Saturday, April 28, 2012

Pizza is dead

I use to believe in pizza. At one time my world revolved around pizza. I worshipped pizza. I was young and very involved. I thought seriously about devoting my life to pizza when I grew older. I was raised by an Irish-Italian mother and we were strict in our devotion to pizza. I knew all the toppings and followed the way of the sauce every Sunday. I studied the history of pizza in the new world and that of ancient Rome. Pizza was my life.

But as I grew up I became more jaded. I was exposed to those who dedicated themselves to pizza but had another agenda. I saw the abusers in action. I saw the lives they destroyed in the name of their pizza. It hurt my soul deeply and I moved away from pizza. But I couldn't abandon pizza entirely. I tried to insist that pizza had no part in my life. But in times of strife I called out for it; and it was delivered. I continued to search for the true deeper meaning of pizza but grew tired and wary.

Then I found curry.
Curry does not care if you are young or old. It does not care if you are one race or another. It does not care if you are straight or gay. It is not indifferent, it is nurturing. It fills your soul with joy and your senses with spice. It can be sweet, it can be hot. It can be vegetarian or have the meat of your choice. It does not restrict you to a shape like pizza does. The ingredients are mixed "in" not on top where they can fall off. It is the spice of life.

And if you can not let go of pizza, curry does not care. You can put curry on pizza.

Church_top jpg by anson © 2012

Friday, April 27, 2012


Occasionally a man gets to a certain age, divorces his wife and remarries a younger woman. These women are referred to as "Trophy Wives" as if they were some sort of prize. We also refer to big game hunters that hang stuffed remains on their walls as "Trophy Hunters." 

If we combine the meaning of those two words then miniaturize it you arrive at Sid. Her image is above. She is my "Trophy Cat" because she is young and quite beautiful. 

She also kills things, for fun. 

trophy_cat jpg by anson © 2012

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

One pissed off humming bird.

 We have one pissed off humming bird. He just needs his quick fix of energy drink to get through his morning and he has to wait in line. Not only that but those in line in front of him keep letting their friends take cutsies. I've been there. Waiting for my morning coffee at the coffee shop and some gym rat in front of me let's all her sweaty gym rat cohorts order their drinks as they walk in off the street. Sometimes they apologize most times they do not. Does this piss me off? No, I'm older and find it fascinating that they would go out in public smelling so badly yet dressed so chic. Will I say anything? No, they might sting me. 
Feeder_line jpg by anson © 2012

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Black Widow Attack!

I was aware of their presence. They lurk in the shadows under cartons. protecting  their nest, their webs, their very existence. But in spite of that knowledge I challenged them. With my bare hands I destroyed everything they created. I tossed it aside with hardly a care. And they did what came natural to them. They used their defenses and bit me. It was a small bite, it was a small Black Widow. It hardly penetrated the skin and where it did, on my cuticle, the skin is thick and tough. The resulting bite was merely a small black patch where the damage was done. I had a similar bite a few years ago when I stuck my hand in a glove. That time I felt the prick. I turned the glove inside out and found the remains of the attacker still twitching. From then on I danced on my garden gloves prior to putting my hands inside. This time it was not gloves, I reached into the nest.

The day after my back was stiff and I felt tired. I thought it might be from working in the yard. But thinking back it was probably the last stages of an assault I thought I won.

Blog jam

Since I started blogging there have many times I've had dry spells where I just didn't know what I could say. This last two weeks have been different I have so much to say that I can't decide what to say first. So nothing came out.
Picture a river in the northwest jammed with logs. I am carefully walking out on the mass of logs using my Peavey hook to balance with. Or maybe it's a PowerBook sitting on my couch, I forget. If I'm not careful, once free, the moving logs could crush me. Do I take that chance or do I wait until summer when the raging current from the melting snow bank has subsided? I can't wait. The ideas flow, and I fall into the water. Standing in the mud I realize it's only a foot deep. Idea's formed by words take on any shape we want.
new_shroom.jpg by anson © 2012