The Prickly Press

War Cake

2010-10-14T19:48:00.004-05:00

I love to cook. I mean really love to cook. I’ve always considered it not only a creative endeavor but a bit of a spiritual one as well. I can easily spend a day on one creation. From the selection of the perfect seasonal recipe to sourcing the freshest ingredients to preparation, hours pass. International cuisine will fill the house with exotic scents and proper musical accompaniment transforms the everyday into a night in Morocco, France or the Orient. There has always been a connectedness for me from the earth to culture to interpretation to palate.

When I inherited a cookbook from my grandmother, a farmer’s wife and wonderful cook I was excited to say the least. This was not just any book; it was a bit of family history. The first page yielded the unexpected, War Cake.

I’d not, until now, considered political climate in relation to cuisine. My grandmother had grown into an adult during WWII. She’d never spoken of it, at least to me, yet here it was, a bit of the story. War Cake is so named for its lack of eggs, butter and milk, ingredients that were hard to come by during the war. I could comment on how little life has changed in that there are still wars, yet how much has changed in how little it affects the average citizens everyday lives, but I won’t, there are political bloggers for that. I choose instead to share the recipe and let you interpret it how you will.

2 cups water

2 cups brown sugar

4 Tbsp shortening

1 tsp salt

1 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp cloves

1 tsp allspice

1 lb raisins

Boil ingredients for 5 minutes then cool.

Add

2 tsp baking soda

½ tsp vanilla

2 ½ cups all purpose flour

Mix well together and bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour.

The Grass Is Greener

2010-09-27T14:28:00.013-05:00

I’ll let you in on a little secret that won’t be much of a secret to anyone who has ever used one, reel mowers are a reel litmus test of how laid back a person you really are.

I like to think of myself as a pretty easy going chick. I tend to roll with most things. Unfortunately my new; old school mower doesn’t feel the same way. First time out went something like this..

Toothpick in the grass?

"Ohhh, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to ask you to pick that up, I’m strictly grass” my mower would respond while quickly locking, ramming my stomach into the steel handle just to prove he was serious.

Grass a little long?

“Ohhh, did I say I mowed grass? My mistake, what I should have said was, already short grass sans weeds that really doesn’t need mowing. I’m going to have to ask you to go over that spot 5 or 6 more times” he'd whir.

Sure, ok. I’ve got time. What’s 3 hours a week for the whole summer?

Biting insects that I easily out ran on the gas mower were hovering around high five-ing each other at their good fortune.

Back and forth, back and forth. Two and a half hours in and this guy was really starting to get on my nerves, but I’d not come this far to give up now, that’s just what he wanted. Besides, only a fraction of my neighbors had born witness to my, well, I’m just going to say it, Herculean grass mowing effort. By my estimation I was due at least two more passersby, one if they were gossipy and likely to spread the word on this mother of environmental deeds. Ten minutes later and it started to rain. Clearly God was trying to tell me something, far be it from me to question the Almighty. Back in the garage, you.

I’ll admit my hopes may have been a little high. Not unlike the groups of bearded twenty somethings I’d seen happily pushing around this piece of crap on their postage stamp sized rental yards a week earlier. That’s the last time I take lawn care tips from you.

Sweet Caroline's

2009-11-09T14:50:00.017-06:00

I have a list of important things I keep safely stored in the back of my mind for use at some later date. Names for pets I don’t yet own, excuses for missing engagements, airport codes and things to do that sound adult but are a bit cool, are just a few of the subtitles under the greater heading “Things I Remember in Place of Math Equations and Geography”.

So, when feeling a bit antsy after several days under grey skies this past Friday evening, I called upon this master list for an answer to the not uncommon question: what should I do tonight? The answer came quickly: e=mc². Wait, wait… I distinctly remember replacing you with something else, what was it? Ahhhhh yes, there it is - Jazz Club. My, my, now that does sound adult.

A quick Google search later (thank you Sergey Brin and Larry Page) I was on my way to the local hole in the wall for an evening of jazz, Latin jazz no less.

Arriving 40 minutes early like the super cool jazz loving adult that I am, I walked into Caroline’s to my pick of the somewhat limited, pleasantly intimate seating. I quickly settled in to watch the band set up. I waited with ever increasing interest as 2 drum sets, a tuba, sax, bass, guitar, keyboard and various other hand instruments found their way onto a now crowded stage. At the same time, fellow patrons were filing in to greet each other and find places of their own.

