Now, why couldn't you have this yesterday?" she asked, smirking.

"I don't know, were those last two restroom tiles done yesterday?"

She gave him a scowl and told him to have a nice day, smartass.  Karl walked to his truck, got inside, and started back toward the office, making sure he had the other two copies--both signed and stamped--that proved the inspection was done.  And then his stomach made that sound again.

He didn't feel sick, and he hadn't had lunch yet, so nothing he'd eaten had disagreed with him, but that sound was a scary one, like the growl of an angry dog, or a rumbling cloud before a baseball game.

He was back on the road and headed back when his stomach suddenly clenched up.  His body announced that he had to go to the bathroom . . . and then some.

He found it difficult to keep driving--he felt like a stick of dynamite, like in a Western movie, one with a long, long fuse . . . which had been lit.  

Karl had been in this situation a time or two before, though usually when he was at home.  He had to get to a bathroom soon, maybe within the next two or three minutes.  If not, he would be in the most awful kind of trouble.

But wait.  There was a Walgreens right at the end of Nicolas Avenue.  He'd used the ATM a month or so previously.  It was right up the road, only two blocks, three blocks at the most.  He could make it.

The lights, this time, were not with Karl.  His stomach made that ghastly, storm-threatening sound again, and he felt sweat appearing on his brow and at the back of his neck.  But there was the Walgreens, right there on the next block, and a car was pulling out of the spot right across from the doors.

He took the turn a little too fast as he pulled from the street to the parking lot, the truck thumping onto the corner of the curb, which did his overworked bowels no favors.  He made it to the spot and shifted into Park just as his stomach made a new sound, accompanied by an ugly, unbearable heave.  Shame and anger--in equal parts--flooded through Karl as his hands, on autopilot, undid his seatbelt to get out of the truck.

There was the building with the public restroom in front of him, so close he could touch it.  But he hadn't made it.

This was what his premonition had been about this morning.  But the extra pair of shorts he'd been so wise to bring along today were sitting in his locker at work.  "Oh no," he thought aloud.

the end

March Sweeps - Day 424

It's the last day of the month, and I guess that should make me all introspective (or retrospective).  Sure, I could've done better in the month of March, as far as my goals went, but I could also have done a hell of a lot worse.  Keep that in mind, the next time you set goals that seem smart one day and seem supremely dumb a few days later.

At the library now.  I need to write, but I just don't want to.  Having finished another project, my options are either: 1) Make revisions on that project (which I did yesterday), 2) Pick up a story in progress and work on that, or 3) Start on a brand new project.

I guess there's always the fourth option of 4) Surf the internet instead.

The sky's the limit in what I could do next, but instead of being freeing, it feels like a bit of a high-pressure decision, because I have to do it right now, or I've come to the library for nothing.

Sit-ups Today: 100
Sit-ups In March: 3279

My mom gave me this thing last Christmas (gosh, it might have been Christmas 2019, but I found it in January 2021) that you're supposed to put in your wallet to prevent evildoers from stealing your identity.  I don't know if it works or not, but I put it in my wallet so I didn't have to feel guilty that my mom got me something and I never used it.

The problem is, every time I go into a Walgreens now, I set the alarm off at the door.  Usually I will chuckle and wave, because all heads turn in my direction, and I've never had anyone give me a hard time since I'm coming INTO the store instead of exiting it.*

But today, I went to Walgreens, beeped coming in, and then needed to hit the restroom at the back of the store (it's complicated**), and as I went back there, the alarm went off again.  In my paranoia, I was worried that the employees of the store would think I was a shoplifter, and that I was back there, I dunno, shoving double-A batteries into my socks and bottles of Tylenol into my pants (I can fit quite a few of them in there, if you were curious).  They'd either come into the bathroom while I was "Hangin' With Mister Cooper," so to speak, or they'd be waiting outside the doors for me to come out, catching me red-handed.

