HypeOrlando -- Bastion of Talent, Know-How and Liberal-Fascism! The Blog They Didn't Want You To Read!

Hello peepo!  O.k. – I’ll get right to it -- this is what went down.  

A little background to get you caught up:  

After seeing that the top blog of the weekend was called: "10 Things Women Think About During Oral" -- (which included the blogger wondering if she smelled - down there.) I decided to do a series of blogs exploring the HypeOrlando blogs themselves. (How "meta!") Mostly to evaluate, to praise and to familiarize myself with my peers. I had no intention of spewing negativity, or any desire or need to be disparaging. I did feel that I eventually needed to voice my disapproval of something as blatantly vulgar as a "vagina sniffing blog." But I didn't dive right in to to her’s. (For obvious reasons.) Instead, pacing/steeling myself, I started with...

Well, why not just show you? Here it is in its original unedited form. 99.98%  of the HypeOrlando community did not see this blog but an edited version without what I presume was the offending paragraph below the image (now rendered in blue for your convenience) and without that plastic apology at the end. 

HypeOrlando, Let’s Be Friends...  Or Not!

What better way to alienate myself (when what I truly need is to become far more socially integrated) than to write an opinionated blog about my fellow HypeOrlando Bloggers! Fun!

First-off, let me say how impressed I am by the quality and effort put into many of these blogs. HypeOrlando is filled with talented, knowledgeable and fun people whose voices deserve to be heard. (Then there's me.) Orlando, whether it knows it or not, is quite fortunate to have a platform like HypeOrlando to corral such an eclectic group of significant (and giving) artists/guides.

I guess blogging is a calling. It certainly requires a serious degree of dedication, discipline and focus, in order to produce an informative and/or entertaining blog with consistency . (Then there's me.)

Now allow me to analyze some of these blogs from my uniquely misanthropic perspective; while I attempt to keep in mind that I claimed tickets for the pre-FLBlogCon mixer. (Hope there are metal detectors.)

I'm going to begin with "GenerationGeek - Orlando". First-off -- feel better brother! (And we are brothers!) Unfortunately, I do not believe you will. My travels during the second week of July included stops at the various printing presses of twelve  major comic-book publishers. (I spared Dark Horse and Top Cow as dictated by my vegan leanings.) Disguised as an exterminator, I slyly (and giddily) suffused the ink with a deadly neurotoxin. (Synthetic CSTX; hidden in plain sight within my back-pack sprayer.) Sorry man. The "Reign of Nerds" is rapidly approaching its end!  Muah-hah-hah-hah!

I'm done keeping silent while corporate America continues to prey upon a particular vulnerable segment of society by appealing to their desire to belong/fit-in. Think about it -- are you really and truly proud to be called Geeks and Nerds? Aren't these terms, inherently, derogatory? Or are you being grouped (corralled) in order to be more conveniently pandered to and, in turn, capitalized upon?

Oh, I get it! You must be attempting to diffuse the negative connotations of these labels, by proudly embracing them. Like African Americans calling each other "Nigga" in the mid 80's. (What, they still do?)  Or the Native Americans having their bi-annual "Red Fests." (What, they don't?) Well then what about the Latino Community's "Carribean Spictacular" in Kissimmee (No such thing?!) 

That's not it? You've just accepted these epithets as badges of honor? Well, in that case, your fate is even worse than the neurotoxin rapidly dissolving your dendrites... you have been brainwashed by marketers! Quick! Run and pick up this week’s Superman/Wonder Woman and rub it all over your  (pimply) arms and faces. An "honorable death is preferable!  Just remember: "Today is a good day to die!"  (Read it with surgical gloves first, it's pretty bad-ass! It's the first annual. A Tony DanielWonder Woman is a "wonder" to behold; one of the best superhero illustrations around; 

Oops sorry, lapsed into Geek-speak…  (Then again, it’s all "geek" to me! Ha!)

                                 

                                            Really? I mean... really!? I wanted to go... until this.

Let's ask the enchanting (and obviously obsessed) Ms. Wannabe Victoria Beckham [her blogger handle] if she would let any of these guys go-down on her? (Hey girl, that's right, I got you in my sights! ('s comin' Vicky…. savin' the best for last.) But, since I'm visiting now, allow me to say 3 things regarding your latest post: 1) If you are capable of having ten thoughts during -- the dude (or chick) is woefully unskilled. 2) Great GIF use! Very impressive selection! (Certainly more impressive than the content.) 
3) Regarding the DNA-based, dating service that's sponsoring you: don't be surprised when that DNA analysis comes back saying you'll need a time-machine... as I'm pretty sure your match is living in the Pleistocene Era.  Bam!.

Personally, I'm not a Nerd, Geek or a Fan-Boy -- I'm a socially-challenged, pseudo-intellectual, pop-culture guru, with hyper-appreciative tendencies. Y 'all can continue being Nerds and Geeks if it makes you feel – uh, communal...

Back to you Justin: seriously, thank you for a lot of great local, comic-related info. Your blogs are succinct, informative and well structured. And really, I hope you feel better soon.

Next-up, Tiny Taster!  (Full disclosure: major crush!)   A brilliant, quite beautiful, paralegal-foodie?! Delicious! (Her recipes too!)  All, meticulously transcribed (and formatted,) with awesome pics; Her "Herbs 101" totally rocked!  Health and nutrition advice, cooking tips, A sweet, gentle, yet, simultaneously fierce spirit. Ka-thump, Ka-thump, Ka-thump! (That's my heart) She's a genuwine (n' dine)  treasure!

Dang! Bloggers are a sensitive bunch. If anyone was/is or decides to eventually become insulted by any of my opinions, turns of phrase, or jests.  I [semi] sincerely apologize -- my sarcasm can be "biting" but is more often just lame.

  ______________________________________________________________________________

Not long after posting, I received this email:

6:51
Hi Paul,

I'm pretty sure your latest post isn't the best way to get off on the right foot with your fellow hypeorlando bloggers. We try to be a positive, supportive community and you've come right out the gate hurling insults at the people who are there to help you.

Just thought you should know that it's not going over well.

KIM HAYS

hypeorlando community manager

My Reply:

7:15
Hey Kim,

Your concern/advice is appreciated -- but "hurling insults?" Isn't that a gross exaggeration? I actually didn't intend to insult anybody. (Though I find your estimation of my dopey opinions carrying enough weight to insult anyone, quite edifying.) There certainly wasn't the slightest mean-spirited intent inherent to any of the comments. That, I can state categorically. (I am wholly incapable of "mean" ) The person on the receiving end of my “good natured jibes” can either choose to laugh it off or choose to be insulted (Hey, that’s the "bully credo!") I could not have been more complimentary of the community at large. Did you even read it? If you are referring to Ms. Wannabe Beckam,  (bet you are, ) I called Ms. Alicea "enchanting." and meant it!  She's also bold, beautiful and semi-intelligent!  I also complimented her on a great use of GIFs! Yes, I did say she was "obviously obsessed" that is hardly "hurling insults" I'm "obviously obsessed" with my Schnauzer; I wouldn't be insulted if someone wrote that. Blogging on Fleshlight tablet- cases and what she thinks of during oral! I believe her blogs' contents exculpate me of being hyperbolic or insincere. If that was insulting to her I will be happy to remove it and apologize. (Now that was insincere.) The veiled (Neandert(h)al) comment, as well worded as it was, ("time machine/Pleistocene" -- then there's the DNA subtext) is the only possible aspect of that blog that you could possibly be referring to as "hurling insults." (The (semi-) veiled nature of which would kind'a contradict the purported "hurling." ) Do you think I should take that out? 
I would think she'd be totally down with that juxtaposition, wielding as primal and crudely fashioned a bludgeon as writing on the "freshness" of her pudenda during oral. I maintain that comment is highly insulting to"preparedly-fresh" women everywhere.