Then it began, several instruments playing together in unison-and not. Uncommon rhythms and interesting transitions flowed in what felt very free, almost improvised. It gave one the feeling of being witness to art as it was being created. I was officially in love.

I stayed late and spent the next day looking for tracks to download from itunes. Apparently my new favorite band had not quite risen to itunes status (although no stranger to YouTube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXlmLp6H0B0) it turned out so I was forced to search for a reasonable facsimile. http://www.latinjazznet.com/ pointed me in the right direction and I had little trouble finding several bands worthy of my newest playlist.

There are few things as energizing as finding new music to love, unless of course you’ve just memorized another airport code, San Jose, SJC., found the perfect pug name – “Roxy” for example or figured a way out of the upcoming office party – would you believe I have another office party for my second job at the same time? I know, crazy!

I Should Have Taken a Left at Albuquerque

2009-02-23T17:03:00.010-06:00

I think I’m finally ready to admit it, my specific sense of direction leaves a bit to be desired. Ok, ok, I know what your thinking; huh? Yes, I said ‘specific’ sense of direction. You see, I always believed myself to have a fairly good sense of direction, no matter how many times I walked left instead of right searching for my car (oh yes that’s right, when you’re coming back out, it’s reversed!), got off an exit too soon/too late, or ignored the GPS instructions to turn because I was sure it must have meant the next left.

Through all of my U-turns, I’m sure it’s this way’s and that house looks familiar’s, I always managed to make it there, eventually. Often (and without a map I’ll have you know) I have directed other drivers in the general direction of any given location, 'head towards the lake', I’d say, all roads lead to the lake…

Today however, it hit me. Left to my own navigational prowess in a neighborhood I had frequented on many an occasion, I was entreated with a simple task, walk to the grocery. What should have involved walking 8 or so blocks in one direction (not quite sure which) taking a right, and walking 2 or 3 in the next, somehow did not. At the first cross street, I began to feel the need to make a turn, by the second block I was certain a turn was needed so off I went. A block or so later I was on a major road not far from the highway..hmmm..interesting….Luckily my powers of deduction were out in full force and fellow pedestrians spilling from a cross street carrying grocery bags did not go unnoticed. I guess you could say I took the scenic route, if it had been scenic. It was however, not in the complete opposite direction I had intended to travel. In fact, I really only added a block or two (three at the most) to my trip. For this reason, I think I can safely say my general sense of direction is good to go. Need to know the general vicinity of that Starbucks? I’m your gal. Want to get there in the next 10 minutes? MapQuest.

*

Brrrrrr..... Update

2009-01-16T09:08:00.004-06:00

Looks like I complained a bit too soon. No, that's not me driving backwards at 30mph, that's -30 degrees Fahrenheit people. Today's office temp. 50.

Brrrrrr....

2009-01-15T18:57:00.005-06:00

It’s cold. Bitterly cold. Bone chilling, leave your taps dripping for fear they freeze, thinking about buying a Snuggie (the most blatant attack on good taste I’ve seen in awhile) cold. Negative eighteen. Negative thirty-five with wind chill to be exact.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good natural disaster (and yes, I consider this a bit of a disaster) but wow, this has all the disaster with none of the benefit. Sure the kids are off school because of the weather (apparently there is fear they might freeze solid waiting for the bus) but where does that leave me, someone who typically bases their ‘it’s too treacherous to go in’ days on whether the schools are open? A dilemma to be sure. Unfortunately I don’t have to wait for a bus (never thought I'd hear myself say that). My only hope (as I see it) lies in the ability of my car to start, or not (less than a quarter tank of gas I’m told, will freeze in this weather).

Damn German engineering. My car starts, albeit sluggishly and with protest. Sluggishly and with protest, I make my way to the office. It’s a wild ride beginning to end. Roads that mere months earlier afforded me a relatively smooth ride give way to contorted masses of asphalt heaving this way and that caught in frozen waves. I bump along in what sounds like an egg carton. Easily detected, every shift in weight causes my car to creak eerily. It’s an odd sound that breaks the otherwise silence of the day and I realize, I’m the egg.

I make it to the office later than usual having been extra careful over bridges and over-passes. I bundle up, hood and all and walk two blocks to the office where I’m greeted by a balmy fifty-five degree workspace. History tells me I’ll be lucky to reach sixty degrees in office, no matter how many illegal electric heaters I plug in.

