A Charley Blog
On Hurricane Damage/Updates.
Here also.
The video they're showing on the live broadcast is incredible.
The Herald Tribune
Amazing photos on this site.
Forums on this site were supposed to be for funny stories from Charley. Folks are using them to get info about relatives, property, damage, etc.
An early stage list of agencies that are/will be serving Charley Hurricane victims from News-Press.
photo of Punta Gorda florist shop after Charley
I know he's born again, but do you think maybe he's backslid with the Texas Tea? Or is he just this stupid?
Thanks to MJ for the Friday giggles.
Best as I can tell, the category 4 Charley is coming ashore at Tom Matrollo's house. And I mean at Tom's house.
Tom, we're just up I-75 a few hundred miles if you're on the road. It's calm here, not counting Jenna. Praying for the safety of you and yours. Coffee's on.
boy oh boy.
note: the sun-harold site, linked above, is down now. power outage maybe?
Yesterday I wanted to smoke really badly. I realized that the tips of my emotions are where my addictions take flight. Especially the low end.
I am finding that when I'm mid-range--neither vomiting from anxiety nor high with joy--I'm okay without additives. I don't look for a light, I don't want to go down to the garage and sniff butts off the concrete floor. I don't want a half-gallon of Publix Leche De Luca or whatever the heck that carmel laced ice cream is called. I just sort of live my life without noticing any particular wounds or scabs.
I pretty much function, do work, get paid, enjoy spending my cash, play with the kid, write a few words, wave to the hubby, read a book, and sleep without need of added medication. That, I guess, is what it is for me to be normal.
But at the edges of that place--where knots in my stomach turn into dry heaves and where feelings of pleasure frighten me, those are the places I reach for things that hurt me. To take the edge off. Or to bring the edge closer. Or both.
Anyway, I didn't smoke. But I still want to today.
Did I mention I'm coming off of steroids?
Every year, around the same time, I make a concerted effort to piss off my clients. Not as far as work goes--oh no, they all love me for that. "Your valuable contribution" they call it. Instead, I tell them what I think of their businesss, what they've done wrong, and I rail at them for slowing down on processing my invoices.
Sometimes I reall like my clients.
Except for once a year when I hate them all at once.
This is that time. I am sticking out my tongue at all of them. I'm doing a very good job at fulfilling this important strategy within my most unusual business model.
Some of them won't want to work with me again. But they all will. And then they'll love me again until next year at this time. At which time I get to piss them off once again. And we make like John Kerry and Theresa Heinz retreating to separate hotel rooms.
I like to think of this as a win-win.
Joi says that Jon and Mitch have blogged their Extreme Democracy book here. Comment facility at the ready. WIKI thoughts go here.
Now, I've had my bones to pick with the symantics around emerging this and emergent that. Even coined the widely-adopted phrase, "emergent shit from my anus." I'm not proud, but it's true. Okay I'm a little proud. I hear Harvard Business Review is going to use it. Ask Joi, he'll tell you.
So when I read the Extreme Democracy title, I got a little scared that I'd have to get all sassy again. But then I decided that I do love watching folks stretch the blog format to acomplish different things now and then--different from daily updates about our body parts, say.
Thing is, I don't so much enjoy the PDF-ism chapter linkage of the posts, and I can't seem to get the html versions of the chapters (I think that's what they're supposed to be over on the left) to come up.
Nonetheless, shoulder slaps all around for making the bookowski available to themasses (better known as us kids) here in the bloghood. Joi's even got a paper in the book. That superstar.
Once I can get the html to come up, I'm going to even read some of it, perhaps comment more intelligently. More extremely maybe. Or less so. Leaving out references to anuses. Or anusi. Not sure which. Guess that's a good thing.
I'll check back tomorrow.
Code violation report in progress.
this little piggy had roast beef
this little piggy had none.
WE HAVE AIR WE AIR COOL BEADS OF COLD CLAMMY SWEAT ARE EVAPORATING AS I TYPE THIS THERE IS A GOD OH HOW I LOVE LIFE I AM GLAD I DIDN'T JUMP AFTER ALL.
In honor of the BW article on Biz Blogs, Stuart offers up an idea and a model -- up to you to decide to do it, or not.
Business blogging hits the headlines in this week's Business Week. It's a nice article and suggests a new opportunity. To my knowledge no one is yet syndicating top CEO blogs. The url www.ceoblogs.com is available! So here it is. Create a syndicated blog forum that captures Fortune 500 CEO blogs. By aggregating CEO blogs you get some unique opportunities. Afterall all you are doing is aggregating their blogs. They don't like it... they can stop blogging. Centralizing the most important ones will add new perspective to the investment community, corporate direction etc. The Fortune 500 is just one slice of this. CEOBlogs can be sliced by country, industry, turnover etc.
Than a client fucking with my money....
...when I'm broke
......and hot.
