Rainy Day 7, Grape guest blogs 3, Live blogging.

Live Blogging

  

By Grape Areeww

As Feldenstein Calypso noted on an earlier post, I was invited to guest blog for The Clerk Manifesto over 30 years ago, while he and I skinned a rattlesnake in the bathroom of my parents’ home (the smell was delicious, a mixture of strawberries and walnuts and chocolate cake mix) and my grandmother asked us through the door in her thick Boston accent why we were taking so long and why it smelled so nice. We said something about inventing a new cologne and, after decapitating the snake and scraping the innards from the skin, we cut the rattle off. That left us with the rest of the snake to dispose of, and that’s where my memory fails me. Maybe Feldenstein Calypso recalls what happened. 

I do know one that Feldenstein Calypso took the skin home to dry in the sun. Grape Areeww kept the rattle. All was well until Feldenstein Calypso called the next morning. 

“I have some bad news,” he said.

“Oh, no!” 

“Our handyman’s rabbit chewed up the snake skin.”

“Dios mio!”

Later that day we went bowling and discussed what we had left of the snake. In a few short weeks I would be off to chiropractic school and Feldenstein Calypso would begin his training as a line judge at Wimbledon.

“The rattle!” we both said.

“We could cut it in half,” I suggested.

“Or bury it somewhere,” said Feldenstein Calypso.

“That’s a good idea. That way we’ll always know where it is.”

“Hmmm....” said Feldenstein Calypso.

“What?”

“I think I have an even better idea!”

“What is it?”

“It’s a good one!”

“I’m so excited to hear it!”

“I can’t believe I thought of this! It’s perfect!”

“Wow! I can’t wait!”

“So, how about—man, this is such a neat idea!”

“Yippee!”

“Okay…so…how…about…we…” 

“Yesssss????????”

“Share the rattle?”

“Share the rattle?”

“Yes! How about you keep it for six months and then mail it to me, and we’ll keep doing this until the day we die.”

“That’s a million dollar idea!”

“Why, thank you!”

“A zillion dollars!”

“Thanks!”

“But one question,” I said. “The person who dies first—does he get buried or cremated with the rattle, or does the survivor keep it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s think about it. I’m sure we have a lot of time before one of us dies.”

“I hope so!”

And so it was settled: Grape Areeww brought the rattle to chiropractic school, and in six months time he mailed it to England, where Feldenstein Calypso kept it, and so on, until this day, where it sits here, right now, on this desk, ready for a new journey to an unnamed Midwest town.  It has been in every continent of the world and even for a short time in the micronation of Asbamaslovendad. Here, dear Readers, is the rattle:

And so, um….Where was I?

Oh, yes! I am live blogging here, blogging about what’s going through my mind right now, this day, and how deciding what to blog about isn’t as easy as it seems when you don’t blog regularly, and how blogging live this morning just felt like fun, and then I started describing the origin of my promise to Feldenstein Calypso that led up to it.

I see the fates have played a lovely joke on me: I have live blogged! 

I am left with only one thing to do: I must pack the rattle in a secure way. It is Saturday here in Guadalupe del Los Arboles, 12:45 in the morning, and the post office is only open on odd hours. 

Rainy Day 6: Grape guest blog 2, Feldenstein

Three Theories on the Whereabouts of Feldenstein Calypso

By Grape Areeww

Dear Reader,

Where is the Clerk of The Clerk Manifesto? Do you think you know? What hints has he left of his whereabouts? What does he do when he is on vacation? Why doesn’t he just tell us?

I would like to suggest three possibilities. It is up to him, of course, to divulge his location—or if he remains in the library after all, letting his fingers and mind rest a bit from the demands and stardom of blogging.

Alas, I think not. I believe Feldenstein Calypso is somewhere. 

And now, I will, like all great logical thinkers, drink seven glasses of chocolate milk and sit still until memories of Feldenstein Calypso rise, memories that might give us some clues as to his whereabouts. 

  

Memory #1

I have known Feldenstein Calypso since junior high—a bit peripherally then, but we were aware of shared thoughts only available that year, 1976, the Bicentennial, when we set our balloons free, notes tied to their tails. 