What I believe you are telling me, is that we need to be a supportive community. That although we are a community built on the freedom of ideas, views expression and opinions... we should be more guarded as to how we express these opinions in regard to one another. Freedom -- with limitations. Limitations of perceived "good taste." Ahem.

Just let me know what you'd like me to do --- you're the boss!

7:37

Hi, I'm taking the post down. I think this is the best decision until I can discuss this with my colleagues.

KIM HAYS, hypeorlando community manager

I wrote and sent this to her before I noticed/read her previous email.  

  

7:41

Hey Kim,

I think I fixed it. Although, I may have not have even touched whatever it was you were actually referring to ... I do believe it is now a "hurling" free-zone. Except, perhaps, from the opposite direction. And you know what? That would be fine. I am self-confident enough to endure an infinite amount of criticism; justified or not. (Referring to my confidence, not the criticism; I'm certain that would be justified.)

Paul

It was then that I noticed/read her email about taking down the post.

7:43

To Hays, Kim

I wrote that before I saw your last email. That's fine -- but I don't think there's really any reason to [pull it] anymore. This is actually pretty exciting! I can't believe my words are being censored and banned! Banner day!

[When she didn't respond, I took the question to the community in order to elicit some feedback and generate some discussion on censorship. I included the excised and (possibly) offending paragraph into this blog:]

_______________________________________________________________________________

Here it is! The blog that ultimately got me banned from Hype Orlando!

Censorship at HypeOrlando! Justified? You Decide!

I was a little put off by Ms. Wannabe Victoria Beckam’s latest blog. I mean it’s not just vulgar but borders on the obscene.  I’m sure plenty of people appreciate that. Heck, Cosmo might even link to it on their site. (I hope so, for her sake!)  Since my latest series of blogs are commentaries on other Hype Orlando Bloggers content and techniques and Ms. Alicea was on my mind (she is quite attractive and semi-talented.)  I wrote a paragraph which contained my opinion of not particularly appreciating the content of her last blog. (Made me a little queasy actually; I mean, really! Excuse yourself, use a dampened washcloth, maybe a little JeanNate, before you need to start worrying about it.) Could just be it brought back a rather traumatic memory  for me. It may (or may not) be what The HypeOrlando Community Manager Kim Hays was referring to in her emails. But as she never clarified what was meant by "hurling insults." I feel safe publishing this here in this new context: Of course that doesn't mean I am safe. But would any, self-respecting, American "community manager" really censor a blog exploring the causes for censorship?

The following paragraph originally appeared just below the Orlando Weekly Nerd Fest Pic.

[Here, I placed the (possibly) offensive paragraph. Followed by our ensuing email exchange; both, located above.]

I was hopeful that people could be a little more open minded (the irony!) Obviously, open-mindedness has

limits that good-taste does not. 

More later as the story develops. What do you think? Was the censorship justified?

One of my enduring challenges, is an abiding mindset that absolutely no one is going to see anything I write. I don't compose with the trepidation of possibly insulting someone and neither do I filter to satisfy the dictates of of some perceived or imposed "decorum." I'm just me and I'm always righteous. (According to standards far more concretely founded than some piddly community blogsite's.)  

________________________________________________________________________________

On Sat. morning 8/10 I received this:  

Paul,

Your blog has been removed from hypeorlando for violating our TOS.

 Do not provide User Content that:

[Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah – I repeat and respond to the TOS “violations” below. They’re enumerated.]

This ends your relationship with hypeorlando.

My Reply:

Hey Kim -- 

While this existential affirmation is greatly appreciated, this falls squarely on you.  This entire episode might have been avoided if you could have taken two minutes to explain to me what the original offensive content was -- even though I had very plainly requested clarification after being told I was "hurling insults." (Which I certainly wasn't! Hurling compliments would have been more accurate. I may have lobbed one pretty weak insult… which was, debatably, more jest than insult.) Your failure to elaborate on the subject was utterly confounding to me, resulting in my, appealing to the community for guidance and clarification.  

Furthermore I challenge you or anyone else on staff to find one single example of something I wrote that: 

1)   Contains vulgar, profane, abusive, racist or hateful language or expressions, epithets or slurs, text, photographs or illustrations in poor taste, inflammatory attacks of a personal, racial or religious nature.

It actually saddens me to bring this up yet again – but vulgar -- is talking about your vagina’s smell while receiving oral sex – I was merely attempting to illustrate this with a (literal, in this case) display of “perverse-irony” Thereby underscoring how the reading (or writing) of such things might be perceived as “shocking” or “in poor taste.” to people of a more refined temperament. I was not for a moment being vulgar for the sake of vulgarity. (Which seems to be perfectly acceptable on your planet.)

The only epithet(s) I used was (again) illustrative of those being adopted by the groups these very epithets were used against, with the goal of diffusing their antagonistic nature. 

I, myself, am a proud Latino -- who grew up in Flatbush, Brooklyn -- entirely devoid of racial bigotry, in fact, quite adverse to it.   

2) Is defamatory, threatening, disparaging, grossly inflammatory, false, misleading, fraudulent, inaccurate, unfair, contains gross exaggeration or unsubstantiated claims, violates the privacy rights of any third party, is unreasonably harmful or offensive to any individual or community.

This one, I didn't even come close to infringing. Well… saying her choice of GIFs is more impressive than the content – is only marginally disparaging – if at all. (Especially since I said the GIFs were “great” ) Saying “you can’t write” is disparaging. (Which, I neither wrote, nor believe.) Maybe it’s a privacy violation? You didn't want anyone to know you were the community manager? Can't blame you;  with decisions like this!  

3) “Flames” any individual or entity (e.g., sends repeated messages related to another user and/or makes derogatory or offensive comments about another individual), or repeats prior posting of the same message under multiple threads or subjects.

I’m going to extend you and “your colleagues” the benefit of the doubt and believe someone there was smart enough to figure out that my “vulgarity” was only representative. Which means my “violation” has to be somewhere here in #3. Was it really the time-machine comment? Really? Again, an over the shoulder lob – so gentle, so easy... even a caveman could hit that! About as “hurtful!” as a wiffle-ball!

