This Spud's for You!

In 1945, the United Nations, replaced the League of Nations as the dominant international organization dedicated to promoting human rights, international law, economic development and a generally peaceful spirit of cooperation. Apparently, they were also established to extol the virtues of the potato.

2008-- apart from being a Leap Year and a pivotal, if not an historical (yes, an), Election Year- is, according to the UN, IYP. WTF is IYP? Why, International Year of the Potato, of course! You mean you didn't know???

Portrait of an Unknown Potato

The website for potato2008.org has loads to offer every level of potato afficianado from the casual fancier to the obsessed botanist. From the "you want fries with that?" to the professional agrarian. It is no less than a book of love dedicated in to the queen of the garden.

So, I leave you with this thought from beloved television personality and humanitarian, Oprah Winfrey...

My idea of heaven is a great big baked potato and someone to share it with.

Now, if that doesn't capture the spirit of IYP, I don't know what does!

Beaver Fever

It's so not what you think. It's Thursday and I woke up with a song in my head. I believe these facts to be unrelated. For those of you living in doubt of a Higher Power, let me restore your faith-- it's not the song from Small World. Oddly enough, however, what it is IS is the theme song from Nickelodeon's, "Angry Beavers." It is.

For those of you unfamiliar with the grooviest brothers beavoir, Dag and Norbit are, in short, beavers. While they never seem particularly angry, they are perpetually bickering and competing and engaging in endless silliness.

How did I happen upon this alleged children's program? Funny you should ask. Once upon a time, I lived for a spell in Lafayette, Louisiana. One Saturday afternoon, the phone rang. Before I even got to say hello, "Put on Nickelodeon! There's a show and everybody's talking like you!" Thus, the Angry Beavers came into my life. If you click on the logo, you'll be linked to the Nickelodeon web site where you can view a full length episode.

So, whenever you numb-boogers hear someone shouting, "What's that spooty, spoothead, spoot guy, king of the spoots doing here?" You'll know the answer! Looking for the Angry Beavers of course!

I've still got that spooty song stuck in the old noggerooni!

Chooses Muses Loses Blues(es)

People who hear voices-- saints, writers and the occasional mental patient- are frequently disarmed by prolonged silence (in their heads at least). This loss is occasionally expressed by a romantic homage to the Ancient Greeks with the phrase, "I've lost my Muse."

Generally my philosophy in life is to accept responsibility for everything which comes my way. Or, let's just fix this and we can dissect it when it's safely behind us. This isn't a formula for success, mind you. However, I'm fully aware of this and blame no one but myself.

That said, I introduce you to Calliope, pictured crudely just above. Calliope is the Muse of Eloquence and Epic Poetry. While I've never considered her to be my Muse, I do find the idea of her to be inspiring. As a fairly outgoing individual I prefer the society of real friends over that of the imaginary. That and the fact that whenever I see the name, Calliope, I hear circus music (yes, it's a link).

When I read my blogs from days gone by (I've not written a proper entry for far too long), I am reminded of the specific friends who were there for the digital inscription either in reality or in spirit. I remember the edits. I recall the laughter. I feel the love.

"I've lost my Muse," I mumbled many moons as my melancholy mantra, thus mourning my Museness mislaid and I endeavored, as any responsible individual would, to build a better musetrap in the hope of reuniting with my Muse-- hitherto, without success.

Then, it struck me. I have no Muse. I have Muses! (or, is it Mice?)

I know so many lovely, loving, extraordinary people and I carry a little bit of each of them inside me. They are the smooth stones we pick up and drop in our pockets somehow knowing that they're too special to simply skip across the lake. Fascinating. Reassuring. Inspiring!

You are the children of Zeus and Mnemosyne! You are the voices in my head. In my heart. The Music in my laughter. This isn't something I can ever lose. And, I accept full responsibility for losing sight of that!

It's the Little Things

While searching for a Winter Park business, I stumbled upon this wee gem. Wouldn't you just die to have a charming little cottage on Midget Drive with a charming little view of Lake Midget?

