World's worst writing

The Bulwar-Litton Fiction Contest, where www means "World's Worst Writing," has announced its 2006 winners. Named after Edward George Bulward Litton, who in the 1800s excelled at writing poor literature, this contest highlights the worst deliberately literature written. Bulwar-Litton is famous for this piece of prose, which Snoopy parodied in his quest to become the Great Dogmerican Novelist:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."
-- Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

To see 2006 winners, click here http://www.sjsu.edu/depts/english/2006.htm.

However, in a recent email from my dear friend in LA, Pat, I received some amazingly bad writing from high school essays submitted by English teachers across the country, God bless them each and every one. I remember the hell we put ours through. Once we delighted in making our math teacher cry. Here are some of the best [worst].

• His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
• He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
• She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like the sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
• Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
• He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.
• The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.
• McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
• From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
• Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
• He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.
• Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
• The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
• He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
• The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
• It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
• He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

If today's kids are this creative, maybe the future is brighter than I thought.

McCain, Clinton have vodka-fest

The New York Times reports Thursday that a few years ago while in Estonia, Senators McCain and Clinton, at Clinton's suggestion, held a vodka-drinking contest. McCain was so impressed by Clinton that he called her "one of the guys," the Times reports. Coming from any good ol' boy, that apparently counts as high praise.

Apparently no one can remember who won the drinking contest. Clinton's spokesperson said "What happens in Estonia stays in Estonia."

The Times apparently just got wind of said party (they're a little late on the scoop, aren't they?) and quotes Tim Russert speculating about a McCain/Clinton ticket. Is he out of his mind? I don't think that's going to happen.

Until tomorrow, schast'ya i zdorov'ya!

Romy chills, watches CNN

Gumballs lead to eight balls

Police in Elliot City, Maryland, confiscated a bag of smiley-faced marijuana gumballs from three 17-year olds. The instructions on the wrapper instructed those so inclined to chew for thirty minutes to one hour before they wanted a high and then after chewing, to swallow.

As if our Federal law enforcement didn't have better things to do, the Drug Enforcement Administration is reportedly all over this latest grave peril to democracy. I'm really glad our nation's 17-year olds continue to keep the Feds on their toes since they're having such a hard time in so many areas, such as finding Jimmy Hoffa's body (a real priority) or their [asses] Arab terrorist targets with both hands.

I'm not saying one more word. I think the above graphic says it all.

What is it with these head butts?

Man of War

First it was Zildane what's his name or is it what's his name Zildane? You can tell I'm an American because prior to his head-butt episode which was televised about a million times, I'd never heard of him. Now we have an English jockey who, last week when his horse gave him a bit of a toss, headbutted said horse in the nose. Of course that video won't get as much viewing because rarely do we hear about hundreds of horse-racing fans being trampled when thousands in the crowd don't win the trifecta or when an Irish horse named "A Boatload of Blarney" wins in England.

But I started to wonder. What is this head butt thing and how did this come about? Oh, I know, it's a guy thing, but is it strictly European? I figured that there must be some definitive history of the head butt on the web. I was wrong. I did, however, find a very interesting and lengthy document by a Gerald Moffatt, a martial arts person, written in 1998 that goes on as long as a Phoenix summer about the various tactical maneuvers that should be used in proper head-butting technique. (And this is just stand-up headbutts; he said he could go on for days about ground-initiated head butts.) He categorized head butts into four main types: forward, rising, sideways and backwards.

Skull rules, he said, are simple. "Thick bone and/or high local curvature make good weapon areas, while thin bone and/or flat areas make good targets. A prime example of a weapon area would be the forehead near the hairline (unless yours has receded), while the temple is a good target area." So all you guys with receding hairlines or hair plugs, well, watch it. In a nutshell, he recommends certain areas of the face as more fragile and more likely to break or chip bones upon impact. Watch out for the mouth, he says, because you can suffer mutual cuts, but if you draw blood, that can be good because it will sometimes freaks out your opponent. He also reminds you to "recock" your head after each butt if inflicting repeated head butts. Head butts are stunners, after all, so he recommends you take advantage of your opponent's disorientation and take time to recock. I'd rather reload, but I digress.

