Calm. Before the storm.

It’s scholarship award day. In which the authors middle son may or may not have scored some quan to help defray the looming tuition of his wished for school.

Several years ago, the oldest one scored a halvsie scholarship to same school, and it was a major mixed reaction. The other half was still a painful bite, and we ARE paying for the government school anyway.

Death and taxes. ~~~Shaky fist!~~~
But we manned up and paid up. Dunno if it was a good investment or not. Yet. Seems to be. Sortakinda.
But at seventeen, it’s hard to say that anything is actually a good investment.
So, as popkinator turns fourteen in the next few days, we gotta decide. Government or private?
Without regard to total out of pocket, Izzit money well spent?

Related- our private school of choice has a strict ‘no free rides’ policy. That’s prolly a good thing, as everyone has skin in the game, even those of us not quite tall enough to ride their ride.

We wait with baited breath for the inevitable. A number. We have a walk away number in our heads, but the slightest daylight and I think we’ll throw everything at this caper. Small classes of motivated students surrounded by great instructors.

No metal detectors or gangs. Plenty of sex and drugs. But that’s America.
Kids these days.


Touch wood we get good news today.

Right place. Right time. Right sandwich.

It all started with a grilled cheese sandwich and an orange coat.

It’s funny now, in retrospect. I was boxed in a corner, as we started laying out tables, cutting boards, and griddles. I was at Orange coat, having a beer.

And a party was getting started. Rather than get out of the way,I just started making sandwiches.

Grilled cheese sandwiches.

Artisan bread, quirky cheeses, and some heat. Bam, sandwiches.


I don’t think there was soup. Just sammys. Was a cold and rainy night.


but there, in the corner, back to the wall,I met everyone. Bear, Evan, Jim, Frenchy, muffin, bit, Baron, Dr meg, maxim. Et al. By the time it en, Barry,ded we were standing room only.

Elbow to elbow, Sammy to beer.

I dunno if I consciously realized the elegance of the room fulla friends engaged in a slow food thingy. But there it was. Something we’ve tried to replicate, with varying degrees of success, for over five years now.

In which the author eats pie. #pieapalooza

First of all, it’s got nothing to do with pie.


Yes, there IS pie available.
But that’s a ruse. A red herring, although red herring would make a lousy pie.


It’s about third space.

Neither home, which most people’s first space. Nor work, which is most people’s second place.
Third. A non threatening, casual feeling, friendly place.

Yes we sell stuff and services. Yes, we could certainly make room for one and only one new client. But this caper, like most of our capers, has another aim.

Trust.
We’re not gonna try to trick you. Into eating something nasty like the fake chef did the other day on daytime tv. We’re going with the penultimate comfort food. And rather than supplying the buffet, it’s collaborative.


That’s how we work, too.

Collaboration. Honesty.


Doubt you lot even eat pie, that’s how you stay so rail thin.
Doubt you need help telling your story, too.


We likes both pie and stories. Like a fat kid likes cake.

Our pie.

Testing, again.

Blimey. I’ve broken the internets.

Swim mojo.

Finally got me swim mojo back. It’s neither fast nor elegant, yet it feels right. Feels fluid and kinda powerful.

Hope to get the bike mojo back soon, but what with the weirdly winteresque weather and cornucopia of good excuses to NOT be on the bike… Well, you know the drill.
I wonder what’s cooking under the surface. What capers inside of capers are coalescing inside me while I swim. While I think and dream.

It’s been a long time coming, and it’s hard not to regret the time spent in the desert. Away from the water. Away from the dreams.
In which the author makes a diff. Where Intimate,authentic,&unexpected trump that vapid crapassery that runs rampant. In our industry. And our planet.

It was just a dream? Or a dream of a dream.


Knowing what dreams matter is step one. Or splash one.
Glad to be making it.

A man wears a hat like THAT?

Walking down the street? He’s afraid of nothing.