I'm a steamroller babyI'm 'bout to roll all over you I'm a steamroller baby I'm 'bout to roll all over you I'm gonna inject your soul With sweet rock'n'roll, poor heaven I'm a cement mixer A churning urn of burning funk I'm a cement mixer A churning urn of burning funk A hefty hunk, steaming junk I'm a steamroller baby I'm 'bout to roll over you I'm a steamroller baby I'm 'bout to roll over you I'm gonna inject your soul With some sweet rock'n'roll And shoot you full of rhythm and blues I'm a napalm-bomb Guaranteed to blow your mind I'm a napalm-bomb Guaranteed to blow your mind If I can't have your love now baby There won't be nothing left behind .
Elvis Presley - Steamroller Blues Lyrics
He isn't gone after all. We saw him two days ago and realized he's been alive and well the whole time. They moved his pig house is all.
Problem is, it's August. The pig fucking stinks.
But that's not the real problem. The real problem is that they still have the two black labs and Stupid Boxer as well, who continue to gang up on the pig, barking and lurching and snapping at the pig perp like a mob of L.A. Police officers 'just doin there jobs.'
I'm sick of watching the dogs bully the pig. Apparently the pig is too, because he's started to run at the dogs. I didn't know pigs could run so fast. People, pigs run FAST when they decide to run. Holy cow! I would not want to be on the receiving end of a mad pig's jowls.
Still, there's three of them--OH WAIT--4 of them because now our stupid Boxer Mix Bando has started jumping the plywood the neighbors so classily installed to cover one of the many fence holes-----and only one pig.
So I decided that after the third dog-screaming-pig-mobbing fest today to call animal control. The conversation went like this:
"Hello--I'm calling because my neighbor has a pig and three dogs, and the dogs are ganging up on the pig, circling it and jumping at it, trying to bite it."
"Mmmm hmmm."
"So, I'm thinking I need animal control to come make sure the dogs don't hurt the pig, even though I don't think there's supposed to be a pig back there in the first place. I mean, I don't like the pig being there, but I also don't want the dogs to hurt it."
"Well, there's nothing I can do about that--they can have the pig as long as they have two acres."
"They don't have two acres. They have 3/4 of an acre. It's a sub-division."
"OH, WELL, then you have to call code enforcement."
"But I'm not so much concerned about them having the pig as I am the dogs trying to attack the pig."
"Well, if they're not biting the pig, there's nothing I can do about it. Are they playing with it?"
"I don't know if they're playing with it. They circle around it, bark, lurch at it, and try to attack it. Then the pig tries to charge at them."
"Well, unless the dogs are biting the pig, you know, biting and making it bleed, then there's nothing I can do."
"Again, I don't know if they're biting the pig. I'm in my kitchen window. I see them trying to attack the pig."
"Still, unless the pig's hurt--like lying down--there's nothing I can do. Is the pig running around?"
"The pig doesn't run unless it's charging back at the dogs. It's standing. I don't see that whether he's standing has anything to do with it."
"I'm jus saying, unless the pig is actually hurt, there's nothing I can do."
"Unreal."
"The way it is, ma'am."
I got the number for Code Enforcement. I'm a woman with a mission.
And if that doesn't work, I'm calling Gomer back citing the "Animal Creating a nuisance" ordinance.
In 1986, when George and I bought our first house in Rochester, the summer was a particularly brutal. George was on the road and I was left to tend the new abode during the worst heatwave the city had known--in my lifetime at least. Temperatures stayed in the high 90s for weeks. Tapped by our purchase, we couldn't even afford a window unit.
I remember the thermostat reading 97 degrees in my living room--at night. Consistently. Day after day, first week, second week... I also remember sitting on the recliner, a box fan at my feet, after two solid weeks, thinking about killing myself. I'm not going for drama--I really thought about it as an option for not feeling so miserable. It was only the beginning of summer, and if this was how it would be, I reasoned, count me out.
Obviously, I didn't do it.
When our central air went out a week ago, Jenna and I were already sick. We had fevers. Two days into the thermostat reading over 90 degrees inside, she entered a new phase of this plague we've had: throwing up. Oh great. Nothing like throwing up in a 90-degree house, and me too exhausted/sick to even think about what to do about it.
George was in the basement, tackling the mounds of laundry that had piled up for two weeks after our dryer died. We knew the dryer was dying. We were prepared for that. We weren't prepared for losing the AC OR for the expense, especially since I haven't had a project in more than a month. Okay two.
Undaunted, I grabbed jenna by the hand, grabbed our bag of medicine and not much else, dripped by George who was dripping in the basement, and said: "This is it. She's throwing up. I'm going to find a hotel room."
And off we went, first for phenegren, then to a ice cold room at a hotel down the road. We stayed two days. Couldn't afford to, but couldn't stand not to.
We've been back a couple of days and the AC still isn't fixed, but at least Jenna and I don't have fevers anymore. The last two days haven't been as hot, but by evening it's still above 90 inside. Didn't fall asleep last night, with cold washcloth, til 5 a.m.
Yesterday Jenna started first grade. At least they have air at school.
Yesterday was our 18th wedding anniversary. We went out for Chinese as much to enjoy the coolness of a restaurant as for the food.
Then we came home.
As RageBoy might say: donations welcome, motherfuckers.
Where Jeneane Sessum writes about Loss, Love, Life, Labor, Leisure, and other things, but not necessarily in that order.
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