Therefore, I must ultimately, conclude… “What-evah!”  Pretty close-minded, not allowing this community to foster understanding, and instead obfuscating opinions and vicariously dictating terms, at will. 

Quasi-respectfully, Paul R. Martinez  

 P.S. Isn’t it “Enflames?!” 

The Walker Sloan Memorial Blog

Continuing my previous blogs theme of pathetic driving practices in this great city; as corroborated by Orlando’s many dubious distinctions in regards to pedestrian safety and number of roadway accidents with serious injury. I thought it might prove helpful to check in with someone who once embodied the driving “ideal...”  for Orlando. 

Observe (Orlando's Best Driver):

         Mr. Walker Sloan, of the contrivedly ironic name, was Orlando’s greatest driver. Let’s see if we can figure out why. After a quick inspection of his car, nothing leaking, no tires appeared low, he pulled out onto his street from his driveway. (He intentionally did not signal as he lives on a cul-de-sac and no other cars or neighbors stirred.) As he approached his corner, he scanned both sides of the street for movement and turned on his signal. Seeing none, he came to a stop ¾ of the way through the crosswalk pattern painted onto the street; also intentional. This being his long adopted strategy to assure a far enough line-of-sight up the cross street. Clear, both ways. (He checks to see what might be crossing the side street onto which he was turning. Also, clear. (Ah, it seems we have synced-up, in time, with Mr. Sloan on this auspicious commute, let us rejoin him as:) He turns, then repeats the “scan, signal and (technically illegal) stop” at the next intersection. This time, intending to turn left. But before he can turn, he must wait for a truck to pass by which is rumbling down the street from the right. There is also a bicyclist approaching from the same direction on the sidewalk which his (illegally?!) stopped car is now blocking. Walker checks his rearview (nothing) and backs out of the crosswalk, allowing the bicyclist (who throws him a thumbs-up) to pass by unimpeded. Had a car been behind him the bicyclist would have just had to stop or pass in front of his vehicle in the oncoming traffic lane while, in this alternate scenario probably flipping him off or shooting a withering glare.)   He scooches-up again and rechecks traffic. Clear. He turns.  There is a light at the next intersection with a left turn lane and he enters it now, turning on his signal. While waiting at the light behind that same truck, he takes a moment to check his dashboard: fuel (about a third of a tank,) no other “idiot lights” blinking; conditions optimal. He then adjusts his rearview and checks his side view mirrors, noticing the driver side is askew and showing some road side trees instead of (on the mirrors right side) The lane-view  immediately to the right of  his rear, quarter panel... fixed. Looking up he notices that the light has turned green but the truck in front of him has not moved. He waits. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. A quick tap on the horn and things get rolling. This is where it gets tricky. (But not for a pro like Walker!) He can not see in front of the truck and must be particularly cautious. The large vehicle before him at first needs both lanes to complete his turn but almost immediately settles into his place in the right lane. Walker turns directly into the left lane and almost immediately double-taps his horn to let the driver of the truck know where he is.  At this moment his phone begins to ring (playing a clip of Macy Gray's "It Ain't The Money") which, almost instantly, is transferred to his earpiece. “Decline.” He announces;  the call is sent to voice mail. Walker has a clear lane ahead but the truck is struggling to build up speed and Walker cannot see around it. He brings his car only as far as the back of the cab and slows to match the truck’s negligible momentum which in the next moment becomes a full stop. Walker immediately follows suit. Sure-enough, from up ahead, a woman darts out from in front of the truck with a little toy poodle in tow. She snaps her head towards Walker as a eyes widen and a grimace contorts her face. Walker smirks at this, and waves her on. She still appears peeved after safely making it to the median. Ensconced on this narrow islet she scoops up her trembling little frou-frou companion. (The dog stares at her as if wishing he were shirted and a Muslim so that with the alacrity of a tear and thrice-repeated profession he could be free of Ms. Poop-For-Brains once and for all.) The driver of the truck has rolled down his window and extends a thumbs up to Walker who bops his horn in receipt of the compliment. The next intersection, a consistent source of  dark amusement to Walker. He briefly wonders as he approaches if any studies have been done on the psychological intricacies of the daunting "Four Way Stop." Perhaps, psychological traumas would be more accurate. It seemed that for many of the people who arrived at this Minotaur's Maze, any measure of common sense is abandoned right along with free will. Walker laughs every time he sees two cars approach simultaneously -- and freeze. Even if they are travelling in opposite directions and neither is signalling a turn (a justifiably, unreliable indication of their ultimate intentions) they stutter-stop and and go as if miscalculation signified certain doom. Walker had no such issue with the Four-way and on this occasion must wait for one little mouse to finally leave its hole and pass in front of him until he can make his left. 

         If on a side street, Walker is consistently scanning for colorful motion, shadows, or sneakered feet of children that might dart out from between parked cars. In parking lots, he always double taps his horn as he backs out of a parking space to alert pedestrians and other drivers around him that he is on the move. When entering a highway (as he is now) his lights and signal are on as well as are his headlights and he has already scoped out his possible slot to assume his lane which is in a three car length gap between a red Jeep and an older model black sedan… he accelerates. 40, 45, 50 the Jeep passes as he begins to move into his lane he checks his newly adjusted side-view and sees nothing. He then (out of habit) looks over his shoulder. He is surprised to find that the black sedan has closed the gap with no intention of letting him on the highway and is squarely in his blind-spot. “Ass.” Walker's ready indictment as his foot releases the gas pedal. He turns his head to gauge the distance of on-ramp remaining to him. Turning-back, he sees that the sedan’s obnoxious bullying has provided another gap behind it. Again accelerating, he enters into the granny lane of the highway. Walker is not one to linger around groupings of unpredictable (and generally asinine) vehicles. He keeps his signal on. When a car in the sandwich lane has passed and a car in the hammer lane has progressed enough not to collide if it should contemporaneously change lanes, he moves over to the center (sandwich)  lane. His signal remains on. He checks his side view, peers over his shoulder and enters, finally, into the hammer lane. Vroom!  His liberating acceleration, however, quickly impeded by a stubborn infected. Either runner or ambler; both road-zombies. He can not say for certain which is worse.  Amblers move along only peripherally aware of the intricate ballet of machines around them. Runners are vindictive and purposefully seek to supplement their anemic power bases through a passive aggressive exertion of will on those that might seek to circumvent them. As Walker's Challenger comes up menacingly behind this particular stick-in-the-mud, (at a purposely high rate of speed with headlights glaring)  the driver's initial reaction will usually inform him as to which camp of  "infected," they fall.  He observes the driver's head incline slightly to glance in their rearview and can almost feel the negative energies being reflected at him; when the car stubbornly does not get over and instead slows to allow a sandwich lane vehicle to pull alongside -- Walker knows he is dealing with a runner. Twenty minutes later Mr. Walker Sloan is dead.
         Let us now revisit the final moments of an icon: The runner proved only a minimal annoyance for Walker who pulled a four lane pass (two right and two back, left) before the runner could even react. (He thought about flashing his break lights but Walker Sloan is above such petty display. This, finally, allowed him the open road necessary to enter his comfort-zone of  about 80 mph. This lasted for a little over ten minutes until he prudently slowed while passing an, oversized, flat-bed trailer hauling a cargo of,  ridiculously large, industrial pipes. The entire length of which were jostled when the truck sought to recover from a blow-out occurring just as Walker began to pass. Alerted by the sound and the wall moving rapidly toward him, he glanced at his rear-view (mostly with an expectation of confirming an impending rear-end collision) but gratefully, saw no vehicles behind him. Walker braked hard.  His small SUV shuddered as he dropped back behind the truck which was now halfway into the lane he had occupied less than a second prior. A moment later the truck's cab, the driver possibly overcompensating in his attempt to wrestle back control, shot back in the other direction; the flat bed continued on its own, newly established, course and the worse possible path for Walker, He moved his foot to the gas and floored it simultaneously cutting hard to the right but immediately had to begin breaking again as the truck's bed, cargo towering over his vehicles roof, slid by, not much more than  a foot away. It was at this moment he felt a sick clenching in his stomach which in turn incited an inner voice to morbidly announce: "Now you die."  Walker watched a vehicle in the right lane get sent barreling onto the shoulder to avoid colliding with the cab. The bed strained with a soul-wrenching groan against the fifth-wheel coupling as it reached the apex of it's pendulous swing. Mechanics and engineering  insisted it resume it's place securely behind the cab. but physics was having none of it. Walker hears a gun-shot "crack;" followed immediately by two more. Nearly standing on his brake, his car now perpendicular to the lanes, he looked into his rear view as the bed suddenly reversed direction and came for him. A shadow fell. 

