I frankly don’t know how other bloggers can routinely churn out posts while otherwise apparently having full lives.  This photographic project I’ve waxed on about for the past two posts continues to wipe me out, no energy for the blogging give and take.

How nice to have one of those bloggers write a post for me [click] on the subject of the loathsome experience of buying a new car!

Three or so weeks ago, the subject of buying a new car was not even on the radar, then without warning a bee got into Stephen’s bonnet and ‘suddenly’ I was signing the papers last week on a brand new ‘Ioniq’, Hyundai’s entrance into the Toyota ‘Prius’ market.  Far prettier, see for yourself:

Click to enlarge

Googling for the above picture, I got directed to the ‘Wiki’ article on the car, which includes the following sentence: The nameplate Ioniq is a portmanteau for ‘ion’ and ‘unique’.

Until today, I had never encountered the word ‘portmanteau’, but spellchecker knew it.

Spellchecker making a person feel illiterate?  That’s just wrong.


This project I posted about three weeks ago has morphed into something very much resembling an actual job, as in ‘employment’.  This has been quite a shock for someone who for the past thirteen years of retirement has been — as our friend Michael J puts it — ‘sitting around the house all day, touching myself’.

Earlier this week, after about five minutes of watching the Congressional grilling of Former CIA Director John Brennan on the Trump-Russia matter, I wrote a piece about South Carolina U. S. Representative Trey Gowdy entitled:

“Dave: ‘Insensate’ or merely ‘Wantonly Vicious’?”.

I very wisely canned it, but here is the thumbnail: Gowdy is a hideous to look at, embarrassingly vile redneck.

I am very tired.  An op-ed piece I read a month or so ago places — with regard to the damage to our collective psyche — the election of Donald Trump alongside the Kennedy assassination and the 9/11 attacks.  I concur and need relief.

My late friend Dee was a voracious reader, and though I do not know how she came upon Ernest Howard Crosby (1856—1907) ‘American reformer, georgist, and author’ in her reading journey, during her moments of frustration with this, that, and the other, she would say with just a hint of wry:

‘I am here by some sad cosmic mistake, and I am homesick’.

Here is Crosby’s line in its context:

I am homesick / Homesick for the land I never have seen / For the land where men rise only to lift / Where there is nothing over a man between him and the sky / That land is my true country / I am here by some sad, cosmic mistake / And I am homesick

Ernest Howard Crosby

My own approximation of Dee’s ‘mantra’ comes from a far less idealistic author, Dame Truman Capote.  Here are the words of Miss Lily Jane Bobbit, one of Capote’s couple of prototypes for Holly Golightly, in this case a precocious little girl in his short story ‘Children on their Birthdays’:

‘The Devil … will do you a good turn if he knows you trust him …  Now, as a matter of fact, I have called in the Devil just recently.  He is the only one who can help me get out of this town.  Not that I live here, not exactly.  I think always about somewhere else, somewhere else where everything is dancing, like people dancing in the streets, and everything is pretty, like children on their birthdays.’

I don’t require ‘pretty’ just now, I just need so much less ‘ugly’.  Seems unlikely, but I wonder if the Devil can help me out.

Here’s a bit of wisdom I’d like to pass along: If you don’t want to do something, you have to say ‘no’.

A couple of months ago, I found myself added to a committee for a local ‘attraction’ which is attached (so to speak) to the municipal fine art museum.

Here is a partial description:

The Ware-Lyndon House is a circa 1840s late Greek Revival home with Italianate influence. It is the last remaining house in its once fashionable 19th century in-town neighborhood. The interior has been restored and arranged with decorative art and furnishings of the period.

This committee I’ve mentioned took on as a project the creation of an online database of a wide swath of those period furnishings and objets in the house.

Here’s where I enter the picture.  Since for a sustained 22 years of my 30-year ‘association’ with the local university my business card included the descriptor ‘photographer’, assumptions were made.

I did not say ‘no’.

I’ve set up a small studio in the house and am currently spending hour upon hour photographing the length and breadth of the contents, from chifforobes to dainty porcelain.  I’m killer at dainty porcelain, chifforobes not so much.

Truth is, I’m not suffering as much as implied.  My only paranoid ‘dismay’ is that in this iPhone world, people think photographs just happen: I sense a phantom bit of impatience from the other committee members.

Well, f*ck ‘em.  Oh, I don’t mean that.  Actually, yes, I do.

On an occasion or two, I’ve mentioned that I’ve weeded — scythed, actually — posts from this blog since 2009.  The other week, however, I stumbled onto the fact that my WordPress ‘Media Library’ remains completely intact.  I discovered this noticing in my ‘stats’ that people’s internet searches will occasionally ferret out a image from my trove.

In late 2011, when the late Kim Jong-il of North Korea, became ‘late’, photos and video online depicted the most outrageous displays of public grief, simultaneous theatrical weeping and sobbing by throngs of North Korean nationals.

At about the same time, someone sent me a video entitled ‘I Hate My Job’.  Don’t remember why, though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a statement about the possibility that Kim Jong-il hated his job.  I cobbled together this ‘chimera’ below, when I noticed that the relative leg/body positions in two very separate images were just crying out to be joined.  (And the shoes and hatband match.  Kismet!)