The best part would be the giving out directions.

Just take Kentucky until it ends. Here you can either turn right to hit South Kentucky or turn left and an immediate right to get back onto North Kentucky. Either way you'll run into Midget. If you can't see the rainbow behind you, you've gone too far.

Click the midget to jump to the big map. Why does it feel weird to say big?

pogo-a-gogo

I'm always saying how it's a tragedy that someone doesn't make moonshoes for adults. Whenever I'm stressed and have the sudden urge to bounce around in moonshoes and learn to play the ukelele my dreams are shattered when I discover that the weight limit on the moonshoes is somewhere between toddler and super-model. I suspect if someone came and stripped all of the meat from my bones, just my brain and bones alone would weigh more than that.

The next best thing perhaps to moonshoes is the pogo stick. Pogo mind you is one of those acquired tastes like cigars, cognac or Linda Ronstadt. I am pleased to announce however that there is a new player... none other than the Flybar Elastomeric-Spring Pogo Stick. The latest accessory in the Elastomeric-Spring fashion line-up. As long as we're hyphenating.

Who needs moonshoes when you can pogo to the moon, mars, and beyond? Watch out Hubble, I've got a digital camera and I'm on my way to space via Elastomeric-Spring Propulsion.

Click the pick to jump!

got no strings

Pinocchio was on to something when he started his knotty pining for life without strings. There is much freedom to be had in stringlessness. Or today in wirelessness... ness... ness. For example, cordless phones give us freedom from phone cords, which are wires. Walkie-talkies gave us the freedom from the string between the soup cans. Ok maybe not wires, but freedom nevertheless. The aforementioned bluetooth offers us freedom from wiring our hands-free kits to our cell phones, which are also, I might add, without wires.

At home however there are some other great uses. Having an electric razor that charges by induction on its base is nothing short of magical. Pick it up and shave. Set it down and charge. My fighting with an ironing cord days were banished about a year or so ago when I received my first cordless iron. It's light, it's quick and I don't have to play Indiana Jones to prevent the cord from mussing up whatever I've got spread on the ironing board and now that I've written this I have no idea what playing Indiana Jones actually means. The wireless network in my apartment is allowing me to write this blog from my laptop which I can carry out onto the balcony, into the kitchen or indeed anywhere in the house-- no more 100 foot ethernet cable trailing about the place.

My latest and greatest addition however is my new cordless Electrolux Pronto 2-in-1. My discovery was nothing short of serendipity. I was researching vacuums online when I discovered the sub-category of stick vacuums. After all, who can resist a vacuum on a stick? Probably everyone... but me. And there it was. A cordless rechargeable stick vacuum with a detachable stomach that doubles as a dust-buster sort of thingy. For me it's a 4-in-1:

1. cordless
2. a stick
3. a vacuum
4. a thingy (dust-buster)

In fact, it's nothing short of miraculous. Now, I can spirit about my apartment, feet barely touching the floor, riding the Pinocchio style high of having been liberated from my strings.

I wonder, though, if it dreams of being a real boy?

the goose is getting fat

By Halloween, Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede (part dinner show, part redneck circus) already had their 4 story Christmas tree up between it and the exhausted Interstate 4. The I-4 as it is affectionately called (generally followed by series of expletives) is marked as running East and West which in places it does. Orlando, however is not one of these places. Here, the I-4 pretty much runs North to South which explains the proximity of the Dixie Stampede to it.

Dolly. Who doesn't LOVE Dolly? I know I do. In fact, I once named one my cars, Jolene. So, of course, I'm perfectly content to see her 7 foot high smiling face on the Dixie Stampede video sign flickering high upon the steeple. A smile from Dolly is a great start and a comfort to anyone unlucky enough to travel the I-4. I am a bit taken aback however when in mid-October she appears on the flickering screen in my living room announcing that Christmas is her faaavorite time of year and how nobody does it better than her adoring children at the Dixie Stampede. She even backs her claim of the best Christmas celebration (without alcohol) in Orlando with a guarantee (you must smuggle your own alcohol in-- I use must here as an imperative rather than a declarative-- if I had to do it over again thing).

