Monday, April 30, 2012


Okay, so you know how lately I find myself doing that thing where I sing and play the violin in the same song?

It happened again yesterday, and when I say "it happened" what I mean is that I ordered some vocal sheet music online expecting to do a vocal performance because someone asked me to, and as I practiced, there was a solo instrument part thrown in there randomly, like a big betrayal. But I'm pretty chill, and not easily offended by sheet music, so I thought, "cool, not a problem. I'll just do both."

But what I didn't count on was the fact that my brain has decided to become terrified of the violin. Like, seriously 100% I-might-die terrified.

Have you ever seen anything so terrifying in your life? Me neither.

I don't really understand what's happening to me.

Let me break down the irony of this for you.

I started playing the violin when I was 10 which, admittedly, is a little late, but now that I'm nearly 32 it means I've played for 22 years. (This is also evidence to the fact that I was the biggest nerd possible in my teenage years.) I spent hundreds if not thousands of hours practicing the violin during my youth. My parents, who weren't rich, let me take lessons for years. I was in symphonies, and went in tours. I was often a section leader in the groups I was in. I bought albums of the best players playing the best songs. I wanted to be really good. I cared. Violin was a big deal to me. I got a music scholarship, a talent award for violin, as I entered college, but then decided to major in English instead. But I was still in all the groups, and took lessons, and it was a huge deal to me, and I minored in music.

Not only that, but there's this really huge family legacy with the violin, too. My great grandpa played. My grandpa played. In fact, he learned how to make violins as well. Whenever I went to his house, I'd find him in his shop trying to perfect replicas of Strad and Guarneri (for the uninitiated, those are two old dudes who made really amazing instruments hundreds of years ago that now sell for millions of dollars and if I ever get to play one, I better not get all stage frighty and nervous because I'll be pissed, and also if I dropped it it would cost a LOT.)

What I'm saying here is that I have spent a lot of time practicing, obsessing, poring over violins and learning how to be a violinist. Probably my culminating moment was when I was asked to play a solo for my graduation at BYU. Me, the Marriott Center, and rows and rows of people. It went perfectly. As one might hope with how much I've put into it. Also I took drugs*.

Conversely, singing is something I decided to do as an afterthought. I have spent no time whatsoever cultivating my voice or learning any technique at all. As a senior in high school I offhandedly decided to join choir groups because I was bored and could read music and where I moved they didn't have an orchestra, and then I ended up winning the big choir award at the end of the year much to my surprise. I learned to do vibrato as a big joke, just goofing off. It was not something I took seriously at all.

And now it's the main thing I do. Most people who know me from church would probably say something like "oh yeah, Josh Weed sings. Oh, and doesn't he play some instrument too? Like the banjo?"

I kinda don't know what to think about this stuff.

Anyway the irony was never more pronounced than yesterday, where during this vocal performance I had to play literally two lines of very, very easy melody. We're talking this is no big deal. It's less than no big deal. I can breathe, therefore I should be able to do this. I haven't lost a finger to a hack-saw or had my neck excised in a freak accident, therefore I should not have a problem.

Yet, there was a problem.

It kind of sounded like I had learned how to scratch out a tune on a fiddle that I picked up for the first time last week and that I had decided to try it out for the first time in front of an entire church congregation. Or like a hive of buzzing bees had been disturbed and was now all vibraty, hovering above the audience, waiting to sting them. Except that makes it sound more compelling than it was. It was actually just... well, it sounded like poorly played violin, which if you know anything about violins and poor violin playing (any parent to a violin student should relate) you know that it is really really not beautiful. In fact, it's pretty much the opposite of beautiful.

So there I was singing a song like a vocal bad-a, not a care in the world, only to lift my violin, the treasured instrument I've spent years and years honing my skills on, and start FREAKING OUT because I suddenly had stage fright so bad my leg was shaking like it had a life of its own, and my vibrato was all weird and bouncy-sounding, and it was just really... awkward. For everyone. Mostly for my violin (which my grandpa made with his bare hands), who felt violated and cheapened by the experience.

Thankfully it was only two lines, and then I was back to singing, which, for whatever reason I'm totally comfortable with.

Why? Why is it that the thing that should come as naturally to me as breathing makes my brain all haywire and freaked out and makes my hands sweat and my legs tremble in fear, and the thing which is new and I have literally never had a lesson for or really practiced at all comes as naturally to me as if I were standing in front of a congregation taking a leak?

(Go ahead and visualize that one. It's an amazing image.)