         A Sentinel photo shows Walker’s, horrifically unique, Challenger-convertible. Walker, escaped the drainage pipe disaster, certainly shaken but miraculously unscathed.

         As the giant pipe (or pipes)  erased the top half of Walker’s vehicle, Walker’s torso was planted as low as he could go against the passenger seat. The sound was cataclysmic. He bellowed, loud enough to almost be heard over the tremendous cacophony of disintegrating safety glass, shearing metal and bouncing megaton tubes. Then as quickly as it had begun, a duration no longer than six seconds from blow-out to immobility, it was over. He heard nothing, but felt the air all around him; he cautiously rose up from the seat to view a scene straight out of a disaster movie. Mega-pipes strewn about like God’s own game of pick-up sticks. Not conscious of moving or really understanding where he was, shock had quickly set in, sound suddenly rushed back, though drowned out by a persistent "woosh, woosh, woosh," that seemed to originate in his medulla. Walker smelled gas, he undid his seat belt, yanked on the handle and shoved against the misaligned door which swung open with a loud creak and pop. He stumbled from the car, but remained upright. Without time to take even one additional step our hero Walker was crushed against his open door tearing it from it's hinges. In a reverse street luge and a shower of sparks Walker traveled his original path an additional six or seven feet. His last thought was to berate himself for forgetting to switch on the hazard lights before the black sedan made contact a second and final time. The driver, it would later be found, was sexting his girlfriend.

         R.I.P. Mr. Walker Sloan – may you eternally reside where there's no posted speed limit! (And every soul has their own personal lane.)

The following list has been compiled that we might all be able to achieve similarly legendary status of social-responsibility.

In Memoriam: The Walker Sloan Skilled Driver Road Rules

• Do not block driveways or intersections.
• Always use signals. (Always! At least 25 yds. before you make the turn/lane-change! And at no more than 60 yards.)
• Remember pedestrians and bicyclists have the right of way! (Always!)
• Do not change lanes if there is a vehicle alongside you two lanes over that might change lanes also. (Because just as you do, he will too. Murphy’s road-law.) Do so only after you have passed far enough ahead that he will (be more likely to) see you moving over.
• Patience padawan. Don’t be in such a hurry. Whichever lane you think will be faster will grind to a halt once you maneuver your way into it. Murphy’s road-law again, bee-yotch!
• Be courteous, polite, kind… (in and out of your vehicle.)
• Don’t operate your vehicle with a clouded mind – whether by emotional or chemical condensation.
• Don’t be a zombie! Loitering in the left lane is pathetic.(Get your ass over! The left lane is for people who aren't afraid of depressing the gas pedal. “Oooooh, so scary! I don’t want to go the speed limit! I may die.” (There’s more of a chance that you tick someone off and become the casualty of a road rage incident. Either drive the dang car or move over!)
• Don’t leave gaps of more than 20 yards between you and the car in front of you. If this means you will have to accelerate… then freakin’ accelerate! This allows people who are waiting to enter the roadway a facilitated and safer manner of doing so. Speaking of which:
• If you see someone waiting to enter the road at an intersection, on-ramp, or from a driveway and your left lane is available, safely change lanes and let them on the road. It’s amazing to me that I even have to write that – and yet so few people actually do this. (“No! My lane!” Really? WTF peepo! )
• Accelerate onto a highway don’t do the pansy thing where you panic and slow down to 20 mph, then run out of on-ramp. Be assertive, claim your place! (You’re a member of the human race! Unless, that is, you’re a self-driving, Googlebot... no offense!)
• Safely move over to allow the nice people access to the road … (yes, again!)
• Speed is your friend. If you have the room (and a clear line of site of the surrounding roadway) use it to keep away from other drivers. (Arrive alive… and sooner!)
• Speed kills. If you aren’t 100% certain (and you can almost never be) of what might be crossing your vehicles path (because there’s an obstruction; like a truck, or bus, or hedge…) SLOW THE FREAK DOWN!
• If you need to pass an ambler in the hammer lane who refuses to get over after five seconds of driving way to close and flashing your lights. GIVE UP. Relax. They're the ones facing eternal damnation don't implicate yourself as well. 

The saddest part of all of this road infosanity in our city – is that it is all caused by a blatant disregard for the well-being of the other vehicles around us, which (surprise peepo!), have humans inside them! Selfishness – the root of all evils in this world, is at the root of our traffic problems as well.

Last word: Driving is not a game, or a right, it is a serious responsibility and privilege that should at all times be considered and respected as such.

Paul 8/6 – 8/7, 2014

78% Of Orlando Drivers SUCK!

Orlando? We Have A Problem!

I’m going to go out on a limb here with my second blog and risk alienating even more folk than I did with my previous (quasi) poetic introduction to the HypeOrlando blogosphere. But even if I alienate 50% of the masochists who came back for seconds – I’ll still have three readers moving forward, so let’s get to it!

Orlando recently received the dubious distinction of being the least safe city in America for pedestrians and cyclists. Unfortunately, it’s also our fourth year in a row. (Minimally fourth. I could only stomach checking back through 2011 before becoming to queasy to continue.) It is, unquestionably, past time to discuss, criticize and (hopefully) educate regarding Orlando’s aggressive, distracted, sloppy, lazy and ultimately, dangerous-to-the-point-of-deadly, driving practices.