It's important to mention that here we measure out our year by events rather than seasons. We only have 2 seasons here: hurricane season and not. Consequently, to see a Christmas tree up before the end of October is as disorienting to us as the complete lack of seasons is to our newly arrived neighbors.

So, Dolly, as much as I love you, you're fattening the goose a bit early this year. Christmas is coming no matter what. I can guarantee.

the tooth about my ear

I have a tooth in my ear. And, it's blue. You're probably thinking to yourself, "What has blue teeth?" A blue comb, perhaps? A depressed dental hygienist? Or, maybe he travelled to France and his pen exploded in his toiletry bag and he failed to notice because he'd been awake for 27 hours and inadvertently painted his teeth blue? Well, that's just impossible, because if you knew me you'd know that I despise writing with blue ink so if anything my teeth were black. Wait. What?

This amazing technology indicated by the runic logo apparently does more than let you chat wirelessly and, for the most part, hands-free on your already wireless but not hands-free cell phone. What else does it actually do? Who cares! All other possibilities have been thoroughly eclipsed by the almost magical and now-that-you've-tried-it-has-become-totally-indispensable Bluetooth earpiece for your Bluetooth equipped cell phone. Words fail to describe the pleasure to be had from walking about tapping your ear to answer the phone, or wandering around the grocery store talking to yourself until someone sees the little blue light on the side of your head. Then it's ok to be caught talking to yourself-- you've got Bluetooth! You didn't think I was really on the phone did you?

The name however still seems totally off the subject. Well, there's no point in googling about. A quick browse to the source, bluetooth.org, sheds some blue light on the subject. The name was taken from a 10th Century Danish King. This is not a reference to a drive-thru bakery either. This was a real king, called Harold Blatand. Surprise, surprise! Blatand translates to Bluetooth in English. Personally, I'd rather have a Bluetooth stuck in my ear than a Blatand. Hmm. Moving right along... you can click on the logo above for the full story if you'd like. It also mentions someone called, Forkbeard. This is what happens when you don't get enough sunlight and your serotonin levels are low-- your teeth change color and cutlery is entangled in your facial hair.

Meanwhile, I'll be here... talking to myself through my blue tooth.

if you'll be bubble, i'll be squeak

Doesn't it stand to reason that if you bake a cake with pineapples at the bottom of the pan with the intention of inverting it that it makes the part with pineapples the top of the cake?

A British friend actually asked me this. Subsequently, I learned that if you want to really go crazy (or mad) discussing pastries, try talking about biscuits with a Brit. They find it quaint how we call biscuits, cookies. A favourite with a u of theirs is the digestive biscuit. This is a product name which is so far from Madison Avenue that it sounds completely repulsive and alien to us. I suppose it is actually. To the untrained American ear it sounds a lot like a laxative. Likewise, we seem to find it entertaining how they call cookies, biscuits; however, this is because we already have biscuits. Although, our biscuits are more like scones-- only less sweet-- to them and we haven't got scones. Then we're placed in the precarious position of being forced to feign horror when they ask for clotted cream for their American biscuits.

Our stereotypical idea of the British and pastries must always include the phrase, tea and crumpets. Like scones, we haven't got crumpets either, but we've got English muffins which are crumpet-like only more sweet. Ironically, they've got English muffins like our English muffins but since they're already in England they tend to gloss over the national specification. As in the buttermilk biscuit, scone and clotted cream dilemna, there is always the risk that your British guests may request marmite with their cruffins. Without going into detail, let's just say that feeding American children marmite is a good way to get on the wrong side of child and family services. Marmalade is much safer and is also transatlantically acceptable as a crumpet or American English muffin accompaniment.