"Wait, Lorna, is that man urinating on stage?" 

I don't know the answer. All I know is that next time you see me playing the violin, make sure to check my seat to see if there's any frightened urine-spatter you need to clean for me. Because I probably peed myself, is what I'm saying. Not because I decided to take a leak in front of an entire church congregation.

Because that would just be uncomfortable for everyone, except for me.

Don't you hate it when you write a blog post about music that you can't get to be funny enough and you feel like it's kind of sub-par, but then you have to post it because it's Monday and that's the day you post a blog post no matter what?

Yeah, I hate that too.

Oh well, it wouldn't be the first thing related to the violin that has been sub-par for me this week.

(Ba-dum CHING)

Passing the torch. She'll be a vocal star in no time!

*Not REAL drugs. Just blood pressure medication. Given to me by my surgeon uncle. To calm my nerves. Wait, maybe there is a hint here somewhere?

Photo attribution here and here

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Male Pattern Baldness

Can somebody please explain this to me?

I have a full head of hair. Not a single ounce of baldness. Yet, somehow, this has happened.

 No, I am not wearing socks or ankle weights.

Here it is closer up:
News alert: it's physically impossible to take a picture of your own legs head on. I know because I tried. Then called Wife over to do it for me.

Yes, my leg-hair doesn't start until about half-way up my lower leg. 
And yes, my flesh is blinding.

I have no idea what this means, but it pretty much looks like I had a pair of white socks tattooed to my ankles. Especially when I'm not tan. Like right now.


I wore socks that were too abrasive as at some point in my youth.

A leprechaun shaved my ankles in my sleep using a magic razor.

I am simply going bald starting from the bottom up instead of the top down.

I have cancer.*

I am a leper.

I am Benjamin Button.

Which do you think it is? Or perhaps you have another idea as to what might be happening here?

Also: Rogaine? Thoughts?

*I'm sure there must be a cancer that involves ankle baldness. But even if there isn't one, I think it's pretty clear that my "perma-socks" are most likely insidious and life-threatening.

Monday, April 23, 2012


Recently I hit a pothole on the way to the gym.

Not a big deal, right?

I could hear that it had messed something up, but my tire felt kind of functional in that I wasn't driving on a rim shooting sparks into the night sky, and since I was almost there, I just finished driving to the gym and parked.

I hopped out of the car hoping to see that everything was fine. But it was not fine. My tire was nearly flat and looked kind of like a squished black pancake.

 This is the opposite of what my tire looked like. 
(Can you tell I'm struggling to find pictures tonight?)

There are two things you should know about me:

1. I have no idea whatsoever how to change a tire.

2. When anything that requires car maintenance happens to my car, I freeze up like a deer in headlights that is afraid said headlights might make it have to do something masculine that the deer doesn't know how to do, like change a tire, causing utter panic to course through its body.

Like any normal person, I started hyperventilating and wondered why life was worth living anyway. I sat in the driver's seat, trying to assess the situation, in a state of shock. My internal dialogue went something like this:

"Is it really flat? (Gets out and checks for the third time) Oh gosh, it really is. But maybe I'm just seeing things. (Kicks the flat pancake tire) Oh yeah, it's so flat. What do you do when you have a flat tire again? Do you take it off or something?  Should I say a prayer? Yes. (Prays) (Waits) Well, that didn't work at all. It's still all flat. And I still don't know how to get home. Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap. I can't believe this is happening. (Buries face in hands) This is the most horrible thing that's ever happened to me. Oh gosh, this is really happening. (Starts to hyperventilate) Should I call 911? Would that be okay? Wait no, they probably have more important things to do, like arresting robbers and chasing shoplifters down alleys. Who should I call then? Who can save me???"

Obviously, my next step was to call Wife. Because she's really good with cars.

Me: Something really, really bad has happened...

Wife (roused from sleep): What?! What's going on? Are you okay?

Me: I was getting to the gym and I hit a pothole. And now... now my tire's almost flat.

Wife: Wait... what?

Me: My tire! It's almost flat and I'm stranded at the gym. 

Wife: What do you mean it's "almost" flat?

Me: Well, I mean that, like, it still has a little air in it, but most of the air is gone and it looks like a pancake.

Wife: Oh sweetie. That's just called a flat tire. I'd head-pat you if you weren't stranded at the gym because of a flat tire.

Me: What do I do??

Wife:  Well, if a tire is flat it either needs to filled back up or changed, so that it's not flat anymore...