I saw a single employee (a twenty-something male who looked suspiciously like the Skinny Chandler I talked about in yesterday's blog post) give me the eye when I came out (often, they'll say, "Can I help you?" which is what people in retail are trained to do when they encounter a potential shoplifter.  The theory is that a thief will be hesitant to steal after interacting with an employee because they feel they could be identified or remembered.  I'm not sure if it works, but I had the same training as OxyCodonMatthewPerry), but there was no confrontation, and when I exited the store itself . . . the alarm did NOT go off.

This happens a lot, but I've never felt it worth mentioning (shoot, I still don't . . . but I just Do Not Want To Write).  

I'm not sure why I'm telling you this, except it does make me want to write a story where Lara Demming curses one of her classmates to set off the theft alarm of every store he goes into, just to teach him a lesson.

That reminds me: I was thinking of coming up with a word that Old Widow Holcomb uses in the "Lara" stories that refer to the people around them, those who don't have magical abilities or are aware of witches, kind of like JK Rolling used "muggles" to refer to . . . um, those who don't have magical abilities or are aware of wizards and witches.  Whoops.

Gosh, what was the awful word they used in the prequel films to refer to-- Nomajes, that's what it was.  Gross.

Anyway, I just thought it would be fun if Holcomb had a word like "gentiles" to refer to Lara's classmates, the people that she consider beneath her, maybe like carnival folk refer to "rubes."  Honestly, I'm leaning toward "gentiles" right now, it's just such a delightful word with amusing (to me) connotations.  What do you think?

Push-ups Today: 154
Push-ups In March: 3215

So, I surprised myself by grabbing the abandoned Lara/Holcomb story I started at the beginning of February, in "honor" of Valentine's Day, and writing an exchange where Lara asks the witch about Valentine's Day in her childhood, and Holcomb tells about a boy she knew who loved her.  As far as Holcomb stories go, it's surprisingly light on blood-letting, and it was fun to imagine her as a thirteen or fourteen year old girl, going to a dance in town and chumming up to a boy that had nothing to offer her except his heart. 

I had Lara ask what happened to the boy, and Holcomb says he died in the war.  But which war would that be?  Are we talking World War II?  The Great War?  Something else?  I can't honestly remember if I ever came out and said how old Holcomb is, but I feel like I said she was just over a hundred.  But this Valentine's Day get-together feels like something that would've happened in the 1880s or '90s*** and I guess that means Holcomb is more like 139 years old.  

Does that work?

Words Today: 1497
Words In March: 28,219

*Yes, and because I'm white.  I'll say it so you don't have to.

**Basically, from time to time, the food and liquid I consume builds up inside my body and then, almost without warning, demands to be purged.  I wish it didn't happen, and I know it probably disgusts you (certainly it does me), but it hits me sometimes and I have to use the facilities of wherever I'm at.  Usually, it's over quickly, I will flush the toilet, wash my hands, and continue with my day.  Don't judge me too harshly please.
The weird thing is, I honestly have this hang-up about it, where I think, "I'm the only person that does this.  I'm a dirty, dirty little boy."  This is a thought that I have once or twice a week . . . EVERY WEEK for the past, I dunno, twenty or more years.  I should see a counsellor, but I'm sure he or she would discover that's just the tip of the mental health iceberg.

***I did check, to see if that dread holiday was celebrated back in those days--fully expecting that it was developed in the 20th century as another bloody Hallmark holiday . . . but no, it was a thing, even then.  It may be the worst day of the year for me, but it was a big deal even in the nineteenth century.

December Sweeps - Day 329

Ten am, day after Christmas, I am sprawled upon the couch.

One of the goals for the year was to put out a Christmas collection, and dude, we've got a week left in the year.  So that's a goal that absolutely will not be met . . . but I figure I can at least figure out how many stories will be in it and which ones.  I've written a number of Christmas-related stories over the year, having shared a lot of them on my solo podcasts ("Last Minute Shopper," "Choice of a Sidekick," "The Many Faces of Christmas Eve") and on the Dunesteef ones ("The Holiday Trip," "Present of the Christmas Ghost," "What You Deserve," "Naughty or Nice"), but there are a couple others that have never seen any kind of release.