I have never wanted to be warm more. I long for green grass, hot sand and blinding sun. Keep the faith….only 4 more months…if I’m lucky…

*

Buzz This

2009-01-07T19:50:00.007-06:00

If I hear leverage, synergy, verbiage or 'think outside the box' one more time...

Joy Co.

2009-01-06T08:04:00.004-06:00

Joico; the first fancy, salon only shampoo I ever bought. This particular shampoo seemed to me to smell infinitely better than any other shampoo I had encountered in my short 14 years. I often left for school, hair wet and pulled back in a loose cross between ponytail and bun. Midday, I’d untie my tresses and release a fresh burst of the pretty scent I’d trapped in the twists.

Around that same time I discovered Alfred Sung. I’m not sure if I actually preferred this scent above all others or more likely, thought the name sounded impressive. Either way, I wore Mr. Sung for a good couple years.

Where the girls of Centennial High School may have had differing olfactory sensibilities, the boys seemed to be in complete agreement, Drakkar. Or to be more precise, Drakkar Noir. Kind of rolls off your tongue I must admit. I happened to like Drakkar (even talking my father into the idea that it was cool, sorry Dad.) up until the point someone broke a bottle in the hallway. At once, all the tolerance I had built up in the year or two before socializing with those clearly oblivious to the concept of ‘less is more’ quickly evaporated, unlike the Drakkar which hung thick in the air for weeks.

The smell of lilac always reminds me of biking as a child; turkey in the oven - my mom.
Fresh cut hay - my grandparent’s farm; the smells of a garage - my dad (as he often worked on cars); green grass, Spring.

I’ve tended to save these scents, concerned I guess that if I keep them too close my memories would fade, replaced by some new, lesser association. Alfred Sung has always transported me to winter, walking across a frozen lake, holding an arm for what you thought, was balance.

So as I wander past the fragrance counter or contemplate this or that scent in the candle shop I will always be directed slightly away from the scents I love the most, pumpkin spice perhaps? That may work, we always had raspberry pie.

*

You Spin Me

2008-11-29T10:45:00.013-06:00

"Liking both Marvin Gaye and Art Garfunkel is like supporting both the Israelis and the Palestinians” John Cusack, High Fidelity

I own a record player. It was a Christmas gift a few years back that I received gleefully and by special request. I’m a bit nostalgic I must confess. Many hours I spent as a child lying on my stomach gazing into the face of Mick Jagger as Paint it Black spun on the turntable. Speakers almost as big as I was would send reverberation throughout the house, its contents, and myself whenever Dad had anything to say about volume levels.

I spent equal amounts of time admiring the ethereal quality of ABBA on the cover of Voulez-Vous and many an afternoon Neil Diamond’s life-sized eyes would stare back at me as he sang in his deep steady voice of Sweet Caroline.

Cassettes were widely available but I’d still spend summer afternoons with friends sunning on the back deck as vinyl versions of The Beatles, Peter Frampton or John Denver’s Sunshine on My Shoulder created our own personal soundtrack.

So when I passed a record store the other day on happenstance I could not resist taking a look. Walking in I was immediately confronted by the urban cool fringe. What might the gentleman behind the counter (who looked much more like Jack Black than John Cusack) think of my varied musical tastes? I carefully searched through the selections…The Eagles? Classic right? Or are they considered mainstream and overrated? And what of poor Peter Frampton? While other patrons discussed bands I’d never heard of and the rarity of certain album covers, I spotted Eric Clapton. I eventually decided on all three and warily made my way to the counter.

Flipping my selections over for inspection I braced myself for a disgusted sigh.

Surprisingly nothing, no reaction to either The Eagles or Frampton, then..

“Eric Clapton? I love this album”

“Yeah, me too” I said smiling.

Grabbing a business card from the counter I made my way towards the door. The card read “Records, CD’s & Other Cool Shit!”

"OK", I laughed, “I’ll give you that.”

*

Kitschy Cuisine

2008-10-22T19:17:00.008-05:00

I don’t remember the first time I went to Mars restaurant, but my experience at this time warp of an eatery is always the same. Many months will go by between visits and I inevitably forget that they don’t accept reservations.

“Hi, I’d like to make a reservation” I say cheerfully into the phone
“We don’t take reservations” is the response by the clearly annoyed voice on the other end of the line.

Crap, now she knows I’m not a regular, regular.