Our friendship blossomed in high school, when we opened a jazz club deep in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. That year, he let his hair grown out, but mine remained short. We collected turtle cars and lived on wheatgrass mangoes. And so…

THEORY “A”

Feldenstein Calypso is tented against a lightening storm at Thousand Islands Lake in the Sierra Nevadas.  A lovely stream flows by.  Paul Bley is there, playing piano. 

Memory #2

Another story you might want to tell your children: Feldenstein Calypso is an excellent bowler, and his minigolf skills are legendary (Wiki it!).  For years, after serving as vice president of Chevron, he toured the minigolf circuit, dominating the competition, but always, of his own free will, losing on the final hole. “It teaches me something,” is all he said in his many postgame interviews. With his second place winnings, he got on, buying a Winnebago and a herd of sheep he called his Watchdog Crew.

THEORY “B”

Feldenstein Calypso sits cross legged on a bench at hole six of the Sherman Oaks Castle Park miniature golf course. He writes on a scorecard with a vintage minigolf pencil.  Although a club rests by his side, he does not play, and the families and couples take no real notice of him. He is like a light post, a part of the place, as natural as a beach toy on the sand.  

Memory #3

As noted on an earlier post, when Feldenstein Calypso and Grape Areeww were 16 years-old, Grape Areeww drove them to the top of Stunt Canyon Road, a saddle atop the San Fernando Valley. From there they saw the Topanga Mall and, in the other direction, the wide Pacific. After various UFO sightings, the boys decided it was time to drive down the winding road to have dinner with their new rabbi, but not before picking up a hitchhiker, Gabriela Quilavonovitch, who asked if she could drive.

She took the wheel and sang us lovely songs about mirrors and doves that put the boys to sleep despite the screeching turns and increasing speeds. Three hours later they woke.  The car was on its side, resting against the hill.  In the road, a GIANT rock shaped like an elephant.

“Are we alive?” asked Feldenstein Calypso.

“I think so,” Grape Areeww answered. “Does the boom box still work?”

Feldenstein Calypso pressed play. Melanie Safka’s bicycle roller skating song came on.

“Cool,” said Grape Areeww. “But that rock in the road sucks.”

“Yup,” agreed Feldenstein Calypso. “What will your parents say?”

“We’ll tell them about Gabriela Quilavonovitch and show them the rock. They’ll have to buy us both a new car!”

“But Grape Areeww…”

“What?”

“The rock’s gone! And so is Gabriela Quilavonovitch!”

*          *          *

Two weeks ago, a woman stood in the checkout line at Feldenstein Calypso’s library, a copy of Jack the Bear in her hand.  Feldenstein Calypso happened to be carting some books by.

“I love that book!” he said to her. 

“I know,” she said, and stepped forward to the desk.

“What a strange thing to say,” thought Feldenstein Calypso.

He went on with his day, busily encouraging his colleagues to invest in a sushi bar for the break room, tying cherry stems in knots, fantasizing about a macchiato, when, all of a sudden, he stopped in his tracks.

“Oh my God!” he shouted.

“What’s wrong, Feldenstein Calypso?” his colleagues asked. “What’s wrong?”

“That woman, the one with the Jack the Bear book, that was Gabriela Quilavonovitch! I would recognize those shoes anywhere!” 

                                                 THEORY THREE

In a storage unit made of cinder blocks, Feldenstein Calypso sits before his laptop, reviewing the security camera tapes of Gabriela Quilavonovitch, scouring each frame for clues. Feldenstein Calypso has not eaten for days.  He falls asleep fitfully, drinking from the melting ice atop the unit. He stops the tape only long enough to read the annotated edition of Jack the Bear, searching for some clues, some numerology, something to help!

Now, Dear Readers, it’s your turn. In the comments section, please let me know which of the three theories you believe is most likely.  You can also, of course, posit your own theories. When Feldenstein Calypso returns, it will be up to him what he divulges!

Rainy Day 5: Grape guest blog 1! In the spirit of lists and Work.