The unfortunate thing about Audible is that they require extraordinarily high production values, silence, formatting (192 kbps bitrate, 44100 hertz) and that necessitates me re-recording them from the versions on the Dunesteef (all of which were fullcast or semi-fullcast anyway), which is not the end of the world--I like to record audio, but the editing is going to be the bugger, especially without a cabin to go to where I can say, "Alright, for the next two hours, I'm gonna sit here and just edit, nothing more."

I did go ahead and publish text versions of My Friend of Misery, "Never Let Him Go," and a short story from 2016 called "Roll With The Changes," which I mention here because ah, no reason.

Sit-ups Today: 100
Sit-ups In December: 2921

So, I went to the library shortly before it closed.  I sat down, and almost immediately had to go to the bathroom.  Paranoid that someone would walk off with my laptop (and the thousands of hours' work only located therein), I shut up my computer, took it with me, and went as quickly as I could to the restroom, only to find it Out of Order.  

So, I went downstairs, to the main restroom right inside the doors, and found it locked.  No Out of Order sign was there, but it was closed up.  I went to the nearest librarian to ask about it and she told me they were closed, but there were two additional restrooms on the third floor.

Third floor?  I've been coming here for a decade, and I had no idea there was a third floor.  Turns out it's on the other side of the building, where the city offices are, and is inaccessible from any part of the library.  There were elevators, but I took the stairs up two floors and looked around until I finally found the Mens room.  It was locked up tight.

Luckily, I had passed a unisex one (I think it said "Family Restroom" by the door) on the other side of the hall, so I went back there . . . and it was locked too.

I'm reminded of John Cleese in the Monty Python "Cheese Shoppe" sketch, when he says, "It figures. Predictable, really, I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place."

So, I schlepped my way back here, sitting down, starting up my computer again, but having to go just as badly as before.  Pardon my saying so, sir, but what if it had been an emergency?  What if someone had to throw up?  What if someone had a child with them that couldn't simply Hold It?

Guess that's what the library floor is for, folks.

Now, I have a few more minutes to write--only have 155 words so far--and we'll see if I can manage.  Though that floor is starting to look awful tempting.

Push-ups Today: 66 (it wasn't push-up day, but I did them anyway.  Sorry)
Push-ups In December: 2750

I wrote a story in September about the Siren Head creepypasta which I changed at the last minute to being about "the Waffle Iron Man."  I'd really like to come up with a good title for that one ("Waffle Iron Man" is, alas, not that), preferably something that substitutes "waffle" for the word "awful."  I wonder if there are any sayings or popular song lyrics with "awful" in them.

I did a search, but couldn't read the screen due to intense discomfort.  I am now at the point where, having to go to the bathroom but refusing to do so, my body is rebelling, and I am actively sweating . . . in December.  Amazing how that works.

Well, I knew that I wasn't going to make it, so I typed another ten words or so, then started gathering up my things for the night.  And then I heard a toilet flush.  I'm on the second floor, where it's normally pretty quiet, and there are only two other people up here with me--the librarian included--so the sound traveled immensely far.  I went over and asked the librarian about it, and he told me it was the Women's restroom I heard.

I asked him if there were any other possibilities, and he said he would check the Men's room for me.  He went over, produced a key, unlocked the door, and went inside.  A toilet flushed in there.  I did a little dance--but not out of excitement or attempts at rhythm.

The librarian came out, said the toilet was still broken, and locked the doors again.  He apologized and said there was nothing he could do.  I watched an old woman come out of the Women's restroom, and decided to go for it.  "Let me know if I'm out of line, but could I just use the Ladies' room?"

And this may surprise you: he not only said I could, but he stood outside the door to prevent any unfortunate female urinators from going in while I was in there.  

Relief came quickly.