“Ok, well, is there much of a wait on Saturday around 6?” I ask

It being Friday, I believe I may have thrown her off the scent enough for tonight and have a hope in hell of sneaking in without a connection being made. Maybe I should disguise my voice just to be sure.

Mars is the kind of place that you walk in and immediately consider walking back out. The experience may be best described as the feeling some have towards blue cheese, you know that it’s edible, but just can’t stomach taking a bite. Mars has been around since the 1920’s but sports a healthy 1970’s motif. The smell of smoke greets you like a punch in the face and the excessively loud, often tasteless conversations of the herds of rowdy locals lead you to believe that there might be an actual punch in the face before the night is over. Spinning, honeycomb like devices dangle from the ceiling, whirring precariously off kilter in a futile attempt to clear some of the blue haze. At least one person is smoking a cigar. Wood paneling, artificial flower arrangements and Great Wall of China sized photo enlargements of the area glow in their plastic, backlit cases.

“How many?” the greeter (and I use the term loosely), asks
“Two” I respond with a hopeful glint in my eye
“We’ll call you” and with that, I’ve been dismissed.

I know better than to provoke a sigh/eye roll from this woman by asking ‘how long?’ and quickly scan the perimeter for a place to hold up. Ok, spot between the two drunks arguing over the Bears and Packers or.....or….come on…. spot at the piano.

Piano it is, but this is no victory. A yellow haired woman of about 70 sits behind the piano belting out all your favorites in a raspy voice, Georgia on Your Mind? Wait, did I say Georgia? I mean, Wisconsin. Cute. Leaving on a Jet Plane; for Wisconsin? Right, double cute. And so it goes, glass after glass of merlot, song after song cleverly altered to include Wisconsin. Well at least no matter how drunk I get, I won’t forget where I am.

An hour into the ordeal I’m finally seated awaiting my food. Why did I come here, again? Before I can formulate a response, the answer is placed on a seemingly clean (as best I can judge by tea light) plate before me, ribs. Or to be accurate, the best ribs I’ve ever had. Slightly sweet yet tangy meaty goodness graces my lips. Ahhh, Mars, I’ve missed you.

A neighboring table of 20 begin a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ and I’m asked to join along, what the heck, we’re all family here right?

Satiated and a bit tipsy, I zigzag around other tables of happy customers on my way towards the door, all the while rifling through my purse for an addition to the piano players tip jar.

*

No More Autographs, Pull-ease!

2008-10-15T12:39:00.016-05:00

So, Ringo Starr is officially out of the autographing game come October 20th, 2008. Ok, I can live with that. I mean the guy is what, 68? Leave him alone already.

And then I watch the video.

“I’m warning you with Peace & Love….” Ummm, what? Warning me? With Peace & Love? That’s odd. Toss in a “This is a serious message” and 5-6 more "Peace & Love’s" and the whole bit of strange is over. Apparently you can say whatever you like now if you tack on a bit of popular social commentary or call for change. Awesome. I’ve been waiting a long time for a get out of jail free card like this.

So now I must be off, I hope you will excuse me as I stoke the tire fire in my backyard, Free Tibet!

http://www.ringostarr.com/home.php

Facebook Restored my Faith in the Economy

2008-10-14T11:04:00.005-05:00

Just when I was beginning to question the state of the economy, a trip to my local bookstore proved I have nothing to worry about. Facebook, is there anything they can’t do?

Clearly they know something I don’t. $14.99 for a paper, (albeit glossy) magazine about a virtual community a six year old could figure out, fantastic. If this magazine is around 6 months from now I’ll take it as a sign that I can stop checking the stock market every 15 minutes.

A note to any of you Facebook subscribers out there: I’ve compiled a list of MySpace tips on restaurant napkins that I can let go for 12 bucks.

For the Love of Tangents

2008-10-13T20:17:00.010-05:00

Have you ever been in the middle of a conversation about how asparagus makes your pee smell funny and wondered how you ever ended up discussing this on a Monday morning? (happened to me today actually and thinking back, it began with the color ‘pea green’).

If not for my love of tangents, I might have completed many more large projects instead of beginning and (ok, I’ll admit it, abandoning) infinitely more smaller ones.

I might have purchased a purse at the store as I intended instead of noticing a piece of fabric, deciding to make my own purse, hitting a snag and coming to the conclusion a better plan might be to chronicle the endeavor on a website that I would create (that by the way, took WAY longer than actually making the purse).