Me: So... how long until you get here?

Wife:  Um, sweetie, we have three children peacefully sleeping in their beds. And also, you are a 31 year old man. And you have a brain. And you're at the gym so allegedly you have muscles. I think you can handle this...

Me: I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over my hyperventilating...

Wife: Fill up the tire. With air. Drive home. If it goes flat again, fill it up again. If it shreds, call me. Maybe we can find someone to change it for you.

Me: Thank you mommy. I mean Wife. Hopefully I'll see you soon. Unless I die.

Wife: You won't die. Unless you mess up.

So, I did what any reasonable person would do and worked out in the gym, the entire time trying to gear myself up for my grand return home. "You can do this, Weed. You've got this. See how you just benched 80? That means you can get home with a partially flat tire that you have to fill up. This is not a big deal. Happens to people all the time. I'm gonna die!!!"

However, it kind of worked because by the time I left the gym I was feeling pretty pumped up, like maybe I could make it home without somehow embarrassing myself horribly.

I was wrong.

First thing I did was get out my portable air pump. I attached it to the tire like a regular tire-expert, and filled that sucker up with air. And it worked, because after a while, the tire looked all full and plump and ready to go. Except, when I pulled the air pump off, I could hear this really horrible hissing sound. Ominous, yes. Prohibitive? No sir.

Off I went, onto the freeway with my emergency lights blazing, alerting all the other cars around me that hey, I'm a big deal. I have something going on. I imagined those lights as saying something really important, like "Listen, we have a crisis here. We have a driver with a punctured tire that he doesn't know how to change by himself because he is ridiculous. Clearly this is an emergency situation so, BACK UP OFF HIM." 

It was going great, and I was getting close to home. Then, right before my exit, I heard it. thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap.

I pulled off the side of the road and started filling up the tire again. It was dark. I could barely see. I was pretty sure I was going to get hit by a drunk driver and become an amputee in a wheelchair. And then I'd have to worry about flat tires on that thing too.

I was almost done when suddenly, another car pulled to the other side of the road. Out hopped a burly looking guy, assessing the situation, surely expecting to help a damsel in distress, or some dude who is daintily filling his tire up with air because he doesn't know how to change his own tire. You know, either one of those two things.

Guy: What's the problem?

Me: Well, I'm just filling up my tire. Because I don't know how to change it. Because I'm an idiot.

Guy: Do you have a spare?

Me: A spare tire?

Guy (perplexed):  Yes. A spare tire. To, you know, put onto your car. So that you can drive it.

I wasn't sure. I rifled around in my trunk until I found a magical compartment that, when I opened it, contained a tire! "Yeah I do," I yelled.

At this point, the guy looked at his watch, seemed to consider his options and then said. "All right, I think I've got time to change it for you." But then he explained that he had to be fast because he's got to get home. Because he is on house arrest. 

Let me tell you something you probably don't know. When you are on the side of a freeway at night and you are trying to fill up your tire so you can drive the rest of the three minutes home and get into bed with your lovely wife after a hard workout at the gym, and then some burly dude in a pick up pulls over, offers to change your tire for you, and then explains that he has to be fast in doing so because he's on house arrest, the correct thing to say to him in response to "Do you want me to change your tire" is exactly what I said:

Me: Sure. Thanks.

No, "that's all right, I've got this." No "really sir, you probably should go home, being a criminal and all." Just a quick assent to let him change your tire. Because he's probably really good at that. Possibly because he frequently hijacks cars.

The truth is, the guy was incredibly cool and also really nice, and even though he tried to get that big screw thingie off the tire really hard but couldn't, and didn't end up being able to change my tire after all, I still drove away on my refilled punctured tire very grateful. Indeed, my faith in the goodness of humanity was confirmed. That guy was a good guy, willing to help someone else. Never mind that had I been a woman he might have tried to sexually assault me, or had I pissed him off he might have tried to murder me with that big complicated car-lifter-upper thing he was using from the trunk of my car.

He was a good Samaritan.

A good Samaritan wearing an ankle bracelet.

 Don't judge a book by its cover. Or a man by his ankle bracelet. (Pretend that this is a picture of an ankle bracelet and not shackles, okay?)

And I? Well, I did make it the rest of the three minutes home. And then I crawled into bed exhausted at which point Wife rolled over and asked if I had changed the tire. And I said "no, but a murderer tried to do it for me and couldn't because our tire is real, real broken."

"That's neat," she said. And then she patted my head and rolled over to go back to sleep.