Now, if you're a guy, you've heard this before (and if you're a gal, you have likely forgotten this), but the Women's restroom was gigantic, with a changing table, two stalls, a comfy chair (not sure what it was for, maybe breastfeeding?), two sinks with two separate mirrors, and the requisite vending machine.  It was larger than my first apartment in college (and larger than my first apartment in L.A., including the bathroom and closet).

I got out as fast as I could, but I really appreciate the librarian being so willing to help me out, and now I can spend the next half hour (before the library closes) writing.

Except I won't.  I'll blog and surf the internet under the pretense of finding out if the phrase "in my wheelhouse" existed in the 1890s.

Despite my ordeal, I didn't manage a whole lot of words during my time in the library.  I'm still in the first chapter/section of the new Lara/Holcomb story (did finish it before I left), and I got to do one of my favorite comedic tricks from the Dunesteef days, where I cite three things, the first two being normal and the third being a joke (in this case, it was old lady celebrities--Lara thinks of Betty White, Meryl Streep . . . and Angelina Jolie).  If you don't think it's funny, that's okay, we can still be frien--

No, I take it back.  Go eff yourself.

I had intended, both tonight and last night, to sit down and finish recording "A Sidekick's Errand" or "Z Day Report," two audio projects I halted right in the middle.  That would've garnered me another hundred words or so, but I didn't manage either night.  Maybe tomorrow.

Words Today: 755
December: 24,264

To my surprise, "in my wheelhouse" originated in the 1950s, in sports journalism, describing the area where a batter was most comfortable, most likely to hit a home run.  The word "wheelhouse" is a nautical one dating back to the riverboats described by Mark Twain, but I give zero poops about that bit.

August Sweeps - Day 194

The boys have gone to their baseball game/practice, and it was my sister's turn to take them.  So that leaves me with plenty of time on my own to writ . . . zzzzzz.

Yeah, I'm super sleepy now.  I took the boys out for lunch today, went to the lake for an hour (or less) before the sun went down, and got my second haircut for the year.  Honestly, I knew I was way overdue for a haircut weeks ago, but I kept not getting it done because I liked the way it felt and occasionally, the way it looked.

I ran over to the park while I was waiting for my haircut and jotted down a few paragraphs on my story.  It's not enough, of course, but I did what I could, inching ever closer to the end.

Before

I've mentioned before that the Mexican lady at the salon at the bottom of the hill where I normally get my hair cut had to close her salon during the COVID-19 outbreak, and I've been growing my hair out ever since (she cut my hair in February, and that was all she wrote).  I knew I needed to get it cut, but I liked having it long--I no longer had to put sunscreen on my ears or neck--and I knew it would piss off my father.

Anyhow, it occurred to me the last time I was at the cabin that I had her business card, and maybe she was still cutting hair somewhere else, and the number would still be good.  Of course, there was no way to call it up in the mountains* so I promptly forgot about it.  But I called her number, got a machine, and as I was leaving a message, got an incoming call which turned out to be her.  Yes, she still cuts hair, but her new location was in a word I didn't know, number four something.

Well, I've mentioned before (often?) that I used to speak fluent Spanish, and it bugs the life out of me that I don't anymore, and am always wanting to improve my skills, so I was determined to figure out where the lady's new salon was.  I tried to ask if she could text me the address, but wouldn't you know, I don't know how to say "send me a text" either.  Somehow, she understood my meaning, and sent the address, which turned out to be only two minutes or so from the park with the stairs I've been going to to write, occasionally exercise, and just as occasionally not be able to get to the bathroom in time.**

I left the park, driving to what turned out to be a trailer park with three minutes to spare . . . and then I couldn't find number four.  This trailer park, pardon my snobbishness for a moment, was so rundown and sketchy that I actually started getting scared walking around it, looking for number four.  There were barking dogs, half-naked children playing in the dirt, broken-down cars in various state of disrepair, and a couple of Iggy Pop-skinny folks sitting outside glaring at me as I tried to find the right number.  I found trailer one, five, and three, but no four.

