1643 shopping days until 18.104.22.168.0 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in.
I’d look worried too.
Who puts what looks like the head of an ancient Greek Philosopher on the trailer hitch of their big honkin’ pickup truck? We do know this: They eat at Sonic Drive In.
Since we got home from our usual Sunday-go-to-breakfast (No, not at Sonic. I took the dpic on Father’s Day.) I’ve frittered the day away mostly twittering at tinydoctor. It’s like a mania massage, or having my neurons shampooed. It is addictive.
I got out my Scissor Dance materials, arranged them on the table, cut a few things out of my pile of old magazines, fooled about with placing the first cuts on the row of backing boards (I often work on several SDs at once), stood up to look at them, and then walked away. You see, this process can happen all at once in one pantpantpant fell swoop, or it takes months of intermintant lacackdaisical “effort.” Oh, I do sweat over them, but it doesn’t do a damn bit of good as far as I can tell. I recently completed one, but since we moved I haven’t been able to find a power cord that fits the plug in on the back of our scanner, so a ‘fresh’ scissor dance languishes face down on the platen of said scanner, waiting to be digitized.
Blogging note: The original Tent Show with all its multifarious pages at Salon is still up, clickable, viewable, downloadable, but I tried to post a couple of items to it, and though on my private home page they appeared to have posted, alas, the Radio software was lying to me again, because said posts have yet to appear on my public online home page. Since it’s been several days, I have to assume it’s not working.
Anyone who covets a particular image or wishes to preserve a poem or sermonette for their own personal posterity, better get over there and steal it now, since only Xuemotl (and possibly the mysterious “Lee”) knows when the whole thing will go tits up. In the meantime, the Nuns of the Week (Sorry, no link for you one-handed nun lovers out there) continue to boost my ranking on the Salon server whether I will or no.
So that’s it for this Hello-I’m-here post. Dinner won’t fix itself, as Mrs. Doctor Omed so insistently reminds me.
Take a blessing from me and rub it all over. I promise you won’t hate yourself in the morning.
ox Nihil Obstat Il Papa O