A good site for news

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.

Agencies that can use $ and Donations...

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

Do you think he's drinking again?

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.

Say one for Tom

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?

Fun with the Tombstone Generator

Dem Cravings Dem Cravings Dem Smoke Cravings...

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?

Once a Year, Whether I Need It Or Not...

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.

Blog Book - Extremecliffe Weblogsky Bookowski

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.

Got Their Address

Code violation report in progress.

this little piggy had roast beef
this little piggy had none.

WE HAVE AIR WE HAVE AIR

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.

CEOblogs.com

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.

I would not limit it to Fortune 500. In fact, I might put them at the bottom. They certainly don't have a monopoly on creativity, innovation or voice.

Fun with Donate Buttons

an open source project

Nothing Makes Me Crazier....

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

Pig Wave

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.

Heat Watch 2

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.

Heat Watch

It's near 90 in here now. Soon, after dark, we'll open the doors and windows like we used to do when we lived up north. It will cool down some, and I'll go outside.

There are cigarettes in the garage.

I'll sit on the green high-back chair in the driveway and I'll think about having a smoke, like I'm thinking about right now.

I don't like the heat. Especially when I'm already hot.

My lungs are burning with bronchitis. I really want to smoke. I want to remember what it tastes like. I want to feel the roughness of the smoke against my throat. I want to cough up all this crap inside me.

I'll think about it. But I won't do it. I won't do it.

No, August is the cruelest month.

We're five days into August and already I've spent them sick, fighting fever along with Jenna, the entire newly-sprung month.

Already our dryer has died and I'll spare you the details on getting a new one. Unless you live in Atlanta, it is nearly impossible to understand how difficult it is to get someone to take your honest wages in return for promptly (as in, this year sometime) delivering the item to you. It just doesn't happen. Retail is like a schoolyard, where only the bullies, brown noses and popular kids get what they pay for when they pay for it.

While George was out hunting dryers today, I noticed the house getting hotter and hotter. Checked our temps. Yep, still running around 100. I guess that's why, but gee it seems hot, I say to myself, and then to Jenna: "Are you hot?"

"I'm so hot," is the answer.

I check the thermostat. Oh no. It's close to 87. Oh no, the air is set at 79. I check the vents. Oh dear. Hot air. Not now. I try a few tricks.

1) turn off the AC. Pray. Turn around three times and click my heels. Turn it back on.

nothing.

2) call the AC guy whose number I have, try to schedule an appointment before December on the off chance that calling him will jinx the AC back to life. Turn it back on.

nothing.

3) cry softly into a kleenex, please we can't afford this right now--the dryer was a surprise, now the AC, please not now. Turn it back on.

nothing.

I made the call to a gentleman who says he actually can come look at it tomorrow. The same day our dryer (number 2--the first delivery people from H.H. Gregg never showed up) is coming. And summer has been basically workless.

Off to bathe in luke warm water so I don't feel like I'm burning to a crisp.

Did I mention school starts Monday?

Calling Dr. Freud, Calling Dr. Freud... Your Slip Is Showing.

Bush's truth telling today is making noise around the net. I think the Prez should be praised for his honesty:

"Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we," Bush said.

Joi put up an MP3 sample here, which is crystal clear and worthy of its own TV commercial. Joi got it from Lauren.

Score one for the cocaine-damaged brain cells.

Who Survived?

I have the tune running through my head now--how does it go? "I met an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don't know why she swallowed a fly, I guess she'll die."

And the song continues to build so that each thing has swallowed the other and the next and the next until I don't know who's left.

I think something like that has happened to our pig.

I can't be sure. But I smell a rat. More importantly, I don't smell a pig.

Further clues consist of the following:

The pighouse/doghouse has disappeared.
The boxer has disappeared.
The big headed black labs have disappeared.
The pig himself has disappeared.
I have seen no sign of the neighbors.
The fence is still in disrepair.

I wonder who ate whom?

One Month Down.

This is my No-Smoking anniversary. It's been one month since I quit--and you all were there for those harrowing weeks. Amazing, isn't it? Well, it is to me. Cold turkey baby. Took it like a man.

Except for the bouts of sobbing and throwing rolls of toilet paper at the mirror.

I went to group therapy tonight -- it wasn't until then that I realized I'd made it a month. Leaving cigarettes behind feels like many other losses for me--at first its absence assaults me every twenty seconds. Over hours, days and weeks, the assaults come less frequently, although they remain just as potent every single time.

It is strange being sick with a sinus/ear infection and not smoking. For someone who has never smoked, that must sound pretty stupid. How could any human being who has a head clogged with mucus want to inhale smoke? Where is the sense in that?

And yet, smoking, for me, was a comfort when I was sick. I may not have known how long the illness would last, how painful it would get, whether or not I'd be able to sleep at night, but I *always* knew my cigarettes were there to help me pass the time until I could run around at full throttle again.

In trying to explain it tonight in group, I realized how as a nicotine addict I adapted my every move--even my language--to eloquently justify what makes absolutely no rational sense. The funny thing is, although it's false, it's not really fake. You see the same people who are smart enough to create and pontificate rationalizations in this way actually believe them as fact. Or at least fail to recognize that it just ain't so.

My inner dialogue went this way... I would hear a message: "Smoking is the leading cause of death among women age X to Y," and would translate it in my head to: "Wshew, I'd better quit by the time I'm Y."

I would end up with bronchitis, which obviously doesn't take well to guzzling cigarettes, and I'd smoke just the same. As any smoker will tell you (if you put them on a bed of nails), cigarettes taste like shit when you're sick--especially when you have bronchitis. It's like smoking lit phlegm. Me? I'd rationalize smoking right through bronchitis this way: "Pretty soon when I smoke it won't taste like burning buggers."

It's a wiring problem, it's a trauma problem; it's all of that and more.

There is an upside to my quitting. Once I stopped being angry enough to pull teeth out of unwitting neighbors and family members, I began to realize and appreciate the nuances of the mind, the differences between my addicted thinking and my thinking now, the change in how I perceive myself and the world.

How amazing the human mind is, how flexible, how kind it can be, and how merciless.