He moves on to the rising head butt. I will cabbage his wording here because it's just too good. "Your knees are bent, you are inclined forward slightly with your stomach contracted and your back rounded, and your chin is (nearly) touching your chest. It’s better if you start even lower -- with your hairline touching the opponent’s chest. Now straighten up and unwind explosively. . . . exaggerate the lift of your head until you can just see the ceiling above you through your eyebrows. You don’t just stand up -- you thrust up." He does caution, however, to "wipe the sweat off your forehead" on the opponent's shirt (hopefully he has one on or your opponent isn't a female, whereby you might butt . . . well, I digress again) as you go up so you don't slip. An especially good idea in Phoenix where the temperature for four solid months never dips below 95.

We move on to sideways head butts. There are two "variants," the long and the short. With the long butt, move your ear toward your shoulder and let it rip sideways. He prefers this tactic and the short butt is more of a snap, but the short butt allows for repeated side butts, so it too, has its tactical advantages, he recounts. You can always add more force, he advises, by swinging your face forward as you go. Now just imagine that poor English horse had been trained in the sideways head butt. Now that would have been justice for the jockey. He'd think twice before he head butted another horse.

Then there's the rear head butt. No, not that rear! He recommends first moving your chin forward toward your chest but warns that this might "telegraph" your move. As the striking surface, use the occipital bone below the crown of your head. If you want to add more power, he recommends arching forward and springing back as if attempting a backward somersault. That always works for me and most of the Russian acrobats I know.

Now that we have covered the four gold standard head butts, he goes on at great length to discuss the diagonal and linked headbutts; holds; the famous "lapel grab" we've seen performed so well in cop and gangster movies; the neck hook; the double-elbow grab; and the types of isometic exercises one should use to strengthen the neck to better damage your opponent.

The article goes on, as he so eloquently says, "like Mao's long march." If you want to read more, go to http://stickgrappler.tripod.com/rma/gmhead.html or google "Moffatt head butt." I know that some of you [guys] will.

To view the article on the jockey's sincere apology, click here. Nowhere does he apologize to the horse. What's up with that?

Now seriously, this has been the biggest waste of my time since I wrote a letter to the Bush administration, and I am beginning to worry about myself. As I laid awake at 3 a.m. this morning after watching two subtitled films, reading several chapters of a murder mystery and watching a mom and four baby raccoons eat all my bird seed then knock the garbage can down the back steps, I asked myself "Why is it I have the energy to do this blog (I was all geared up to write about this enlightening topic today) but absolutely no energy to paint the rest of the house or even walk my dog?" This is one of the great mysteries of my life. I think it's called "depression" but I'm not clear on that. Or maybe I'm just really a slacker and it took for 21 years to figure it out.

This morning after sleeping until 11:30 I cheered myself up a bit with a justification for this colossal waste of time. With two serial killers on the loose in Phoenix, maybe some of my women friends can better arm (or head) themselves for self protection. These days, we all need it. Better yet, if you want a great protection dog, call my pal at Alpine Safety, 623 388-5000. But better not let me catch you head butting a dog, even if they do repeatedly clean out your refrigerator then lie on the floor huffing like a beached whale. That would send me over the edge, in case I'm not already there.

For my 159 loyal readers

I've been requested, by one loyal listener, to stop with the jokes and update you on what's really going on. Here it is. Nothing. This is Missouri, and frankly, I'm bored. I know, you old timers are saying, "If your bored you're boring," but I don't think any of them lived in a town of 30,000 Republicans.

The biggest thing happening here is that last night four, not three, but four racoons showed up at the bird feeder and ate themselves sick. I threw out old bread, veggies and bird seed and they had a great time. I think it was mom and dad and two babies, but what do I know. Two big and two little guys. They also thoroughly perused the trash that was on the porch because Romy has now figured out how to open the child-proof locks my s/o installed on the door where the garbage was kept. We're also back to the bungie on the kitchen door because she has that lock down, too, much to the chagrin of a pound of butter she ate a few nights ago.