No. Thing.
Nada.
Zip.


Nary a thing in this golram universe. Not the bread and circuses driven media and governments that rule. Not the #kooziemongercorporateassclowndouchecanoecatalogcarpetbombinggladhandhashtagjackingcreepystalkersweatervestguys and charlatans that keep on their endless vapid spew.

Not the creditors who really, really want their two dollars.
$2.

It’s not hate that holds us, and binds us to inaction. Or worse, to incorrect action. It’s fear.

Fear. Not.


Ask the hard questions. Don’t be a shill.

Rinse,repeat.

My conroy obsession.

guess it was sparked by popkinator finding my old flight jacket in a closet. He’s taken to wearing it to school, with the rest of his standard uniform of the day, jeans and a tee shirt. Eight grade, tall and lanky, lots of hair.

Stumbled across conroys newest book this past week, where he talks about writing Santini. And other things. And since we went to the remote (ish) island of daufuskie this summer for a wedding this fall,I also have been listening to his book about when he taught there.

Thinking about parenting, seems like the best starting point is the medical model of ‘do no harm’. Conroys old man did plenty of harm. Hoping to do less harm, but still pass down a love of freedom, business, and America.

Pass or smash?

I admire old man wedgewood. Had a proper old guy name like phineas or Lemuell. And he walked about his factory with a cudgel.

If anything wasn’t up to scratch he’d crush it, rather than besmirch his brand. Wedgwood. Fine china for the golram Queen, et al.

I like that, as it’s really tempting to let something go that’s pretty close. And knowing what’s close enough.


Ideas, implementation,and follow through.

Wanna suck less? More and more of us do, yet most aren’t really brave enough to tote that cudgel, and swing it when appropriate.

Swing dat stick at crap, baby!

The technically difficulty? Over. Ish.

Ok, unchanged. But I’ve changed my model. Away from the handheld, that keeps crashing. To the iPad. Only.
Daily. Obvss.

It’s good to be back on the horse, and I took myself off for a time thing. The golram children. Kinda thought the weird midweek Christmas and New Years holidays would create more time, but I was sadly mistaken. It created less. But opened up a world of late breakfasts in bed, yard work, and reading by fireside. That was weirdly unexpected. But exactly what I needed.

Now for the next need. Daily creation.

Rinse,repeat.

Being useful. Making a diff.
Hope this channel is that, for both of you lot. It sure is for me.

'Twas the night before unchristmas.

It’s un Christmas Eve, as Dirty,dirty long tall Santa. #swappingtags is Friday. I’m sure you lot are tired of hearing about it. It’s far more likely you wanna hear, or be part of duchesses 29th birthday thingy. Or #PieapaloozaIII ~~~3.142014sixoclockish~~~ mar 14,obvss.
But I don’t wanna talk about them capers. Yet. I wanna riff on Dirty,dirty long tall Santa. #swappingtags. It’s kinda rude, I guess, to plan a partay around regifting.
Just plain rude.

Innit?


We mean no disrespect to the original givers, mind you. It’s just we all get gifts that just don’t make sense.


I’m not saying nascar, Sweatervests,fruitcakes, or dogs playing poker are wrong. And I’ve certainly got plenty of friendsandrelations who love em, but not typically all four.

But if you are a nascar, Sweatervests,fruitcakes, or dogs playing poker fan, you may or may not have the mistaken impression that others are also.

News flash.

We prolly ain’t.

And us sci fi fanboys are USUALLY pretty good about respecting boundaries. Trekkies don’t often inflict their tricorders on the whovians, who mostly refrain from hoisting their sonic screwdrivers on the ringers.

Nah, leave yer nascar, Sweatervests,fruitcakes, or dogs playing poker stuff for those who fancy em. Or, come to our wangdangdoodle. Dirty,dirty long tall Santa. #swappingtags.
Tomorrow night. Friday. Cigar boxx.

1900. Ish.