Americans do fancy the notion of sitting down to high tea (and crumpets-- see? you can't help yourself) Oddly enough, tea has become synonymous with their-- the Brit's that is-- evening meal which we would call dinner. So, we should be fully prepared to put on our best vacant expressions in the event they tell us something like, say, they've had Bubble and Squeak for tea. Who are they? we're inclined to question, imagining charming little talking animals from a Beatrix Potter tale.

On the subject of pastries is dessert, which they would call, pudding, or afters. Afters makes sense but pudding seems awfully specific. This is why the concept of a Yorkshire Pudding is confusing to us. A Yorkshire Pudding is not a dessert, but a sort of popover sort of bread type thing flavoured with a u by pan drippings from some sort of roast. Or something of the sort. They are very easy to make very poorly but we're American so we don't know any better. The secret of Yorkshire Pudding is that if they're made well, they're really not much better than if they're made poorly. Anyway, the bottom line is that unlike a dessert, aka, pudding, a Yorkshire Pudding is actually something you would consume during your meal rather than after-- unlike afters which you would consume...um (or erm)... after. See? It's confusing even if you explain it.

So, if you want to pop round for tea after work, I can't promise you crumpets, clotted cream or marmite. However, if you'll be Bubble, I'll be Squeak.

iPod therefor iAm

I'm waiting for a podcast in iambic pentameter. I just thought I'd throw that out there.

iFeel a bit left out of the iPod craze. I love music. Unlike most people however I'm gifted with auditory hallucinations of music. For example, one holiday season I was bopping down the aisles of the Shop-Rite in Hackensack, NJ, commenting to my friend, Rob, about how impressed I was that they were playing Annie Lennox on the PA system. This stopped him dead in his tracks and inspired him to ask in a tone of crazed disbelief I've yet to hear from anyone ever again, "What are you listening to?" That's when I realized it wasn't in fact, Walking on Broken Glass, but rather Bing Crosby crooning, White Christmas. So, you can see how an iPod may seem a bit superfluous to someone like me. Someone who hears music-- often with lyrics-- that turns out to be the dishwasher churning away.

All this confusion stems from my sudden fascination with the podcast phenomenon. Instead of reading the blogs, I can download the podcast to my mp3 player of choice which might but doesn't necessarily have to start with a lower-case i to review at my own leisure-- the audio book version of blogging only cooler cause it's just like having your own radio show.

Meanwhile, the only thing stopping me is the fact that I'm still waiting for that mp3 player which converts me to a podcast-downloading, card-carrying iTunes enthusiast. In case you hadn't noticed there is a dizzying array of mp3 players available ranging in size from a block of government cheese to a 1" cube. Apple's sexy marketing scheme and snazzy approach to brand recognition has taken the guesswork out of it for the most part. Reliability however is a very public issue. A friend came over the other day with his iPod because every time he plugged it into his computer it froze his computer. It froze two of mine as well. Then, when I shared this story with a friend visiting from Norway, he told me the same thing happened with his iPod. iPod withdrawal is not to be taken lightly particularly when combined with the news of scratching and cracking displays on the slender Nano.

Then, as if things weren't confusing enough, some of these devices also store photos, play videos, tune in and even record FM radio as well as function as voice recorders. The voice recorder seems very handy for a student wanting to record lectures which can then be turned into podcasts for the study group. However, for general use it seems like another crutch. How many phone numbers did you know from memory before your got your cell phone? I once carried my address book in my head. Now I can't even remember my own number unless I add it to the phone book on my phone. So, I've just talked myself out of a voice recorder.

I guess it all comes down to price, personal aesthetics and the ability to read me bedtime stories. Now, when an mp3 player can tuck me in as well as read to me, then it just might make my must have list. Until such time, I'll have to make do with my iThumbs which work very nicely at holding up the book I'm reading.

westward ho

So, the hurricane ravaged gulf region is facing yet another storm. Wilma. Fortunately, Wilma is not a common name, so chances are there will be very few parents regretting a recent choice.