As for what else is happening, I'm writing; my brother is trying to update my website to make it look more professional; I applied for a state job in public relations (God, do I need benefits!); my cell phone still isn't working in the house; I'm hitting meetings; I scratched my travel plans to Arizona after a ruthless assessment of my income (I'm broker than I've ever been in my life); the house is still not fully painted after four months and all my furniture is still in Arizona; the cost to rent the van to get it here is $1400 which I don't have; I'm having a problem each day with gratitude; I miss Oz; I still struggle with depression but not as much as I did; I am still in my relationship although I can't figure out how my boyfriend is putting up with me (I think he's a saint); oh, and I started taking a yoga class and today my whole lower body feels like I've been put in a vise.

How is my daily meditation book going? you may ask. It's with a small press publisher who promised to get back to me last week, but you know how that goes. Next it goes to Hazeldon if she rejects it. All the agents have, but that's all because it isn't commercial enough for them so it's either a small press or self publish it.

As for my career, who knows. I know that I should be grateful just to be alive and I keep focusing on the small joys: a great man in my life; two great dogs although Oz is still in AZ; a nice house; my health; my twisted sense of humor which has served me well; my Fellowship friends; and the ability to communicate via this blog, which keeps things in perspective. I keep asking God to make me uniquely useful. It's His time, not mine, I keep telling myself. Faith. As St. Augustine said, "First I believe; then I understand." Right now it's all kind of foggy. You, too, can have this after 21 years.

Yesterday at yoga the teacher, who is a kinda chunky guy wearing shiny shorts that almost show the world much more than it wants to see, said that the exercises we were doing allowed our "heart chakra" to unravel, or words to that effect. My heart chakra is definitely raveled, and although I've worked with letting the walls around my heart dissolve for years, I'm still the same old me. Some days, that's not such a good thing. Other days, it's all okay.

How long can you tread water?

"I knew we should have left those damn woodpeckers on shore!"

I've looked at life from both sides now

Meet Frankie and Louie, the two-faced cat with two names. Two-faced cats are rare, thank God (because two-faced people are quite enough without having to worry about cats going around stabbing us in the back). This cat is rather extraordinary because most kitties with dual faces die within a few months of birth. Frankie and Louie is six and was saved when, at one day old, he was brought into a vet's office to be euthanized.

According to the Worchester Telegram, F&L has two mouths, two noses and two working eyes. I get into enough trouble with just one mouth. I can't imagine where I'd be if I had two mouths. (I'm grateful today for the little things.)

Haifans can rest easier

Lions, tigers, bears, and other large carnivorous animals at the zoo in Haifa, Israel, have been locked in bomb-proof cages to prevent them from possibly escaping during the fighting between Israel and Hizbollah. "If a rocket hits the open-air pen and one of the carnivores escapes into the city, it would not be a nice prospect," said the zoo's head keeper, Yoav Ratner. The carnivores are being contained in secure rooms similar to bomb shelters, Ratner said.

As an added precaution, working dogs have been issued gas masks. Just kidding. Or maybe not.

Not much of a newsday here in Missouri

Cow wheelbarrow, the sport that preceded cow-tipping.

What's it all about, Alfie?

A German shepherd, a guardian angel with paws, alerted neighbors to a toddler who had climbed out a window of a Philadelphia rowhouse yesterday and was toddling across the rooftop. The 23-month old baby was followed by Alfie, the parents' German shepherd, whose frantic barking alerted neighbors, who said it was clear Alfie was protecting the child. A neighbor was able to grab the toddler before the boy was hurt.

And who says guardian angels don't have fur?

Serta sheep 86ed

Be on the lookout for Serta Sheep Number One. American Mattress in Rochester, MN, reportedly lost its Serta Mattress Sheep Number One last night in a daring nightime raid. The 14-foot inflatable sheep went missing, leaving puzzled employees wondering what someone would do with said sheep. I don't even want to go there. The rustlers left a note that read "For the sheep, bring peace."