Just another day in the life of The Weed.

Image attribution here and here.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

And that's when I told her about my creative vagina NOW WITH A VERY IMPORTANT UPDATE

Conversation between my sister and me:

Jenni: So, how's the book coming?

Me: Oh, it's finally kind of coming together. I think it will be done--like all the way done--by the end of the summer. I can't describe to you how difficult this process is though.

Jenni: Um, I can imagine. With ADD, getting a novel into perfect form is probably like trying to climb a mountain with chopped off feet. And no rope. And two blind eyes.

Me: Exactly. It's breathtakingly difficult. It's funny though, because most authors talk about the editing phase like it's no big deal. Like in passing they're like "and then I rewrite my novels four or five times to work out the kinks, and the voila! I'm done!"

Jenni: Really?

Me: Yes. It's infuriating. For me this first re-write has absolutely been the most difficult part of the process, and maybe the hardest thing I've ever done in my life which is why it's taken years. Writing the meat of the book was easy. This? Is HARD. It's like writing the book was allowing a baby to gestate inside me for nine months and editing it and getting it perfect is like trying to push it through my creative vagina.

Jenni: Wait, you have a creative vagina?

Me: Yes. And currently I am pushing a novel through it. And I'm feeling the Ring of Fire. And there is tearing. And I've been in labor for a really long time. And I can't wait to get this baby out of me.

Jenni: Got it. So, just what does coitus look like for a creative vagina?

Me: A lot like conversation. Intellectual intercourse, if you will.

Jenni: I see.

Me: Actually, in the case of my book, I would have to say the moment of conception was while I was sitting in a grad school course on child therapy with a guest lecturer who was a lady in her 70's. Suddenly, the idea for my book hit me, and thus a creative zygote was brought into existence.

Jenni: So what you're saying is that you got knocked up by a gray-haired lady in grad school.

Me: Exactly. And now I'm pushing our book-baby through my creative vagina. And it hurts.

 "Welcome to class, young man. It will be my pleasure to impregnate you. With a book-baby."

Jenni: Oddly, this is actually a really good metaphor. I totally get what you are saying.

Me: Wait, so you aren't mad at me that I compared finishing a book to being in labor and pushing a baby through a tearing vagina?

Jenni: No way. I would be horrified if you thought that. I frequently hate on my own sex for that kind of thing.

Me: Oh? What do you mean?

Jenni: Like all those girls who are like "Oh no you di-iiiin't just compare something to giving birth." I hate that. I think it's petty and short-sighted and not empathetic.

Me: But, isn't it like one of the hardest things ever?

Jenni: Absolutely. I've done it twice. Once without meds. But it's not like I think it's the only hard thing that can happen to a person. I think that comparing finishing a novel with ADD to pushing a baby through a vagina is an apt metaphor, not on affront on women.

Me:  I always knew I loved you.

Jenni: Listen, I love being a woman. But sometimes we are ridiculous and very territorial over our labor pains. That's all I'm saying.

Me:  I'm pretty sure I'm going to put this conversation on my blog.

Jenni: That's fine. Just so long as you emphasize that I am not offended by what you were saying about your creative vagina. Because if people got the impression I was that type of woman, that would offend me.

Me: Deal.

And thus, I successfully compared finishing my book to pushing a baby out of my tearing creative vagina, which then transformed into a conversation in which my sister hated on her sex and I didn't even get in trouble.

Aaaall in a day's work. 


Naturally I'm reading Jenny Lawson's new book "Let's Pretend This Never Happened" and naturally I love it because it is incredibly hilarious. However *spoiler alert* I just got to the part where she talks about telling her boss that she had a book inside her and that she needed to get it out, maybe through her vagina. I want to clarify that I HADN'T READ THAT PART WHEN I HAD THIS CONVERSATION WITH MY SISTER. NOR WHEN I WROTE THIS POST.

Of course, nobody needs to believe me.

But I know, deep within my creative vagina, that I speak the truth. And the truth will set me free.

Also, you should probably buy her book immediately.

Monday, April 16, 2012

The Happiest Place To Throw Up in the Bushes On Earth (A History of Vomit in our Marital Relationship, segment 1)

Yes, you read that right. This is the beginning of a series about vomit in our relationship. (There might end up being only two.) Oh boy are you in for something special!

The day after I got to California over Christmas break, Wife and I decided it was high time to do what all families with small children do when near Anaheim, California: take a lot of naps inside the house even though it's really sunny out because you're on vacation and you're lazy.