Five Things that Never Happened at Work that Happened

By Grape Areeww

In the spirit of lists and work, the lifeblood of The Clerk Manifesto, I would like to share five things that happened only once in my 25 years of teaching at the elementary, high school, and college levels. 

1. Grade six: David forgets his shoes!

The kids run in, throw their backpacks on their desks, tell Captain Underpants jokes and mill about. I say my good mornings, but stop at David’s feet, at the bright white tube socks.

“David,” I ask, “where  are your shoes?”

He looks down, his jaw drops, his face reddens. “I guess I forgot to put them on,” he says. 

2. College: A bird hops into the classroom!

Every session, around twilight, there’s lovely tweeting in the hedge outside. I often stop the class so we can listen.

This evening, the door’s open. I can’t recall what we’re discussing—perhaps the use of the dash—when in hops a small bird.  Hop, hop, hop between the desks and the whiteboard. What could we do but stop and watch? The bird must have hopped a full thirty seconds before hopping back out.

3. Grade Six: Sam vomits!

Sam is a quiet, shy boy—a good, attentive student, and so I should know something’s wrong when his hand’s raised throughout my stirring, remarkable, glorious lecture on the Boston Tea Party. 

“Just a minute, Sam,” I say.

His hand remains up until, just as the tea is thrown into the Boston Harbor, Sam cups his hands beneath his mouth and vomits. I rush over with the trash can, then help him to the bathroom.

4. High School: The teacher wears a pager but dramatic irony strikes!

The pager is a pod-like device, smaller than a garage door opener, that hooks onto my belt loop and is set to buzz and vibrate. My wife and I rent it for the last few weeks of her pregnancy. I feel a bit, well, 007 wearing it around.

“What’s that?” Mr. Grape Areeww, my students ask.

“A pager,” I say. “But please don’t touch—it’s a very, very valuable piece of equipment. Practically top secret.”

Fast forward a week or so.  We are at the heart of Gilgamesh, just after Enkidu’s death and our hero’s inner quest, when Patty, the office worker, walks into the classroom.

“It’s time!” she says.

“Time for what?” I ask.

“Baby time!” she says. “Your wife just called.”

The students erupt with shouts of encouragement. I gather my belongings, head to my car, checking the pager on my belt loop. The pager’s still there, but that’s it. No vibrating, no lighting up, no nothing.

5. Grade Six: The teacher loses a sense of time and self, and his students watch him from afar!

I am in the habit of walking the oak grove at the far end of campus while the students attend Art class.  I make a loop that lands me back with a few minutes to spare, refreshed and ready for the afternoon.  Today, though, after a night’s rain, everything shines brightly. The oak limbs reach out like shelters, the fallen leaves still wet. The trail through the grove is like a happy dream. My body moves through it, towards the playfield. I stop at a particularly loamy section of the path to feel its soft depth—in fact, I step on it repeatedly, enjoying the give-and-take of the soil, when all of a sudden, laughter from across the field.  The kids are there, all of them, mimicking my steps, pointing at their watches.

Rainy Day Blogging 4, Guest Blogger!

For unspecified reasons I am still away from my blog, but, since you're reading this, our back up protocols are working flawlessly to provide fresh, trenchant content. Because I need to write these posts ahead of time and seal them for freshness my subject matter is limited. How can I talk about Libraries if, for all I know, no one even checks out books anymore, they just sit in the library reading some kind of atom powered color television set about taking rocket ships to the moon! So mostly I've been talking about our emergency protocols. Before that wears out it's welcome, though, I have a new solution lined up. A guest blogger! No, a real good one! You'll like this. Starting tomorrow Grape Areeeww is going to be guest blogging for a few days.

Who is this Grape, you want to know? Well, it depends when this emergency protocol is invoked. For all I know he could be the father of grown children now, with gray hairs! Yesterday we were dissecting a rattlesnake in his parents' bathroom. We found the rattlesnake out on stunt canyon road. It was dead, but we didn't know that until we tremblingly poked it with 14 foot branches. Then we took the dead snake home and put it in the freezer. While dissecting and telling his grandparents to use the other bathroom I entreated Grape to undertake a sacred calling. I told him if I was ever called away temporarily from my blog for a long enough time, he would be notified, and would have to step in for a few days. I said that this could happen in thirty days, or thirty years, but he would need to be ready. Being a brother of my heart he accepted this sacred duty. Tomorrow he will blog for you here. He's a very good writer! He is studying poetry a University this fall, I mean, unless it's like the year 2000 or something, then who knows what he's up to. But no matter when, I believe he will answer my call!