A couple minutes later, my phone rang again, and the lady--whose name is Eva, it turns out--called me, asking me something I couldn't understand in her language.  I told her I didn't know where number four was, but I was by number three.  And she said she'd come out and find me.  

Turns out, number four has no house number on it, because nobody actually lives there.  Eva bought it when her salon closed down and turned it into a haircutting place, which she says has been open since May.  Because I didn't show up in time, another guy took my place, and as soon as I sat down, a third guy came in for a haircut, so she's really doing good business.

I asked her if she wanted me to wear a mask, but she said she didn't care.***  The trailer was very hot and unpleasant, despite Eva having two electric fans blowing, but I waited patiently until it was my turn.  When she cut my hair, her friend came over, and the two of them jabbered back in forth, and I tried hard to follow the conversation, but I have to admit that every time she addressed me instead of her friend, I had no idea it was me she was talking to.  I'm really going to have to study up if I ever made good on my goal of going to Mexico and visiting every single brothel in Sorona.

After

Anyway, it was nice to hear the lady refer to putting a little "hell" in my hair.  Been too long.

Right now, it's only 11:04pm and I can barely keep my head up.  It feels like a watermelon has been attached to my neck.

I forced myself to get up and go do some sit-ups, but I'll be honest, when I first laid back on the floor, I thought about just going to sleep and leave my count at zero.

Still, I fought my way through it, and grabbed my shoes and went out and did my run.  And it was hard--harder than it usually is--and I was tempted to turn and quit after only a block or so.  But I guess that's when it really matters, when you don't want to do it, and even though I'm fatter today than I was a month ago (despite all the sit-ups, amazingly), the fact that the exercise is part of my dail--nightly routine has to be good, no?

Sit-ups Today: 111
Sit-ups In August: 2426

After that, though, I didn't have much more to give.  I briefly considered opening my editing program and trying to get a few minutes of editing done, but even that was beyond me.  So I watched a YouTube video, farted, and was done for the day.

Words Today: 717
Words In August: 11,597

*My mom told me that there is a telephone at the gatekeepers cabin right as you get to the lake that you can use at any time, for emergencies or otherwise, and I should have/could have used that to call her to tell her I couldn't find her checkbook last week.  Probably I'll forget again the next time I'm up there (going to skip this week, just because), but it's possible I could send texts or even post on Facebook from there if I really need to.

**Sorry to be scatological (again), but it is like a curse--every time I go to that park, I have an urgent need come upon me to to go to the bathroom . . . like right now.  It is so consistent that I have been thinking about writing a Lara & the Witch story where Lara curses one of the boys at her school "Every time you would normally grab a girl's butt, you will have the uncontrollable need to poop your pants."  Then she could just stand back and see what happens.  I guess the EC Comics ending would be that the student--Eric Choner, probably--starts wearing Depends adult diapers to school, and still fondles the buttocks of girls left and right.  Lemonade out of lemons, apparently.

***Oh, I meant to mention this: I lost my mask on Tuesday night when I was out with my cousin.  I don't know what happened to it--probably it was on my lap when I was in his (or my) car and it fell out when I got out, but I couldn't find it the next day, and I'm 99% certain I've lost it now.  In these updated status quo times, losing your mask feels like losing your wallet or your car keys.  I had a cheap disposable one I picked up a couple of weeks ago, and I've been wearing that, but the one my mom sewed for me back in March was made for my face, and anything else (I grabbed a black cloth one yesterday and have been trying to get used to it) has been hard to get used to.  I'm like one of those Eighties slasher movie characters, I guess, and I feel naked without my William Shatner or hockey mask.

Rish Outcast 102: The Brown Prom (Part 2)

Rish finishes up his over-long story, "The Brown Prom," a true(ish) high school memory.  Then he crams (quite literally) two episodes' worth of discussion in about the magical mystery wonder years tour.

Downloading the episode?  Right-Click HERE.

Supporting Rish on Patreon?  Just-Click HERE.