I might have taken the most direct route home from work instead of noticing an interesting road, wildly cranking the wheel at the last second, finding myself face to face with a church pew pillar I couldn’t pass up making my own, and ending up discussing the history of the piece with the seller for half an hour. (very interesting fellow by the way).

I might have went to the grocery, bought what I intended to buy instead of noticing a Prickly Pear, taking it home (couldn’t resist that you know) and eating a pretty bad piece of fruit. Ok, that one may have been a mistake.

I guess my point is (wait for it, wait for it…) that while I could be the owner of a functioning purse today, could have made it home a few minutes sooner from work or eaten something that didn’t stain my counters blood red, I also would have missed out on much of the ‘interesting’ in my life.

Tomorrow I plan on going for a run, wonder what I should name my new dog?

*

Dante's Inferno

2008-10-11T17:23:00.003-05:00

It’s warming up to a perfect 72 degrees. I open my windows to coax one of the last truly beautiful autumn days into my home and hear something indistinguishable over a loud speaker, check? Test? Something is going on.

An auction, my neighbors’ house. Through the trees I can make out items being arranged. I’ve never met them. Are they moving? Did they die?

Glassware, linens, artwork and furniture lay sprawled over wagons and grass.

“Did you know her?” a stranger asks
“No I didn’t” I reply somewhat embarrassed
“I guess she lived alone” the stranger offers

So she died. I can’t help but wonder if I missed something. I begin to search for things I hope not to find, evidence that we might have been friends.

The first few tables are safe. Porcelain horses and mass produced dinnerware. Rounding a corner, a loud flowered chair assaults my senses. Must have been a collector. Massive amounts of stamps and coins are neatly displayed under glass. I remember the last time I thought I might like to collect something, I was 12.

It’s clear that she was not a young woman. American flags with varying numbers of stars and old NRA posters line another table. Fabric and clothing circa 1930 fill box upon box on the ground.

And then I see it; Dante’s Inferno, 1880 folio alongside a vintage Tennyson. Gustave Dore’s beautifully illustrated pages draw me in. A look to my left reveals hundreds more. Classic literature, gardening manuals and cookbooks quickly expose at least three commonalities between this woman and myself.

I will bid on the folio.

I patiently wait as item after item is sold. I am drawn into conversations. These are my neighbors. A teacher, a bicycle enthusiast, a gossip, a city official. I hand out my business card and discuss how I can become more involved in my community. I need to redeem myself.

The flowered chair sells for $5 after a little coaxing.

I ease through the crowd as the auctioneer moves closer to my book. Children walk by with hotdogs and I realize I haven’t eaten. I cease making eye contact with anyone who might speak to me, bid against me. Bees attracted by sugary sodas hover over the crowd and I begin to feel the nervous excitement of a live auction. I have never done this before.

I curl and uncurl my bidders’ card anxiously. 71, 71, 71, I repeat to myself. I don’t need to remember, it’s written on the card. Why am I trying to remember? My heart skips a beat as they raise my book in the air and announce they have an absentee bid. I decide on $100 max., maybe $125.

“$25? 25 dollars where?” the auctioneer bellows
I raise my card, he’s seen it.

The call for $30 brings another bidder from behind me. I won’t look back, afraid I will recognize my opponent and feel the need to relinquish the prize to a new aquaintenance.

I quickly run through possibilities of who the other bidder might be as the auctioneer again looks to me,

“$35?”

I raise my card and nod.

Back to my adversary at $40:

Accepted.

Back to me:

“$45?”

I nod again and this time, a pause,

“50? 50? 50 dollars where?” the auctioneer yells in sing-song. He is searching now, clearly having lost the other bidder.

And with that, it’s mine. Could it have been that easy?

“$45 to…what’s your number” he asks

I turn my card over to look, why? I know this, 71.

I wade through the crowd clutching my book, searching for the look of disappointment on my adversary’s face, nothing. I pause on the outskirts of the crowd to revel in my victory. I’m admiring the well worn cover of the Inferno when I hear a voice,

“Congratulations on your purchase” a white haired man of about seventy, camera 'round his neck says in a British accent
“Do you enjoy art?”
“Yes, I do. Painting, Photography, Literature…” I respond
“Well, that’s all we really have isn’t it?” he says

I had noticed this man wandering through the crowd as I waited. Noted his camera, kicked myself for not having grabbed mine. I racked my brain for something else to say, I felt the need to make a connection.

“So, you’re local?” I blurted out

How could I have said that?