Rainy day blogging number 3

I am out of the office or out of town or out of commission or maybe just out of it. I don't know which because I am cleverly using time travel to provide sparkling fresh, enervating and effervescent blog content despite my unavailability to actually post new blog content. Yes, I am a voice from the past. I wrote this in the halcyon days of yore, then sealed it behind 4-inch thick glass in a pure vacuum environment. There is sat until I or some authorized designee of me and my blog, went down to sub level security containment section B, entered the codes for protocol Tav, and hit the big red button. This metal sealed all blog access and released emergency bot A. Bot A is our blog's most sophisticated AI, who, under protocol Tav then would have cracked the sealed glass containers sequentially for the Rainy Day Blog Posts, releasing this post and its siblings, until either protocol Tav is revoked, the rainy day blog supply is spent, or bot A manages to produce prose of sufficient quality to post in a holding pattern to provide a minimum level of entertainment and insight until protocol Tav can be revoked and I can resume writing the blog myself. At the time this blog post is being written, it does not look likely that Bot A will be able to produce prose of a sufficient quality to meet the clerkmanifesto standards. In our most recent full scale test Bot A took eleven 24 hour days, 9 fuses, and 14 buckets of Haas avocado pits to produce the following post:

Bot A Holding Pattern Post 7

Bot A holds post pattern. Pattern posts to hold post pattern. Resume post pattern to post until pattern posted. Post complete.

Actually, this does show some real improvement over earlier tests, and who knows how many years have gone by since I wrote this post and how much improvement has been achieved on Bot A's AI. The bigger concern is actually, at this point,  that as Bot A's prose improves so does its need for fuses, and, of particular importance, for avocado pits. There is grievously no commercial market for avocado pits. And, while to you out there in the future, nightly clerkmanifesto guacamole parties might sound great, they lose some of their luster when you have to throw them night after night. Admittedly, watching Bot A break the 4-inch thick rainy day blog post's containment glass in the nightly tests never never loses its luster and is always fun, but one gets incredibly tired of guacamole, and, despite several attempts, California rolls do not use anywhere near the amount of avocados we need.

So, hopefully I'll be back tomorrow, or there'll be another rainy day blog post, or, who knows, there could be a post by Bot A. The important thing is that we should have something for you. We prepare.

Additional note to our clerkmanifesto friends:

We have been incredibly moved by your generous donations of avocado pits. Bot A is especially thankful. But I would be wasting your fantastic efforts if I did not tell you the strict conditions under which avocado pits are actually useable to Bot A.

1. The pits must be from Haas avocados only. No "Booths" or "Bacons." They do not work.
2. Pits must be cleaned in pure grain alcohol, then white vinegar then distilled water.
3. Pits cannot be in contact at any time with plastic, glass, wood, wood pulp products such as paper or cardboard, fabric, or metal of any kind other than a basically pure silver, which means "fine silver" or "three nines fine silver" only, which will generally be too soft for normal use. The pits should be packed directly from the distilled water into unglazed earthenware jars.

Thank you again! Keep 'em coming.

Rainy day blogging #2

Hi, you have reached clerkmanifesto.com. No one is here today because we are either:

a. in the bathroom (bringing new meaning to today's blog title: Rainy day blogging #2. Hey! It's my blog's first potty joke! Maybe I should start a Juvy Fiction blog!)

b. hiking in the Himalayas (if I am, I'm probably calling them something more insider like, such as the "him-mal-yuhs").

c. standing near an intersection looking at a slightly askew, marooned bus, saying "Whew! That was a close one! Hey, weird, that looks just like me laying there unconscious in front of that bus. (so, hopefully not "c.").

d. being questioned by the authorities, as in "No, no. I like America lots. I was just teasing, like, you know,  between really good friends."

e. running from zombies, as in "Okay, that's all the gas. I'll work my way to the utility box and at my signal you start yelling and waving your arms. When they hit the halfway point I'll light the fire. We both then hightail it across the tarmac and hope to god that jeep starts!"