Problem #1: Distracted Driving. This one is going to give me a stroke. I cannot begin to fathom what kind of serious mental disorder affects those who believe that they are perfectly within their “rights” -- to get out on the road in a several ton mass of machinery, the entire range of motion of which being their principle responsibility to direct from moment to moment; while similar machines (of similar deadly mass) maneuver all around from various directions and at varying speeds –  while they stare down at a tiny screen, typing tiny letters on a tiny-ass keyboards! OMG, WTF?!?! I mean what else is there to say, except, why do I see so many people doing it?! Watch the heads around you when you pull up to a light and see how many chins drop down…including (I’ll wager) yours!

Solutions (#1): Disable texting on all phones while the GPS shows the phone is in motion.

Q. But what if I am only a passenger in the car? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to text?
A. God forbid you should actually take the time to talk to Mom and/or Dad as they graciously drive you to your dance class.

Q. But we’re meeting friends and need to coordinate the rendezvous.
A. Rendezvous this -- meathead!,  Use Bluetooth and call.

Q. What’s to prevent me from just turning off the GPS altogether?
A. When GPS (2.0) is “off” the GPS (2.0) system will not track your precise location but will continue to
monitor whether or not you are in motion. So there! G’head, turn it off! (Now somebody needs to invent GPS 2.0)

The Navdy HUD display projects your smartphone apps on the windshield. Love this promotional picture;

could they have picked a more dangerous road to partially obscure? Imagine it in the rain, at night… your
Mom staring at you from somewhere on the road ahead – water dripping down her face.

                                   
Side note: The new Crowd funded "Navdy" Heads Up Display seeks to address distracted driving by placing your distractions directly in your line of vision. We have a problem people. We are obviously overstimulated to the point of mass insanity. I’ll call it: “Infosanity!TM” Instead of working to modify and control our, obviously, obsessive and dangerous behaviors, we invent new technologies as a workaround/crutch for our addictions. Nice.

Problem #2: oblivious drivers: We are the proud (and blessed?) denizens of the most visited city in the country. With 57 million visitors in 2013, many of the vehicles sharing our roads are from out of state. Many of these states (including most parts of our own) do not contend with anywhere near the roadway intricacies (chaos) that people find once they are here.

Observe: A 9 car grouping. The first two cars are doing a tad over twenty in a forty-five mph zone and, of course, driving right alongside one another. The driver in the left lane (driver 1) has slowed to allow his family gawk-time at a pair of large grey birds with red heads, driver 2 is looking (and looking…) for the upcoming turn-off to their resort area. (It’s ¾ of a mile away.) Drivers’ 5 and 8 are doing this seriocomic, stop-go, lane-change- dosey-doe (obviously, frustrated and trying to figure out which lane might open up first.) While drivers 4, 6, 9 are elderly and thinking everyone is a crazed idiot moving way too fast. Driver 9, clutches at his heart as he watches 8, with only inches to spare dart in front of 7 (thereby successfully assuming the 7 mantle.) causing new 8 to break suddenly and poor ol’ 9 (still 9) just behind him, to gasp as tail-lights flare, hand moving to his chest -- while continuing to be annoyed about the chubby Asian man who ludicrously picked the high money answers first, in search of Daily Doubles, winning three Jeopardies in a row – oh, brake! (Too late gramps!) In case you were wondering (though I doubt it,) driver 3 is checking out Ian Somerhalder’s latest (ghost) tweet.

While I could have placed this group in the “distracted” category. However, it’s not just their distractions that makes them such road nuisances, it’s their mindset. They seem to believe that since they are on vacation and because they see so many others on vacation (in all the varied spots they are visiting) that Orlando is not only a “magical city” (which it is) but a magic city – where everyone, everywhere is on vacation. Of what practical use are order, discipline and common-sense when you are on vacation! Yup. Deli(ti)riously oblivious.

Also in this category and this is going to get me in trouble – are the elderly. There are three types of elderly drivers: 1) Capable (but dangerous) 2) Confused (and deadly) and 3) Comatose (glimpsed peripherally, appearing as black hooded figures with scythes jutting out from their hearse windows.)

Solutions (#2): Firstly, we need to amplify our patience quotient. Secondly, we have to abandon the polite southern discipline of not using the horn. The horn is there for a reason peepo and for a monotone uberfart it can actually be quite expressive. A quick double tap on the horn can be a friendly “Thanks!” or “Hey, look out!” A slightly longer, single honk: “Wake-up! The lights changed.” Or a little longer still: “Jeez, they’re only Sandhill Cranes! Go stare at Princess Elsa -- Michigan dork! And of course my fave the “Brooklyn Bomber:” leaning on the sucker for about 4 seconds. (No interpretation necessary.) Ahhhh… so therapeutic! (Even just writing about it is like opening a pressure valve.) Finally, for the solution to the elderly dilemma. (The Logan’s Run “fix” is out; mainly because I would have been incinerated 18 years ago.) Hmmm… perhaps we should begin with more caring families/friends/neighbors who call their elderly parents/grandparents/friends more often to ask if they can get them anything from the store (even if this means they have to bring it to them and spend thirty minutes “gasp!” speaking with the codgers.) Perhaps more shuttle services from medical parks and doctor’s offices. Hey! How about a delivery/car service particularly designated for use by the elderly and subsidized by the municipal government! (Call it “Car Wise.” They’ll feel smart using it!) Failing any (or all) of the aforementioned, how about this: road tests every two years after 65 (70?). Booyah! Solved!

Problem #3: Lack of Driving Skills. “Skills” being a rather broad term requiring elaboration: (but only tangentially subjective) By “skills” I mean: an aptitude not only for maneuvering the vehicle and operating it with a proficiency that not only improves the safety of yourself and your passengers, but increases the safety of everyone else in your immediate vicinity as well. This is a learned ability and requires being keenly aware of the intentions, and positions of pretty much everything that is currently moving around you; not only at the current moment but for any moment in the next 3 – 10 seconds. This requires gauging not only the physical (and mental) intentions and conditions of the other drivers and vehicles around you but taking into consideration other overlying conditions (i.e. weather, pedestrians, bicyclists, the stability of the cargo on a truck, etc.) that currently affect your immediate and upcoming vicinities. (That’s right, you’ll need to look ahead!) And integrating all these together, continuously and repeatedly, for the entire duration of the drive. (Kind’a like God recreating the entire universe every microsecond… but on a significantly less grand scale.) Unfortunately, it seems very few drivers are willing (or capable) of acquiring these (semi-)complex mental acrobatic skills. But there are methods by which you can “fake” them.

My Next Blog will continue to explore this traffic theme and tell the story of Orlando’s Greatest driver: The legendary Walker Sloan. I will also include a handy set of rules delineating how you too can become a bad-ass driver.