What concerns me more however is the failure of the State Government to take preventative action against said cyclone. Any responsible governor would call for everyone in the state to stand outside for at least 2 hours facing west, blowing, fanning, waving arms, and doing absolutely anything that might route the stormy blast. All of the airplanes and airboats and those little fans with the spray bottles from the theme parks should be pointed directly towards the gulf. Granted, the effort might result in the storm blowing back to Mexico, but life's a gamble anyway, isn't it?

Not only would this serve to bring our communities closer, but it would also get everyone outdoors and exercising-- particularly now that the humidity has broken for the most part.

So, should the hurricane come, Governor Bush has only himself to blame for failing to unite the good folks of Florida to stand together against this great meteorological foe! My advice to all my fellow Floridians-- get out and blow, westward ho!

tube tops lost

Bigger is better. But, so is smaller. We don't know what to think anymore. The one true uniquely American passion, television, has been blown up and miniaturized simultaneously by the same technology. The TV has given up it's tube to make way for a more exciting and scalable technology.

LCD technology, or liquid crystal display, in association with the initials, DLP, HDTV, MPEG, PVR, DVR, 3G and WTF, has brought us bigger and brighter and smaller and lighter pictures than we ever imagined we would have in our homes or pockets. 72" rear projection televisions are bringing the theater experience home, while the zooplankton versions dazzle us with video clips on our cell phones. Or, the new video capable iPods.

Speaking of video iPods, the networks seem to be waxing over all panicky-like due to the possibility that someone might actually download a show to their iPod at $1.99 a shot instead of watching it for free in the living room. Or bedroom. Or kitchen. Or in any room of the 87% of American households that have access to cable television. Face it. Would you rather watch a bunch of moody plane crash survivors (and a hobbit?) kibitzing around an island on a tv the size of a matchbook or something a bit closer to a cafeteria tray?

Now for the math. Regular tv is presented in the 4:3 aspect ratio (the proportion of the width of the picture to the height). Your father's tube tv is 4:3. As is your video iPod but at a fraction of the size. Oddly enough, 4:3 is also the proportion of programming to advertising on commercial television.

I watched Lost recently-- which basically sums up my reaction but that's neither here nor there. Out of curiosity, I timed the bits of show that were broadcast as well as the bits of commercials that were aired. Including the recaps from the previous episodes of the season (which at the time totalled to 1), nearly 1/2 of the hour was spent with ads for tampons and breakfast cereal being fired directly at my face. No wonder it's called Lost-- the "precious" viewer loses 1/2 their time watching commercials! And no wonder I stopped eating breakfast cereal!

This lost time is precious time that consumers can spend watching last week's Desperate Housewives on their iPods. Or programming their PVR's, or, heaven help you, VCR's, to record the series. That was a lot of commas.

Best of all, thanks to iTunes, we can now bypass the entire process of recording the programs ourselves all for a nominal fee so we can watch it over and over on the matchbook screen. Ok, then what's with all the mooning, posturing and general stroppiness? You know the network executives can watch anything they want without having to sit through the commercials. Is that the problem? We don't pay enough for the commercials on cable tv? $1.99 is too little to pay to skip a few ads on an iPod?

mummified grapes embalmed in chocolate

If you eat a pound of them at once, you will get a tummy ache. This is non-negotiable. In fact, it's highly probable that you could eat less than a pound and still come out the other end feeling queasy. However, the full pound was immediately accessible and there was just no resisting their juicy, chocolate covered siren song. Yes, even songs can be covered in chocolate. Ought to be covered in chocolate. Except maybe Blue Suede Shoes. You know what I mean.

What's really amazing however is that as dried and shrivelled as a raisin is-- or as is more often the case these days, mummified using sulphur dioxide-- they still taste juicy. Thinking this to be a crafty raisin subterfuge, I pointed the magical internet search engine to raisin juice. My mother always warned me to stop googling my juice. Obviously, I never listened.

