FOUND! Who gives a fuck?

The missing Who Gives a Fuck? icon was found today and, as promised, a grand prize will awarded to the finder.

Me.

i just want to make one thing clear. I did not rummage though my archives looking for it. I just happened to find it when I was looking though the E Drive for a photo I want to submit to a magazine. Anyway, I get to choose my prize from three things ... either a peanut TLC bar, a cool Nevada rock, or an ice cold Pepsi.

Seeing as how I just had a bar and the rock is already "mine", as much as anyone can "own" a rock given that the rock is already about a million years old and will still be around when the sun implodes, I'm going to chose the Pepsi, gas station soda fountain in a cup with ice style. We don't drink soda much anymore, not since finally admitting to ourselves how terribly unhealthy it is. So soda. Tomorrow, when I go to Reno, I will buy a soda.

So, there he is. Have at him. ladies. Thanks Asia and JudyBlueSky. It is great to have the little guy back.

The good, the bad, and the ugly

Looking to up your chances of getting published?

Want a fast response to your submission?

Want to know where the pain is?

I just stumbled on this neat ratings site for magazines that publish poetry and fiction. They promise the lowdown on the good, the bad and the ugly.

Check it out. Duotorpe's Digest

Bird Park update,

It's been awhile since I posted any news from the Bird Park but a lot has been going on. This little family was one of the spring highlights. Dwayne says that the parents nested on his side of the fence, under the wood pile.



Fun surprise at about 0:57.

Larger screen here.

Naturally, they brought their little brood to the Bird Park. It was a quail paradise. I say was because the damn FAT neighborhood cats started hunting them. Everyday there was one less baby, until all six were gone! I have reverted to the way I saw my father act a couple of times when protecting us kids. I'll tell you what. Those bastards fly. The second a cat appears in the Bird Park, I drop everything and run out into the yard flailing my arms wildly in the air, yelling growls like a murderous beast. It scares the crap out of those bastards and M. Lee. I can be pretty ferocious when the situation calls for it. Savage. Barbaric. Bestial. Truculent. Positively primeval.

For now, the cats are lying low and that young couple has started hanging out in the Bird Park again although we were looking forward to seeing the usual 30 or 40 quail by this time. It's really peaceful watching them lounge around in the shade of the lilacs, peck for treats in Old Man Hills, take dirt baths by the hour, and nibble up after the finches. But no... the cats ruined all that for awhile.

But in the evening a crow comes with her still downy baby. I chop the peanuts for them. I've been making friends with her and sometimes I can even open the window and toss out a peanut without her flying away. And the 7 o'clock magpie still comes for dinner.

America has a Chance!

The Daily Thea just arrived in my inbox.
Here's a happy little patriot!
America is reborn and has a Chance!!!!!

Happy 4th, World!

In case you missed it, Baby Thea is wearing her swimsuit.

Reminds me that, for however corny this holiday has become, freedom must be protected and shared, not just with our family and friends, but with the world. After all, everybody is somebody's baby. Including animals.



Don't forget the animals.

They love their babies too.

And friends.



And speaking of animals, here's an update on some famous pals.

Watch this. Find out! Do....

Tarra and Bella go to Hollywood?
Sorry. You have to endure a 14 sec. commercial first
but it's worth it. I promise. Just turn your sound down.



Ps. There is a book though, Tarra & Bella by Carol Buckley. Carol is the director at the Elephant Sanctuary. I pre-ordered one for Baby Thea's first Christmas. I think she's going to like it.

Celebrating Palin's resignation

photo by linchbell

And now...
Keyboard Cat will play her off...


Ps. Send your old shoes to the new George W. Bush library.

Sarah Palin Keyboard Cat

Who gives a fuck?

Asia reminded us about it and JudyBlueSky replied, "I want the icon. I NEED the icon. I AM the icon."

Indeed.

Perhaps I am just being academic but, in case you missed the conversation, I think Mr. Smiley Face's sign said, "WHO GIVES A FUCK?" rather than "WHO GIVES A SHIT?"