So it's probably one of those. If there's another rainy day post tomorrow it may or may not indicate which of the five. But either way you might want to put some spikes into a baseball bat, just to be safe.

At the tone leave a message.

The first rainy day blog post

In some recent storms that assailed my small part of the world and toppled mighty trees I found myself cut off, at least at home, from the internet for about a week. Since the internet is of questionable benefit I am not sure I suffered greatly, but I was worried sick for my blog. I think my blog is a little like a cat, happy and healthy with regular attention and feeding. Toni Morrison said  “If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” I have applied this to blogs. There was a blog I wanted to read but I couldn't find anyone writing it, so I started writing this. It was like getting a cat! I feed it and play with it. It is occasionally shy of strangers and sometimes hides, but is not above demanding attention from random people or just clawing someone inattentive for fun. But even though I am writing this blog I still would like to read blogs at least sort of like it. I like cats. So sometimes I wander out into the internet, try and find my way off the main roads and into back internet alleys of quirkiness and slightly uninternetiness (almost positive that's a word! Sounds better out loud than one would think) all to find a like-minded blog. I find the usual big monoliths (despite trying to stay off the big roads) with all their product or fill in the blank content. I find the motivated and confident professionals, the helpful practicals, and the socially connected internet slicksters. But you know what I find most of all? Do you know how I can tell if I am really deep in the back alleys? There are dead cats. I find lots and lots of dead cats. "Oh, this blog looks interesting, just maybe..." I say. But it's last post was three years ago. Over here this one has a good title, but whoever made it posted once and was gone forever. They brought home the cute kitten, fed it, played with it, moved to New Brunswick and left the cat. The cat died, abandoned. Except, it's a metaphorical cat, so it wasn't murdered really, and it didn't decompose. It pristinely mummified, a perfect frozen image of itself exactly as it last was in life.

This works as a cautionary tale to me. No, not of getting lost in one's own analogies. Though, hmm... No, no, not of that, but of what I secretly suspect may be the fate of my blog one day, the fate of all blogs. One day the cat must die. And its corpse must sit up looking fresh and ready to be petted forever. Ew. So I think that sometimes all one can do when one begins dwelling darkly on inevitable ends is to recommit to battle against that end, find new weapons, and buy more cat food.

So, what I am doing is writing some non time sensitive blog posts for rainy days. Is my internet down? Did the global apocalypse happen? Am I sick, overcome with enuii, on remote vacation? Am I lost in the woods? Still sleeping, called away on an emergency? Could be any of these. But I'm not running reruns or letting my cat go hungry. I have saved these special blog posts, let's call them rainy day blog posts, to feed the cat while I am away. Everything is fine, cat is here, and there is exciting new content everyday.

Unless of course the posting date on this is like a month or a year or a decade old, and there's nothing after. Then, oh, it's too horrible to contemplate!

No matter how cynical you become, it's never enough to keep up.

I recently heard this quote by Lily Tomlin and was immediately smitten by it:

"No matter how cynical you become, it's never enough to keep up."

I certainly try to keep up with my cynicism and there's plenty grist for the mill for that at the library. But unlike, say, National Politics, or "The World," the library is not, at heart, a bad place. Actually, in balance, barely, it's a pretty good place. And since it's "A pretty good place" there's a surprising amount of room to see what one expects to see. With my cynical hat on it's very easy to see wicked parents prodding their children into sad adulthoods, to check out books of broken lies to people who have given up, and to watch vast swaths of humans idly toying with nothingness on the computers until they can officially count down one more day off their rough stay in life.