My Kick-Ass Blog! (Originally Entitled: Your Ad Goes Here)

Welcome to my latest blog, I’m Orlando Scout
A handle steeped in irony, as I rarely venture out.
With your kind encouragement, perhaps I’ll make a change.
I agree this rhyme’s annoying (not-to-mention, strange.)
But who am I to argue with my flighty/fickle muse.

Hmmm…
choose, refuse, Baloo’s, in the morning she’s a.m. muse…

Oh!   Hello! Orlando Scout here. aka Paul R. Martinez

Seems you caught me smack-dab in the middle of massaging a stanza! How awkward! Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re finally here -- do I have a blog for you!

Wait -- do I ? Why yes! Yes I do!

About the only thing I can promise, is that my kick-ass blog (whoa, that’s a much better title) will be unlike any other blog on HypeOrlando. Why? How? Is that necessarily a good thing? Is it true?! All good questions -- which I presently (and politely) decline to answer. I suspect the answers to all your, oh-so-intelligent, queries shall become evident as we proceed.

First, a little about me. I have spent 29 (total) years in Brooklyn, N.Y., Flatbush to be more precise. Received a top-notch education in the public school system and attended Brooklyn College… briefly. (2 years)  The next 14 years: a blur of life (and death) then Florida for a Schnauzer and Marriage. I still have the Schnauzer! Yay! (But not for long…boo!) I’ve been here in Orlando for 1 ¼ years (and 2 days) as I write this… which brings me to you!

You really have no idea how fortunate you are to have found this page do you?

I am indeed a cipher, to myself probably more-so than to others. (w.t.f. does that even mean?!) I have one quality, a grace actually, that defines me above all the rest: an abiding and unrelenting faith. A truly precious gift and one which I have not seen my way clear to embrace to its fullest extent. Due to an equally abiding and unrelenting ego. (Steeped in childish spite!) I attempt to tell myself that this great (and true) faith is “enough.” That never harming anyone, or anything, other than myself and a few lizards (corralled for Her, partially blind, Majesty’s amusement) and keeping at least 7 of His Commandments at all times, is sufficient to earn His continued blessings and remain in His good graces.

I have since(rely) begun to doubt this.

I think tremendous labors and self-sacrifice need, necessarily, be involved. (Gah!) Coming out of my “shell” and actually affecting a change in the world. (Gah!) Even helping people... In one 9 mos. chapter of my existence, I cared for a man dying of A.L.S. (Lou Gherig's Disease) seeing to every one of his hygienic, medicinal, positional needs as his total-body paralysis worsened. It was truly fulfilling and difficult and very much a blessing. I've been told I have a "Servants Heart." At first my ego was apaulled  (heh!) but my soul seemed to rejoice in the label. With fragile humility, I accepted and internalized it. Right now, however, this "servant" needs to serve himself. (I'm kinda broken. Happy, but broken. Which I guess is the root of the problem right there.) Hmm, perhaps the most proficient manner in which to turn things around would be through helping others.

I suspect you will be happy to hear, that this blog will not to be a bunch of inane, personal ramblings every time I publish. (Only most of the time.) In fact, I hope to bring all you good people some useful, interesting and exciting information about this great city of Orlando. It’s spectacular, utterly unique (ever expanding) environs and its, resultantly, equally unique communities. (I have no idea what these are going to be but you will freakin’ LOVE it!) And yes, I really do believe it’s a great city! It’s just in need of an emotional makeover which should develop naturally after only a few decades of city-wide psychotherapy. (B.t.w. to all you bad Orlandians… feel free to contact me for some top-shelf, one on one con-sul-tay-shun! Aww shoot! Well, that’s still 6 of 10… but dagnabbit, I sincerely doubt we’ll be graded on a curve.)

Right now, (Ooh you lucky peepo!) As I have deigned forgive you for popping in on me in the midst of composing… I will go ahead and present the special treat I had planned for y’all!

It’s (pretentiously speaking) “art;” (certainly not high-art) so don’t go getting’ all uptight about it n’ shit.
Ladies and gentleman… without further ado, I present:

Of Thee I Sing

As a quantum age (of dissolution) dawns,
‘Pon a land of kings and rooks and pawns.
We’re lined up on this checkered board,
Arms tied back, blindfolds ignored.
Control the center! A battle rages!
My successes provides your semi-livable wages!
Pride: Grace earned channeling micro-creation.
Community: shares ownership, values, tears, jubilation.
Hubris: "Don't be evil!" as motto for your (evil?) company.
Shame: is hoarding and hiding, so come sing with me!

Like Plant I’ll wail of ladies fair!
Ensilkened calves, pendulous hair.
Lacquered nails, dripping lips,
Pleated cloths hem one hand (width) beneath hips.
Your visage a commodity I shall gladly enmesh,
In quivering, seeping, exultations of flesh.
Beauty: brutally trodden, rough-ridden for sport --
Dignity: casualty to indiscretions of the casual sort.
Lust: a weapon, an indomitable force,
Perversion: to give in without “love” as the source.

I’ll croon like Bing about things we don’t need,
Of debt-laden economies, propped-up by greed.
Insatiable consumption, ubiquitously bidden,
By powers-that-be, in virgin climes hidden.
Outsourced assemblages of technology,
Revolution diverted with 4K-3D!
Price: lower than what your neighbor would pay.
Supply: cancer spewing kaiju come thunderin’ your way.
Cost: a self-obsessed nation, detached from what matters.
Demand: high ‘nuff we shrug-off bright Foxconn splatters.

Lay down a beat n’ I’ll kick-it fo’ shizzle!
Rap on politics gone awry n’ causing dreams to fizzle.
A once proud n’ virile democracy,
Neutered, a flaccid plutocracy.
Legislator/power-brokers; fat-stacks for each shill.
Dog, ain’t no ghetto more gangsta than Capitol Hill.
Altruism: twisted illusion; mystic, self abnegation.
Service: precludes virtue in this objectivist nation. 
Partisanship: one side won’t listen, one won’t shut-up.
Corruption: endemic, fo’ Snoopzilla a pup.

As did chanteuse Piaf, I’ll play the raconteur;
Emote of greedy oligarchs, their world of haute couture.
The F.T.C. will set things straight… my dimpled derriere!
Zombie-nation as abattoir, Grand Guignol of laissez-faire.
Creditor-enslavers; raison d’être: simply, to own us.
Matching annual salaries with each outré quarterly bonus.
Trust: long ago eroded, their chateaus made of sand,
Duty:  rendezvous up-top, sell us their empty hand.
Deceit: de rigueur, truth the faux-pas.
Theft: as you jockey for overtime, I jet to ze spa.

Of all our ills and evils, particularly abhorred:
Corporate malfeasance, as brought to you by: “The Chairman of the Board. “
Exxon: 8.8 billion profit; (second quarter, twenty-fourteen).
Mothertripping,, copsqu wking, meely-mouthed,, archoles
[Line redacted Sinatra, himself, would designate obscene.]
Lobbyists finagle new regs as defense teams neuter old;
Profits trumping prophets, the golden rule is rule of gold.
Honesty: tracheotomized rasp with which morality's imbued.   
Integrity: owning every weakness knowing you'll be sued.               
Corruption; fabricated realities we willfully ignore.
Greed:  weaseling, wheedling -- another day at the store.