But you know how it is. Where once people may have viewed it with a less than passing glance, now that it is lost, this tiny gif is legend, like The One Ring Which Rules Them All. To find it would require battle with titanic forces, in this case, Inertia. Don't laugh. Inertia is responsible, or not responsible, for more of history than exists.

So, you may wonder, why did I lose the Mr. Smiley Face "WHO GIVES A SHIT/FUCK?" icon in the first place? Simple, and here's the moral of the story, I failed to back my icon file up before switching to a new hard drive. However, and this is the good part, the little punk is buried in my blog somewhere but locating it would require an episodic, page by page search. I gave it a quick try but lost heart even though I am looking for a diversion from that inventory of poems I inflicted on myself now that Baby Thea's box is in the mail.

So...to sweeten the pot, I am offering a reward to anyone who manages to unearth the damn thing. It is, after all, very tiny and, on it's own, not worth the effort, so if you find it, I will send you a prize, exactly what TBA. Here's a clue. It's probably with posts that are about two years old. Okay. Now, I've gotta get back to work. At the moment, I am tortured by that horrible feeling I get when squandering irreplaceable time. I set out today, after all, to get a poetry submission in the mail before five.

Baby T's tees

.So, I finished six tees for Baby Thea. I'd love to post the drawings but Her Self must see them first. I am mailing the box today. One, in particular, came out a bit weird but I'm sending it anyway. That's how it is with, ahem, works in progress. Well, I suppose they're all a bit weird, or at least not ordinary baby fashion.

Inventory update

To tell you the truth, my poetry inventory is not going so well. It has... well... for the moment... stalled out... and been replaced by the production of Baby T ts. Awhile ago, back before Baby Thea was born, her mama requested a silkscreened version of this blackbird on a onesie. Onesies are clothes sized 0 to 3 months, baby clothes in other words. While I am extremely flattered she liked the drawing enough to request it, I haven't gotten around to getting it silkscreened yet. I don't know how it will be received but I decided to draw directly on the garment instead. Silkscreening is costly but I can see doing it for a bag or a bib, something that will be in use for a while, but Baby Thea will outgrow a onesie in a minute.

Secondly, and here's where artistic considerations come in. Everyone has reproductions but how many people wear clothes that are themselves one-of-a-kind works of art? Seems to me Baby Thea deserves no less. (Kimberlee, your baby too, if you're interested) So, I decided to give it a whirl. I picked up six onsies at the second hand store. What's to lose? I did one drawing yesterday. It may be too strange but there's no going back once the pen touches the cloth. This is the bird that emerged from the ink. Too odd for a baby? Maybe. I've got five more onsies to go. Meanwhile, my fault alone, the writing inventory languishes, the folders stacked and set to the side. I will get back to it. Really.

"Remember: 75% goes in the shredder. At the advice of an actual editor, not the one living in my head, I'm going through the old manuscript with a firm and unsentimental hand. I have 100 pages to go. Whack whack. Does a body good. Don't flinch." JudyBlueSky's comment. She's right, of course, but she's working on a prose draft. If I whack whacked 75% of this file, there'd be about five pages. In my defense I must say, for every page that has made it this far, 75 were whack whacked before the ink dried. Poetry is a brutal craft.

Inventory time

The time has come for me to inventory my written work, especially the poetry and, to that end, I recently printed out what I have, for years, been filing away. This is why I am currently sitting here in my favorite chair, cup of coffee nearby, writing this blog post. I need to give myself a pep talk.

Poetic license only goes so far, if you are serious about writing well. Likewise, this "body of work" idea can remain amorphous only so long before it becomes, well, pointless. Personally, I have a high tolerance for ambiguity. Granted it's a bit messy, but it also allows me to overestimate exactly how much and what I have done. The downside, of course, is that ambiguity sours in an especially nasty manner. And for me it has. So, it's time to open the box, see what's actually what and, more importantly perhaps, what is not. Face the demons. Crap.