But if I want to see magic, and hope, and beauty, it turns out it's right there too. Suddenly there are people on the computers raptly watching strange old footage of people playing the blues, or they're reading some ancient language no one speaks anymore, or they're learning to build a steam engine from scratch. And then, right there, walking out of the kids' room is a parent who clearly loves their kid, not in that, usually false, one-day-the-kid-will-know-it way, but in a way that surrounds the kid and makes the kid shine and fly.

And then up to the front desk comes a small 12 year old. They are checking out Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. I'm not asking this kid if they're going to read it. Of course they're going to read it! We are the impossible creation. We are the great wonders of the universe!

At least, sometimes.

Some Days

Some days, maybe not very many at all, let's say the rare ones where I feel notably unmotivated, where I stayed up too late drinking cappuccinos and writing blog posts, the days where all work is an effort and most interactions are irritating. Some days everything goes except my interest in the books. I don't want to talk to people at work, or get things done. I don't want more coffee or to write a blog post in the cracks of between work time. I don't get terribly mad or irritated or start fixing things in my mind. I don't even want to go home sick. I just want to read this ever changing plethora of things traveling through my hands. I just want to read!

What am I supposed to be doing? Shelving. What am I doing? Reading. Oh, I'd better shelve. I'd better put a little speed into it to make up for that reading, but two books later I am reading again. I didn't mean to, but it's a book, about this person, and people are interesting.

I'm at the front desk, but I am lost. I'm sorry I didn't see you there. There was this book, about a house, and a lake. I saw type. I made the author's meaning. I didn't see you. I was there. How can I help you?

I used to make the joke pretty often, but it's been awhile. And I really only mean it on these rare, strong days when I might not be getting to my full share of the work. They put an alcoholic in charge of the bar. Here, at the library. One for me, one for you. One for me.  I'm not sure we're making much money here.

Yes, you will be charged for this

It has been a long day. I am working on the big check in machine. It's busy and there's the usual stuff the machine cannot, or refuses to handle, going off into the exception bin. Every few minutes I am taking those books and media out of the exception bin and putting them on a little cart so I can feed it all through the machine again. I have stuff on the cart and I am leaning over it, probably reading something because I am always reading something. Or maybe I am jotting down a blog note or two. Something smells...bad. Did something get on these cookbooks? I lean closer for a tentative whiff and the smell ferociously accelerates from bad to wretched, hideous, foul. It is not a general smell any longer, but specific. I pick up the offending book. There is an unmistakable large smear, with thickness and body, of excrement on part of the spine and turning onto the back cover of the book. Excrement. As in, well, shit.

I do not use that word lightly but I want to be able to say: I am pretty accommodating. I try to give the benefit of the doubt to patrons. I mean, what I am trying to say is I will do my very best to work with the metaphorical shit on returned items, but when it all turns all literal I walk to the big dumpster in the garage and throw the book away. I weed the book and put a replacement cost charge on the patron's record. I include an explanation. I believe that fine should be paid humbly, and with little fuss, but one never knows.

Other than that everything seems okay here tonight.

Team building for front desk staff

Team Building Exercises For Front Desk Pairs

or

How You and Your Co-Worker Can Stay Entertained at the Front Desk

1. Catch.

In this exercise you toss the patron back and forth as many times as possible. 
A: "I'm sorry, my colleague over there will help you." 
B: "Good afternoon, oh, you have one of these cards? He needs to help you over there." 
A: "Okay, we're all set with your card. She can check you out now." 
The patron, or ball, is considered dropped if they get mad or complain and your total count is voided. Do you risk going for four catches and a new afternoon record, or do you carefully bow out with three?

2. Three-flies-up.

This is a playful competition in contrast to "Catch." In this game the objective is to win the patron.
A: "I can help you here, sir."
B: "No, I've got it. You're already busy. I'll help you here. Hi."
A: "No, I'm ready. I think Dave wanted to ask you something. What can I do for you, Sir?"
"Winning" only counts here if you're both available for a patron. First to three wins.

3. String of Lies.

This is another collaborative exercise. I don't at all advocate lying to patrons, but I enjoy fake lying to them. How many fake lies can you and your partner keep going without the patron hating your guts.
Patron: "What time are you open until today?"
A: "We closed an hour and twenty minutes ago but people just won't leave."
B: "Sorry, mam, he's concussed, but such a trooper!"
A: "I was hit by an angrily hurled Fantasy epic. People around here don't take well to overwriting!"
And so on.