When asked if they would prosecute the rustlers if the sheep was returned unharmed, the spokesperson replied "Naaaaaaaaah."

Release from care

"It is a fellowship in Alcoholics Anonymous. There you will find release from care, boredom and worry. Your imagination will be fired. Life will mean something at last. The most satisfactory years of your existence lie ahead. Thus we find the fellowship, and so will you.

Alcoholics Anonymous, pg. 152

When I am down or worried, I always find hope in our literature. I think the Big Book was God-inspired and each time I read it, I so clearly see the hand He had in creating it. It is full of inspiration and shows us the way to a completely new way of life.

As the turmoil in the Middle East rages, I am stunned by a few things. No one is talking about it, except, of course, the media. The church I attend is a Bible church and the minister, who gave a great sermon yesterday on freedom, did not say one word about the conflict. Am I the only one who feels that we are on a perilous abyss? Today I'll spend some time blogging through political blogs to determine just that.

My brother and I chatted by email this morning and on one thing we agree --we are on the verge of WWIII and there are no great leaders on the horizon who can lead us through this.

Amid this turmoil, my hope for calm lies with God and in the Fellowship. If I remember that, I am okay.

Those who forget the past . . .

are destined to repeat it.

I spent several hours this weekend at an AA convention, the first I've attended in my 21 years sober. I thank God that I came into the rooms through Narcotics Anonymous, so that the focus of my disease was removed from the substances I used and instead placed on my "addiction." Over the years, I've watched far too many AA members believe that they can use pain medication for various ailments, almost always with disastrous results.

When I moved to the midwest, I found NA adolescent and cliquish and began going to AA. But I digress.

I still go to both Fellowships and I carry a clear message. If I'm in AA I identify as an alcohlic and focus on my problems with alcohol, and they were many. If I'm in NA, I identify as an addict and talk about my addiction. It's pretty simple. And although over the years I've sponsored many women in NA and had only NA sponsors, I am no longer asked, at least in this state, to speak or to sponsor in NA because I attend both programs. I can live with that.

What I find hard to live with, though, is the feeling that I lead a dual life. I did that when I used: By night I was a public nuisance while during the day I was struggling to keep a job in the insurance industry. I refuse to live a lie today and if I hide the fact that I attend both Fellowships, I am living a lie.

I was in an NA meeting in Arizona in December, where I got clean. I heard a member with about seven years share from the podium (he was the speaker) my least-liked phrase in NA, that he works a "pure NA program." That would have been enough to make me shake my head, but then he went on to add that he believed (and when people say the word "believe," just forget about arguing with them because they've made up their minds)that if it hadn't been for AA, it would have been something else and that NA would have still been founded. I almost fell out of my chair because it was simply the boldest case of hubris I've seen since the day I practically crawled, (as did he; I remember) through the doors of our rooms.

I'm having trouble putting in links, but if you want to read some awesome recovery, go to www.dickb-blog.com. I steal, and I hope it meets with his approval, from Dick's site with these words: "A.A.’s former archivist Frank M. often said: 'Whenever a civilization or society perishes, there is always one condition present. They forgot where they came from.'

The Fellowship of NA saved my life and I will always be grateful. But today, I don't have time to put up with a bunch of nonsense in my life; I need to speak and live my truth. And the truth is, NA owes it very existence to Alcoholics Anonymous. I bet my life on it.

There's no need to fear

Wonderdog is here! Oz is still in Arizona for another month, getting ready for the first leg in his Schutzhund title. But right now, he's a hero.

He was at the training field with my friend Pat, her friend Mary Beth and two puppies left at Pat's for training. Oz was on a long down stay when a coyote came in toward Oz, bowed down to him as if asking him to play, then took off. Oz took the bait, as would any red-blooded dog with high prey drive. Pat immediately called him back, and although he was in hot pursuit (which was appropriate because they were training at the Prescott Valley Police Department), he turned around and headed back to where Pat and Mary Beth were standing.