The vibrations of cosmos, a music of spheres;

These klaxons which deafen, echo these fears:

That we've only a brief time to gather and rut,

And know in our hearts that we shan't make the cut.

So let’s whore ourselves out n' pray we don’t linger --

Play with our toys, enjoy a good singer!

God: straddles the battlefield, unable decide --

Mercy! The late, great Roy Orbison cried.

Satan: a boogeyman scaring the kid. 

Condemnation: just step back -- look what we did.

Our father's God to, Thee,
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing.
Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light;
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God, our King!
From, "America" ("My Country, ‘Tis Of Thee")
                      by Samuel Francis Smith

Paul 2014

Time to Catch Y'all Up -- My Dog is NO LONGER DYING!!!

         So -- It's been a while since I filled you in on what was going on. (Not that there's any "you" to read this!)
         When I returned home from a Christmas visit to Navarre (and Gulf Breeze)  The main purpose for the trip being as a "goodbye tour" for little Willow.  The secondary reason  -- get a hug. I had been nearly 9 mos. without any physical human contact and it's hard to put into words how spiritually and mentally oppressive that can become -- but I'll give it a try... at some future time.
         Well to make a long story not quite as long -- upon returning home, and seeing that Willow was looking better -- not great by a long shot but better; more energetic more spirited during lizard hunting forays  -- I decided to get an ultrasound done to see how bad the presumed (and circumstantially diagnosed) chest tumor actually was.  Guess what they found...
         Yup,  NOTHING! No chest tumor. She still had/has a  ridiculously enlarged heart -- but, has no signs of cancer anywhere in her body. WTF?! I can't begin to express how much, grief and anxiety that erroneous diagnosis has caused;  along with the Dr.'s brilliant little caveat about putting her down immediately. But a new vet, another heart pill and modified diet later -- she's the best she's been in years! According to the new vet she could live "for years."  I am not as optimistic. She still has her colloidal enterotoxicosis (a chronic bowel condition, manageable with meds) and if she's not outside hunting lizards she appears 3/4 dead but at no point do I believe the quality of life scales have remained tipped to the negative for a duration that would qualify for implementing an end life scenario. So bad-ass me -- got my dog back. Well, a reprieve anyway.   The little sucker can eat! In fact she eats well, sleeps well, shits well (65% of the time) and still adores  her daddy who, treasures every moment with her. (I'm not really sure why though --  a loneliness/loyalty issue, I guess.)    
         In other news you are reading the words of the new world record holder for fastest HypeOrlando (a blogging community) member to get his ass banned from the site. Yup. 3 days! Some silly rule about not insulting other bloggers -- even if only "glancing jibes." No warnings either.
         But since I had written some interesting stuff in the three days I was with them, which,I think, deserve to be posted -- here I am! Back to my abbandoned blog.  I still have a lot more to discuss with you. I'm not doing any better than where we last left off (other than the dog thing.) In fact, I  think I've slipped deeper into my malaise.
         We'll get to that.

Anyway Enjoy! Next up my first nearly real poem in 15 years! (Frustratingly, it doesn't even rank by standards set by actual literary types.)

Sink Or Swim Part II - My Dog Is Still Dying

Sink Or Swim -- Part II

Dec.11th

           Ahh --let me paint the scene. I am sitting here in "Woojie-world." A garden area alongside the Win-gate clubhouse which is is almost directly across the street from my house. It is teeming with lizards. (Until we arrive, at which point they scatter and hide.) Willow is moving from tree to tree hoping to get lucky (Won't happen. I shall, however, assist her momentarily by banging a sturdy palm-piece against the trees.)  I am typing on my ASUS transformer connected to the internet through some mystery Netgear router, fortuitously unsecured. I have music (sounding real good) from my Creative, X-Fi, FLAC player paired to a Cy-fi (no relation) bluetooth speaker which is shaped like a large teardrop and fits perfectly in my t-shirt pocket. It's 74 and sunny. (On Dec. 14th!) At this moment "Edward Sharpe" (Alexander Ebert) is whining that he has to leave L.A..  Pachelbel's "Canon in D" played prior. (From an album entitled: Pachelbel's Greatest Hit" which contains various interpretations of the "Canon in D" -- Willow is calling -- let me get my stick --brb.
       Whoa! We saw (and briefly pursued) a gecko. Only the third I've seen in the eight months I've been in exile here.) They are a highly preferable lizard species to hunt as they are approx. half as fast and are bright green ta boot. Not that either attribute (detraments for the gecko) helped us to make today its' gruesome last.
        Lizard hunting is an art. These creatures are cunning and impossibly quick. At times faster than the human eye can track. (These human eyes anyway.) They have dexterous hands with creepy human jointed fingers with which, after astounding leaps they may use to instantly change directions by grabbing an edge and swinging underneath with proto-simian precision. They are scary smart. They seem to know the perfect angles needed to to elude me. I swear they have vanished right in front of me. They adapt quickly. New evasion strategies are quickly adopted by all. As if they somehow broadcast the most effective maneuvers. My suspicions of their communicative propensities was corroborated after I accidentally exposed a partially burned section of leaf that was wedged in the hollow junction formed by the"shaggy-palm's" lattice-work trunk.

Shaggy Palm

       Special thanks are due to the photomicrography and herpelingusitics departments at UCF. The former who enlarged and /reimaged the document so that the latter could translate it. Upon enlargement appearing to be a hodgepodge of squiggles and dots. Nonsense to me --  easily decipherable by the herpelinguists. What was to me an astounding object proved nothing of the sort to these experts who have amassed drawers and drawers of similarly scrawled upon leaf fragments. (Huh, turns out lizards are quite prolific scribes; who'da guessed.) They had long been aware of the lizard society's monarchical governmental structure. "Every backyard a kingdom." They claim. Anyway, it certainly explains how such varied survival tactics are so quickly and efficiently propagated.
       Here it is in its' entirety:

                                       From the Royal (Shaggy) Palm of Lizard-King Jim
                                                          Here-ye loyal subjects!
             Following is an official decree from the most revered and extolled Lizard King Phil.