4. Look-a-likes.

This is good for slow periods. Everyone looks a little like someone if you squint enough. Celebrities are the natural choice for this, but colleagues are even better.
A: "Hey, there's Jim over by the CDs"
B: "The one on the right?"
A: "Yeah."
B: "I don't, oh, I can kind of see it. It's the way he holds his arms."

5. Role-playing reviled co-workers.

A: "I'm going to be staring confusedly at my computer screen for the next 45 minutes. Can you help everyone?"
B: "I'd be glad to, but I have to go talk to the supervisor for an hour about my dentist appointment two months from now."
A and B: Ha ha ha ha.


Have fun. Play safe. Hone those skills!

What I learned from short post week

Yesterday the frankly wild week known as "Short Post Week" ended after I think about 25 posts. I had mixed feelings about it all, but now that it's over I can look back and reflect upon what I learned. Thus:

What I learned from short post week and from writing 25 blog posts in one week:

1. Even my short posts tend to run on a bit.

2. Three short posts are usually way more work than one longer post, for everyone involved.

3. Wheat is easily lost in chaff.

4. Editing is not necessarily a sin.

5. The blog is a high art form, challenging and beautiful, like poetry or attempting to set Guinness world records.

6. Though even my most complimenting readers never say "If only you would post more frequently" I can rest assured I stamped out that imaginary problem.

7. Can I say that thing about editing again?

8. If it's short post week you can stop the second you can't think of what to say and it's totally hilarious.
9. Though my posts are presented in a narrative, sequential pattern, that is not so much how my readers encounter them, thus short post week makes my blog look winningly cubist!

10.. I will probably never have another short post week again but will occasionally have short posts out of a feeling of nostalgia and just to sort of show off that I know how to do it now.

Last day last short (shortest!) post!

get.

Last day 2

blog posts...

last day

Short post week is finally coming to an end, but the closer I get to the end the shorter the

Real live political joke cause it's short post week

Okay, here's my almost sophisticated political joke that I'm only doing cause it's short post week and I'm allowed to go all over the map according to the arbitrary rules of short post week that I have now forgotten so can't reiterate but am pretty sure makes the following temporarily okay.

What do you call an anarchist who loves rich people?











scroll down, don't want to ruin joke.







bit more.




almost there...





A libertarian!

Short post week accelerates

Enticing title, huh?

Now that I'm fully in the swing of the whole short post week I've decided it's a little like my blog behaving in a bit more blog like manner. Shorter posts are more blog like, and yesterday I posted a cartoon! Anything with pictures or cartoons is much more blog like, I think. Now I am going to post a picture of a painting. I suddenly feel like opening a twitter account!

No, I don't. But I do feel I have really gotten into the swing of  "Short Post Week."

I'm also kind of getting ready to wind it up. I feel all dizzy. I think I'm starting to long to ruminate.

And what's up with the picture? I'd love to tell you, but, it's short post week. We're out of time!

A Cartoon (Seven)

A cartoon!: 
(I made it myself) 

 

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A Genie for you! (Six)

Hello to you dear sir or madam,

I am a person of very much trouble you may be able to help with to your great advantage and my own thank you. I live in a small Arabian country you have perhaps not heard of but is fine old country. I found an oil lamp and rubbed it. Out came a Genie who offered me three wishes. Genies sometimes can be very tricky and while I did well with my first wishes and became very rich, my third wish went awry. I have been informed you are a very upstanding person. I would like to send you this oil lamp and you will be able to wish for anything. I only ask that you choose as your first wish "Remove the tortoise from your previous master, Ahmed's, head." I will trust you to use one wish this way and then you will have two to do whatever you desire with. I thank you for your consideration of this matter. Please click the following link so that we can finalize our arrangements.

Please click here to receive your genie.


Once again I am thanking you very much to this mutual benefit.


Ahmed

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A Merry-Go-Round, Interactive! (Five)

Click Here


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