We recently learned that Donald Trump thinks that Kim Jong-il and his son Kim Jong-un are the same person, and thought he’d sent a U. S. Navy aircraft carrier to threaten him, but actually hadn’t.

With things this très screwed up, reposting this picture can’t do that much harm.

‘… they are so unlike your Christ.’  — Mohandas Gandhi

On this, the ‘Holiest Day in the Christian Calendar’, I have a proposal for all  ‘Christians’.

If you don’t already have one, get yourself one of those ‘Red Letter Bibles’, the ones that have the words attributed to Jesus of Nazareth printed in red ink.

Jettison all the what-notery in the rest of the tome, and I don’t mean just the ‘begats’, which as a matter of fact, you can keep if you absolutely cannot part with them.

If you cannot do this, then please call yourself something other than ‘Christian’.

I myself continue to struggle with ‘The Risen Christ’, but I’m pretty much 100% on pixies.

A number of years ago for three years running, we would rent a house on the coast after Christmas for a week spanning New Year’s Day, with a group of friends and friend/acquaintances.

The last time we participated, before the week was out there was ‘tension’, and we subsequently opted out for upcoming treks; the report coming back the next year included one couple abruptly leaving mid-week.  Boom.

Part of the tension during our ‘last’ arose from a lady couple of our many years’ acquaintance (friends of friends) bringing lady colleagues from Washington DC, taking a nearby house, but using ours for evening board games.  Loud ones.

One individual amongst the ladies was second in command at the EPA at that time and a major power lesbian.  Her general disdain for gentlemen was — How to put it? — not well-concealed.

What sent me into the recalling of all this was running across Bessie Smith’s ‘Foolish Man Blues’ the other day:

“There’s two things got me puzzled, there’s two things I don’t understand, that’s a mannish-acting woman and a lisping, swishing, womanish-acting man”

(Over time I’ve seen ‘skipping, twisting’ substituted, ‘skipping, hopping’, too.)

Now, as to the aforementioned lady’s alleged disdain for men, I want you to take it on faith that during that week there was no lisping or swishing, no skipping that I am aware of, and absolutely no hopping.  Scout’s honor.

There was traipsing.

Come to think of it, I suppose we were just asking for it.

I believe yesterday’s post reinforces at least the appearance of my being a detail-oriented person.  When I found this picture of my new boyfriend online today, I noticed that all he’s wearing is the wristwatch I believe I gave him.  So, do you believe this post will get more views than the previous one?  I know I do.

I know I’ve trotted out this milestone before, but since I’ve ditched all the posts before late last year, please allow me to re-trot it.

Today is the 40th anniversary of the boys’ first date, April Fools’ Day 1977.

Stephen and I were both Graphic Design majors in college, and attended classes together, but never spoke, since as we later confessed, he thought I was too starched, and I thought he was too à la mode.

Well, the starched part is just ridiculous (Tut-tut! Did I ask for your opinion?) but the à la mode part, SO true.  Years later, opposites attracted.

BTW, pinpointing the origin of our couplehood, Stephen argues that August ’77, when we moved in together, is more accurate.  Successfully enduring this kind of petty parsing all these years?  I thank my gentle and centered nature.


A very long time ago, a reader of Domani Dave said some of my posts were ‘haiku-like’.

Can you imagine it?  I cannot say how much that remark meant to me, though there has since (and certainly at that time) been ample reason to wonder where that impression came from.

The posts have with the passage of time become more ‘tweet-like’ in length, stemming from my belief that in the immortal words of George: ‘A man can put up with only so much’.

Here’s more brevity.  Or, more accurately, less… non-brevity.

I started thinking about terms and expressions I don’t care for.  After my previous post, hard to imagine where that rumination got started?

Apologies to the Brits, but one I don’t for a lot is ‘gobsmacked’.  My friend Roger uses it incessantly.  I learned the ‘gob’ part from my first viewing of ‘A Clockwork Orange’, when poor Little Alex is told to ‘Shut your filthy, bleeding gob!’  Maybe that’s the problem.

I also don’t like the word ‘corpse’, which sounds crunchy and gooey at the same time.  What are some words you don’t care for?

You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.

Yesterday, I stumbled onto the White House Press Briefing in progress on television, Press Secretary Sean Spicer at the podium.

There are a number of topics upon which I am apparently completely bipolar.

For example, whereas I am famished for manners and civility, a fantasy I have begun to entertain is having someone in the press corps who has an unassailable, credentials-heavy, thriving journalistic career, sacrifice that career by barking something at Mr. Spicer to make him explode.  Literally.

I’ve chosen a Greek curse (though I have since learned that its origin is Arabic) gifted to me fifty years ago: ‘I defecate on the vagina of your mother’.

For the sake of delicacy, I have softened the translation here somewhat…

I wonder if — like bringing poor Tinkerbell back to life by chanting ‘I do believe in faeries, I do believe in faeries’ — I can bring this about with chanting.

Why am I telling you this?

I started blogging in 2009, but September 2015, I ditched the previous posts in a fit of cyber housecleaning. Some of it was really nice writing, but alas as my old friend Susan once said, 'Compulsion is a cruel master'.

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