As Oz ran back toward them from quite a distance, two other coyotes swooped in from behind Pat to grab the puppies. The first coyote was a decoy, meant to lure away the pack leader, Oz, so that they could eat the puppies.

Oz immediately took off and the two other coyotes ran away. In Native American legend, the coyote is known as the "trickster." Coyotes smart; Oz smarter. Just another reason he's my hero.

"Mommy!"

Apparently a mother tiger lost her cubs in a California zoo and became quite depressed. When her health started to decline, the zoo called all around to try to find motherless cubs she could nurse. There were none to be found. They decided to try an experiment, and wrapped tiny pigs in lion skin for her to nurse. They weren't sure if the pigs would become, to the mother lion, babies or bacon. The pictures tell the tail (excuse the pun). If we could only feel it in our own hearts, there is no end to our capacity to love.

Anniversary

Today is one year since my liver transplant. While I am filled with gratitude that I was given the opportunity to live, I am also filled with sadness for the courageous family of the six-year old boy who died and whose liver I was given. I pray that the family finds some comfort in their courageous decision to harvest his organs. I was told he gave ten transplants. I stand in awe of their courage and ask that you keep them in your prayers today, to give them the strength to move forward.

Why Texans should vote for Kinky

Kinky Friedman, in case you don't remember him because you smoked too much you know what in the 70s, the musician, author and pal of the musical outlaw Willie Nelson, is running for Governor of the great state of Texas this year. His campaign slogan is "Why the Hell Not?"

Of course, immigration reform is one of Kinky's top priorities. A recent poll he conducted about the immigration problem went something like this:

Q. Do Texans think illegal immigration is a serious problem?

A. 41%: "Yes, it is a serious problem."

A. 59%: "No hablo ingles."

He backs biodesiel, saying "it's good enough for Willie Nelson's bus" so it ought to be good enough for Texas. And speaking of Nelson, if elected Kinky promised to appoint Nelson as the Texas Energy Czar. When asked about their pot-smoking background by Jay Leno, Friedman replied his administration wouldn't get up early in the morning, but would work really late at night.

When asked about his support of gay marriage, he had this to say, according to his website. "Q: What is Kinky's position on gay marriage?

"Kinky supports gay marriage and equal rights for homosexuals. He believes that the constitution protects everyone. As he says, 'I believe love is bigger than government. And besides, they have a right to be as miserable as the rest of us.'"

Good government should include a few laughs, I believe. And after all, according to Kinky, "How hard can it be?"

And whomever you choose in the upcoming elections, be sure to vote.

England's at it again, at least the squirrels are!

In a desperate attempt to save the red squirrels in England, forestry officials will target its most deadly enemy--the grey squirrel, which carries a form of virus deadly to the red squirrel. Red squirrels have become so rare they haven't been seen in certain English forests for over two years, and squirrely scientists are determined to do something about it.

While the Church of England may well protest, they plan to introduce squirrel contraception that targets the grey squirrels. Is this a squirrel form of the pill? Perhaps a tiny condom? Maybe abstinence lectures with mandatory attendance, which have done so well in America.

The article didn't say. I personal vote for pills, because the idea of tiny squirrel condoms disgarded throughout the forest, well, yuck.

Happy 4th of July

It was a beautiful night in Jeff City, a slight breeze from warm summer rains earlier in the day, the humidity not too oppressive. We watched the fireworks from a school near my house and enjoyed the antics of kids, waiting in amazingly well-behaved groups, to see the show.

I wanted to take a minute today to thank the veterans in my life, my Dad and my brothers, for helping, each in his own way, to keep this country free. You are patriots.

Didn't get to see fireworks tonight? To have your own private show, go to www.cyberfireworks.com. Follow the directions in the right-side box.

Mi Vato Loco

Oz had a brief gang affiliation; however, with counseling, I got him straightened out.

Fire on North Rim of the Grand Canyon