Well, apparently, there actually is such a thing as raisin juice. It is in most regards uninteresting except for the fact it actually exists. To be fair though it is touted as an alternative sweetener as well as rich source of B vitamins. Do the bees know?

A more intresting notion albeit one that leads to worry is this plump little bit of raisin trivia gleaned from nationalraisin.com-- it takes 4 lbs. of grapes to make 1 lb. of raisins. This means that someone-- who shall for the sake of argument remain nameless-- consumed as much sugar as can be had in 4 lbs. of grapes. This excludes the sugar content of the chocolate chocolate coating. At this point I must interject that deleting the word chocolate is an emotionaly charged venture so the accidental if not subconscious repetition shall remain unedited. In any event, it's hardly any wonder I had a tummy ache. 4 lbs. of grapes is undoubtedly larger than a human head-- if not nearly the size of a small baby. Some of you knew that was coming.

Ghosts from the Pasta

Some countries have skeletons in their closets. China has skeletons in it's walls. And 4000 year old noodles at the bottom of its rivers. Yes, the Sleeping Giant can now claim once and for all to have the archaeological evidence to back its claims that pasta was indeed born in China.

The Italians were unavailable for comment. However, China's Institute of Geology and Physics had this to say: "These are undoubtedly the oldest noodles ever found." (click the quote for more)

Anyone who has ever witnessed a performance by Chinese acrobats will readily accept the notion that noodles are from China. Like Chinese acrobats, noodles have no bones and can be found in Walmart. At least this is what the announcer in Epcot claimed prior to a display of boneless children doing what boneless children do. Bend.

What's really amazing however is the possibility that river silt can now compete with modern food preservation technology. If it can preserve noodles for 4000 years, what do you think it can do for your complexion? If China were clever they'd be peddling their Yellow River silt as the first scientifically proven anti-aging formula. Archeaology is science after all. Look out pearl cream!

The discovery of such a revolutionary preservative has the power to transform the economy of this gianormous nation. Soon, they won't have to send their boneless, huddled masses to America to experience the wonders of Walmart. They will have their very own Great Walmart of China!

Google gaga

Google has everyone talking baby talk. And searching the web. What most people don't know however is that Google will message your cell phone. It's much smarter than a magic 8-ball but not quite as user friendly.

If you text message the word, help, to the phone number GOOGL (46645) it will promptly message you back with basic instructions on how to get what you're looking for. You can find anything from point-to-point directions to the population of Luxembourg (which is 468,571 by the way). Try it with your own country of choice! You can also look up vocabulary words (so long as you're able to spell them), get weather info, movie times, or even the street price of the latest iPod courtesy of their froogle.com service. Tres cute, n'est-ce pas?

It really is a festive and educational way to waste text messages. If you want to try it out without actually wasting your text messages you can practice with the online demo at: Google Short Message Service Demo

The really sad part is I get nothing from Google for this. I just think it's fun.

Jamish. On a stick. With pencils.

Occasionally, I slip into my own personal dialect of English which one of my friends dubbed, Jamish. Jamish is based on substitutions. If I were to announce, for example, I'm SO egg salad! My mad cousin came today! you would be meant to understand that I'm excited because my magazine came today. You can also rearrange syllables to make things more interesting-- like when I go to eat at Calipizza Forniakitchen.

Sometimes, descriptive phrases are preferred over words which sometimes lack nuance. A good example of this is the chewy thing at the bottom of the sink. The words, garbage disposal, are not wont to pass my lips-- I mean, it's not the sort of thing that works it's way into every day conversation. Anyway, everybody knows what I mean when I say it. So, Jamish is not always obscure. Shut up.

In Jamish, EVERYTHING and ANYTHING can and does come on a stick. This morning I opened my refrigerator on a stick to get my lunchskaya don'tchaknow. Skaya is an important modifier which can be added to any word on a stick to add emphasis. Since lunch is a happy thing it tends to be my lunchskaya... don't ya know. Don't ya know, which sounds like, don'tchaknow? indicates that I've said what I've said and there's not much else to tell.