But instead of doing that, we ended up waking up really early, packing a bunch of stuff, and getting ourselves ready to go to Disneyland. (Wow. That nap bit was hilarious. Good hook, Weed!)

I like Disneyland. And I like watching the girls at Disneyland. I was glad we were going.

As we and the girls' cousins and grandparents and aunt and uncle were walking out the door, Wife said "hold on a minute" and ran into the bathroom and threw up a nice big throw up.

When she came out, she had a look on her face that said "I really shouldn't be going to Disneyland today" but the words coming out of her mouth were "all right, let's go! Get the girls loaded into the car!" *grimaces* *tries to pretend it's a smile*

I tried to protest. "Sweetie, no," I said. "You just threw up. That means you should be quarantined and should only be able to be in contact with people if you're wearing a Hazmant suit and they are wearing doctor masks. Oh, and also, you need to rest so you can feel better. Moreover, naps...." But she wouldn't hear it.

"I just ate some bad food. We're going," she insisted.

So, we all loaded into the car, and the girls were squealing with excitement. We caravanned (seriously spell check, is that not a verb? Did I spell it wrong?) with her parents, and all was going really well on the way to the Most Magical Place on Earth Besides a Wicca Convention until Wife needed us to pull over so that she could run into a gas station and vomit everywhere again. She was in there for a looong time.

Not sure if you know this about me, but I have a bit of a vomit phobia (called emetophobia) so, at this point, I was kinda freaking out and I was ready to call an ambulance to take all of us home and sedate us so that we could sleep calmly through the horrific effects of any bug that had infiltrated my careful system of not being in contact with any vomit ever for any reason and also washing my hands obsessively whenever I remembered to do so on occasion.

When Wife got back to the car, she looked like a mixture of death, beauty pageant excitement, and really bad gas. Her face was contorted into a foul grimace, but then as she approached the car she put on a very fake smile and tried to look excited. She hopped in and the first thing I said was "All right, back home we go..." and she grabbed my arm, looked me straight in the good eye, and said "My daughters are going to go to Disneyland today, and I am going to be with them. Stop trying to ruin this for everybody and MAN UP." Except not in those exact words. But whatever she said, it was clear: we were going to Disneyland that day, come hell or high water filled with chunky vomit.

So on we went. We got to the theme park, gathered the girls, and got in line to buy tickets. There was some confusion at this point as different people and different families got in different lines for different tickets, but eventually we were all on the other side of the gates. All of us, that is, except Wife.

"Where's Lolly(<----Wife's family nickname)?" asked everyone.

And then, she appeared. Sheepish, sick, and filled with the knowledge that she was treading on children's dreams. "Where were you sweetie?" I asked.

"Oh, nowhere..."

"No, really. Where were you?"

"I was... throwing up in the bushes."

Yes, that is correct. In some young child's memory of their first trip to Disneyland, my wife is the dark character that sullied that pristine moment entering the gates. She was the one bent over in the mouse-eared-shaped bushes vomiting violently, in front of everyone. Welcome to Disneyland, the most magical place to throw up in the bushes on Earth!

I really wanted Wife to go home and rest because she looked like she might pass out, and I was sure she was infecting every person at Disneyland with a horrible disease, but she just kept right on going, trying to take pictures of the girls, and trying not to let her face look as miserable as she felt.

It didn't work very well:

 "I LOVE Disneyland!!!!"

 Yes, that fake smile certainly softens the blow.

This is when Viva broke Dumbo

 Aaaand, she's wheelchair bound.

That video was while we were in line for Pirates of the Caribbean. I was nervous for her to go on that ride--all the sensory stimulation, the loud music, the drop, but somehow, like a true miracle, when we got out of that ride, Wife looked at me and said "I think I'm better now."

And she was. Apparently she had just eaten something bad, and apparently she had spewed it all out of her esophagus successfully. And apparently all she needed was a nice soothing ride on a boat simulating the Caribbean with pirates dancing around to really feel better.

But she was still compromised for the rest of the day, and a little tired and out of it.

Which is why when she took Viva on Dumbo, she let Viva sit on her right even though she knew kids were supposed to sit on the left because Viva was getting upset and Wife just didn't have the energy to fight her. And then they started the ride. And then they noticed Viva was in the wrong place, and they stopped the ride very quickly. And that's when all the kids had to return their magic feathers and not fly again ever because Dumbo stopped working. For hours and hours.

Good work Viva and Wife! 