“Clearly not” he responded smiling

“Right, I mean, now” I said trying to recover

“Well, now yes, but I’d rather be in Paris this time of year.”

I commented that “Yes, it would be nice, although I’d never been”, as he continued his story of his travels with the airlines.

“I’ve been all over the world, well almost. There are a few places I would still like to see” he offered “But there is still time”

“Yes”, I agreed, “there was.”

Having said all he came to say, he nodded in agreement, smiled and walked away.

Things I Learned From My Grandfather

2008-09-29T07:52:00.002-05:00

If you limp across the street cars will slow down for you,
If you roll over their hood, they will get out and chat.

Pretending not to know how to work an elevator will save you valuable finger movements.

You can talk little brothers into just about anything even, "Open your mouth and close your eyes."

The red color of Mecurochrome not only makes a wound look bloodier than it really is thus evoking greater sympathy, but it stings less than alcohol.

They still sell glass bottles of grape pop, you just need to know where to look.

Stompin’ Tom is best listened to while stomping along.

Saying “I hate to do this to you” with a sly smile before attempting a tricky Crokinole shot will only backfire about 10% of the time.

You can do shots of maple syrup.

Green grass on an electric fence will only give you a mild shock.

While lawn darts may be deadly, they are still a lot of fun.

While pulling weeds may sound like fun, it’s really not.

Full boar down Dead Man’s Hill on your bike is a rush.

Butterscotch candy is underrated.

Horehound candy is overrated.

Shaving in the kitchen sink will garner an audience.

You can eat whatever you want if you work hard enough.

Getting in good with the chef often leads to extra pie.

To walk it off.

Thank you.

Leonardo, My Friend

2008-09-24T21:47:00.001-05:00

So, Leonardo DiCaprio and I are friends.

Sounds hard to believe I know. I myself have even wondered from time to time if our relationship is truly reciprocal. I mean, I go see his movies, pay full price even, but what has he ever done for me? Birthday’s have come and gone with nary a peep from my celebrity chum. True, he is a busy guy (movies do take months to film and then there are the awards shows and celebrity parties to consider) so perhaps I really shouldn’t take it personally, but I must admit I do.

And then it came, a letter from Hollywood (he still lives there right? I have yet to receive a house warming invite at the time of this posting) that put any doubts I may have had to rest, written on official Leonardo DiCaprio buff stationary complete with photo (wonder if I need to send him one now?).

‘Dear Friend,’ he began.

What could this be I wondered? Did he want to catch up, invite me to a Halloween party or give me his new address? Sadly no, it was none of these. Leo (as all his good friends call him) is concerned about the plight of the Polar Bear and I guess was writing to vent. Skimming the letter quickly I soon realized how one sided our relationship really was. Sure, I care about the Polar Bear but what about a ‘How have you been?’ or ‘Did you go with the tan or the white in the bathroom?’ Is that really too much to ask?

So, unfortunately, I have to say dear Leo (and I apologize for letting you know in a blog) that I think our friendship must come to an end. I really just don’t have time for a fair weather friend.

My First Time

2008-09-23T05:23:00.001-05:00

I must begin by saying that I am writing this somewhat reluctantly. It’s not that I lack the time (I don’t sleep much), the technical ability (I have friends for that) or god forbid, the mental meanderings that make blogs what they are today, but mostly just the impetus.

Why, I asked my happily blogging buddy (who pushed me into this fools endeavour), would anyone care what I thought about global warming (fyi: I’m against it), raspberry pie (yes, please) or dry cleaning? (that one will remain a teaser). True, I’ve regaled many a lonely drunk past closing time with my notions but could this talent, this skill I possess to prevent them from actually falling asleep translate into a wider audience? Hard to say.

Blogging, I proceeded to explain to my puzzled looking friend, may actually be counterproductive to my life’s mission (it’s to be a hermit or, dreaming big; a recluse).

There is also the concept of arrogance to consider I continued, could I really be so bold, so egocentric to believe that two to three people might actually read this? Comment even? Oh, to hope.

So here I sit, typing away for what it’s worth. Not because of any inner drive, social conscience or lust for fame (it is possible though right? Right?), but because a friend asked me to, and anyone who knows me knows, I’d do most anything for a friend.

A final note: Yes, I am fully aware of the title of this post and what you were probably expecting. A word of advice; coming to terms with that disappointed feeling now will save us both a lot of time in the future.

Ciao