Pencils are like sticks. Unlike sticks however there is no such thing as a bad pencil. You can only imagine my delight to discover that steak on a stick is featured on the menu at Friday's. It is important for Jamish speakers to ask questions when so prompted by your server. Questions like, "About the steak on a stick... can I get that with pencils instead of sticks?" are very important to achieving fluency. And if, in the end, you're presented with chicken fingers and a few little pencils as a sort of do-it-yourself appetizer, then you're speaking perfect Jamish. It's also important to let everyone know that chickens don't have fingers and you don't know why they call them that.

There are also ubiquitous adjectives which can mean anything. Usually I'm not sure what they mean but they sound festive. If you are egg salad to tell me about your promotionskaya then I'm likely to tell you that's festive. Cute is ok to use as well however it must be pronounced correctly-- for Jamish that is. Try saying, Kyoto, with a Swedish accent. Now drop the trailing 'o' sound and you've got the correct pronunciation of cute. So, when asked what you think about your co-workers new hair, you can say it's cute. Anything that you perceive to be larger than it should be-- even if only by a few millimeters-- is huge. Huge is pronounced in the same fashion as cute and may require some practice. Festive and cute may sound like cop-outs but they're really little greenhouses in which opinions may later grow and flourish, but which, more importantly, emphasize the fact that most things in life have an attractive, positive aspect. Jamish is a dialect of optimismskaya... don'tchaknow!

Well now you've had the baby on a stick version of Jamish 101. Laterz.

Slut, the mermaid

Anyone who's been to Jungle Jim's by Walt Disney World has seen the happy little plastic animals that hang from the sides of your drinks. Well, in some cases, they are mermaids. My friend, Stephen, enjoys relating his tale of a drinking binge, a plastic mermaid and the subsequent search and rescue mission when said mermaid was accidentally dropped in the parking lot. Thus the legend of Slut, the mermaid, was born.

This brings us to a famous coffee retailer with a confusing logo which until recently I believed was a mermaid with two tails. Well it actually is a mermaid with two tails but not just any mermaid can have two tails. It turns out that it's a siren, a mythical creature depicted as a hybrid mutant woman bird thing with two wings or a hybrid mutant woman fish thing with twin tails. Bird or fish, these sirens are rumored to lure unwary seafarers to a crashing foamy doom with their songs-- sort of like a Bronze Age iPod. Had to get a foam reference in there somehow.

It would also seem that the more Disney animation type hybrid mutant woman fish thing with merely one tail, also sings a siren-like song but has no apparent motive for luring sailors to a wet death being they have their hybrid mutant man fish things in the form of the merman (although they're never called, Ethel). Oddly enough, the overwhelming popularity of Hans Christian Anderson's vis-a-vis Disney's little hybrid mutant fish woman thing also resulted in tremendous commercial gains. You know what the other mermaids were calling her, don't you?

Hopping into the Blogpond

A hesitant start is better than no start. Someone older and hopefully wiser whom I know and, for the most part, respect, quipped that since it takes as much energy to tread water as it does to swim slowly, it's better to pick a direction and start swimming-- however slowly. So, here I am in the blogpond. Swimming. Admiring the lily pads courtesy of National Geographic. Who knows where I will end up?

Sometimes it's better not to ask

This is a grab from my MyYahoo! personal portal page. I think it pretty much speaks for itself. Incidentally, you can see the answers here: duck pants and here: scratch-n-sniff, respectively.

By way of introduction

Someone suggested I start a blog. You've been warned. The entire blogging concept is a daunting one for me being that it seems to have few limits. It does, however, encourage me to write. Since egregious self-promotion is not my style, I will most likely just make it up. And what I don't make up, I will probably wish I had. That said, wish me luck on my first voyage on the seas of the blogosphere.