I think there are a couple of morals to this story.

1. If you wish upon a star that the bad food that is making you throw up everywhere at Disneyland will stop making you sick so you can watch your girls ride rides, your dream will come true!

2. Disneyland is still fun even when someone is vomiting in the bushes.

3. Dumbo's feather is a crock of crap.

PS, Viva also broke the Carousel when she decided to switch from sitting with Daddy to sitting with Mommy right before it started, but instead started wandering around defiantly and they had to stop the whole thing. Thankfully, though, they fixed that one in only a few minutes. (NO FEATHERS REQUIRED.)

Not sure if you noticed, but today isn't Wednesday, and it's also not Saturday. It's Monday. And that is because I'm changing my posting days. (At some point, this will stick. Trust me. I know myself.)

So, the new schedule, for the seven of you who are waiting with bated breath, is that I will post on Mondays and Thursdays. YAY!!!

Next up: a post about me being a handyman. Because, boy am I. (Or the wedding picture post.) (Or another vomit post.) (All right I'm not sure what's next, but it will probably be one of those things.) (Unless something terrifically hilarious happens before then that trumps them all.) (Goodbye and have a good Monday.)

Monday, April 9, 2012

Like a Phoenix rising from the ashes

I think one could say that this post is a rebirth.

I was gone for weeks. My brain was elsewhere. My sense of humor took a brief hiatus while I contemplated very deep and important mysteries like "why do I enjoy my daughter's lactose free milk so much?" and "just what is the symbolic implication of the term 'avox'"  and "why am I so charmed and fascinated by Kristen Bell's reaction to a sloth?" and "how is it possible that Whitney was face down???" *deep contemplative look*

Yet, here I am, once again.

You'll have to pardon me as I wax philosophical and pretentious and Freshman English Majory, but I think this post can best be encapsulated by Sylvia Plath's poem, Lady Lazarus, the final stanza of which reads:

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

the only differences being that I don't have red hair, I haven't attempted suicide lately, I am not a lady or anything like Lazarus, and I certainly don't eat men like air, or even know what that's supposed to mean. But I'm sure you get my point.

I'm back.

And like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, this blog too will open its eyes, then spread its deformed, awkward wings, and try very hard to launch into flight in a spectacle of spasm and seizure. And when, after getting about six inches of lift,  it slaps back brutally to earth crushing its face into a nearby rock, it will then stand up on its gnarly, gangly legs and continue walking forward with a gangsta limp. And then, when it trips embarrassingly after three or four steps, this blog will roll, much like a potato bug retracted into its shell except without a protective exoskeleton, and will continue its forward momentum towards its final destination and goal, which if you figure out what that is please email me at joshua (dot) weed (at) gmail (dot) com and tell me, or tell me in the comments, because I'm still not sure what this thing is about. But whatever it is, it will never ever stop because somehow it's the most fun thing I've ever done in my life.

This blog is a fighter, ya'll.

Thanks for sticking around. All three of you.

Things to look forward to in the coming week or two:

1. A post instructing you on how to take the best wedding pictures in town. I will be using pictures from my own wedding in 2002, the colors for which were chosen by my sister-in-law who was 12 at the time because the only thing Wife cared about was the Honeymoon. You will be astounded and not just a little bit jealous. And who knows? Maybe you'll learn a thing or two about snapping a good photo!

2. A link, finally, to the post that I promised at the end of that week of posts mid-march. It has found a home!  It's satire, people. Satire. I promise. Stay tuned.

3. A schedule!!! I will post every Wednesday and every Saturday. Let's just try that on for size, shall we? (Today's post doesn't count because it's fake. Unless I don't post until Saturday, in which case, this counted as Wednesday. I think you can see how committed to this I am! Cool!)

In closing, I have found a few images that represent what this post is trying to communicate. Now, I realize this might be kind of abstract for some of you, but if you are deep and contemplative enough, you might "get it." I'm not sure if I've mentioned how lonely it is being a visionary like myself, but it's actually really isolated being deep and profound like me, and seeing the world in such variegated colors and prisms and depth. So, let me know in the comments if you see what I'm saying so you can join me on my island, where we will eat really putrid authentic cheeses and listen to Radiohead and Zeuhl all day long and then, at night, write free verse poems about Karma and irony and how hard it is to be an isolated intellectual. And if you're wrong, I won't judge you yes I will but I'll pretend to be nice.

Okay, first this:

 Then this:

 Mixed with this:

Get it???

Photo attributions: here, here and here