            A (quasi) danger has befallen our realm in the form of a loud, hairy and obnoxiously persistent grey monstrosity and its awkward bipedal (and balding) companion that carries a large, golden, banging-stick. Please assemble your neighbors, read, commit to memory and immediately destroy this notice. (As we can not leave these leaves around as evidence of our advanced cognitive abilities.)
            Should you  indeed suffer the misfortune of being approached by these creatures you are strongly advised to shelter in place. Do not let your curiosity get the better of you. Keep your heads (and tails) about you by keeping them down. Be assured, that aside from their ludicrously unwieldy size they are in all respects unremarkable and not worth further investigations. The tooled bipedal companion, however, does seem to possess a rudimentary intelligence. Do not be lulled by it's vacant glare. The inclination to not consider these buffoonish beings a "clear and present" threat, though understandable, may prove an egregious error.
            The good news: evasion is not only achievable but, pretty much, guaranteed. To assist in achieving the most beneficial outcome, I have assembled and convened the "Grey-Monstrosity Royal Evasion Task-Force" the findings of which are presented herein and designate several proven and approved strategies which you will do well to follow; minimizing the already negligible chances of meeting an inauspicious and violent end. (Note: These evasion tactics shall be appended as new (or refined) strategies are developed, tested and approved.)
            1) "Frick the Stick!" If the biped's stupid stick is not in imminent danger of wounding you -- don't move. Do not be panicked by the incessant banging. It is utilized to promulgate fear and cause you to abandon your shelter and flee. If  you are visible, you are vulnerable! Remember, shelter in place.
            2)When Hope You Lack, Feign Attack! For whatever reason, the biped will not hit us directly with the stick -- he uses it merely  to corral and shepherd us towards the grey-monstrosity.  Utilize this weakness against them by counter intuitively, leaping at, or upon, the biped. (No, seriously!) This will, most likely, cause it to drop the stick and flail wildly as you drop to the ground and hightail it beneath the nearest plant. During the final phase of this maneuver be cautious of the biped's stomping feet.
            3) Utilize the "270 Up" -- Your tree is your friend. Neither the bulbous biped nor the grey monstrosity can circumnavigate at the speed all but the most elderly of our kind is capable of. If you have been exposed and the stick is near you, continue laterally (at 2/3 speed) while maintaining an approximately 30 degree incline around your tree. When at the 270 degree mark (or  3/4 of the way from the point at which you start;  make a full speed vertical dash (90 degree) toward your tree top. Your position upon shooting vertical will usually, (but not always,) coincide with a point almost directly above the grey-monstrosities head) Do not slow, do not look back.
            4) "Panic, No! Instead, Go Low!" In the unlikely event the biped has succeeded in driving you within striking distance of the Grey-monstrosity.  Don't panic, go low. Believe it or not,  the best place to escape the beast is to place your self directly beneath it. Scary, yes; but an effective escape strategy.  The beast is easily confused. It pounces and almost always overshoots, permitting us to exit from beneath it's foul, mid-section-bulge while it is busily snorting through the empty dirt beneath it's front limbs. Note: occasionally it does not overshoot. Last week we sadly lost a royal subject from Duke Eli's palm; his torso violently twisted at an impossible angle to his lower extremities, and  to whose family I extend my deepest royal condolences and the King's blessings.
            5)  Lizards Don't Cry! If you have made the fatal error of fleeing to an open area and you are cornered, exposed and exhausted -- don't cry. We are lizards. Lizard's don't cry. (The fact that we don't have tear-ducts is beside the point!) Please show some restraint and do not throw your tails! Nothing says impotent ruler more than subjects running around with little stumps where their lovely tails should be. Not to mention the steep physical toll incurred by regeneration. Instead, go limp. The Grey monstrosity will take you in it's mouth and may indeed puncture your body. The smell and heat are as excruciating as is the possible pain. However, many of my subjects have survived this encounter. Here's how:  it will most likely carry you over to the grass. The beast will at this point put you down in the grass with the intent of reliving it's initial strike and thrill of capture. (Beast!)  At the moment of release you must remain perfectly still -- but only for a moment. When you feel the heat of it's fetid breath diminish, immediately burrow yourself down into the roots of the grass with arrow like focus, form and precision. Do not use your limbs but keep these pressed firmly against your sides as they may snag against a root and prevent your deepest penetration. Utilize a side to side writhing form like our cousins the legless serpents. Continue moving at the deepest possible level. Then, move laterally towards cover in brief  two to four inch bursts between twenty second periods of complete immobility.
            It is the opinion of your King and his Royal council  that these assaults can not continue indefinitely and we may some day, perhaps soon, be free of these unprovoked assaults; able to once again resume our peaceful existence. However, in the meantime, know that  your Sire and Lord and has been regularly meeting with his most wise and trusted advisers and consults with the goal of devising some effective countermeasures for use against these foul creatures.          
            My blessings and prayers I now extend upon all my subjects in these trying times!
       
            Your Kind and Caring King -- Phil

A Grain Of Rice

Lest you disbelieve a document of such length could be inscribed upon a small section of  (partially burned) leaf -- I direct your attention to the following: http://listverse.com/2010/02/06/top-10-unbelievable-miniatures/

Sink Or Swim; Part I: My Dog Is Dying.

Dec. 2nd

       Well...  I'm back... eight months later. Really?  Eight months?  Almost to the day. April 1st - Dec. 2nd. Longer since I completed "Marriage Autopsy" (I just reread it. Though an emotionally contrived bit of caustic-matter-splattered, pulp -- I find it quite humorous and brutally honest. With some interesting technical acrobatics and erudite word choices. (As usual.) Considering the quite dire emotional circumstances they were composed under, I am, mostly, pleased.)
       Eight months -- huh.  Tempus fugit n' shit.
       In my casually lateral traversal through daily routine, I confront no challenge more existentially confounding  than my inability to grasp the passage of time. Hours are to me undifferentiated from decades; minutes from months, seconds from centuries. It's as if all time will be/is/was -- one. I don't know if this is a form of brain damage or higher awareness (I suspect the former.) Life is zipping by all around me and I have yet to attempt plant my feet within it's fecund promise. Surely, if I jump at this point... tumbling wildly I'd be violently sent.  A violent and shocking condition perhaps preferable to my current roadside state of fetid decay. Eschewing participation to instead impotently masquerade as a "conscientious-objector." In reality (it's subjective!)  a psychologically and emotionally mangled victim of my own, insecurities, fear and cynicism. What could be worse than to be forever/momentarily left wondering what I am capable/incapable of accomplishing. Developing neither the courage nor will to act; instead, spitefully railing against injustices (real or perceived) that permeate every facet of our technology-mainlining society that puts profits before people and monetizes our every itch.
      How convenient are these paralyzing inadequacies/grievances, simultaneously affirming and diminishing strapped  together by an encircling of vitriol and resentment; affixed upon which and scrawled in a childlike hand, a label: "DEPRESSION"
     "Of course you're depressed. If I were you, I'd be depressed too." A somberly pronounced professional diagnosis from several years past.
      Well fuck her.
      Here I am on the cusp of 50 -- alone, broke, jobless, scared, sick -- with a dying dog... but I'll be damned if I'm just  going to throw in the towel and succumb to my own morose stupidity. (Like I have a choice.)  No, I do --  damn it! I choose to live. I choose to make this world a better place. I choose to reach out and hopefully...a hand will be there to grasp upon and pull me out of this soul-sucking mire in which I am sinking. If not --  perhaps in kicking wildly (while unavoidably speeding my decent) I will find a foothold, a soul-purchase -- by the fortuitous presence of which, I'll be able to climb out of my own accord.
          Shit -- somethings gotta change... and quickly. I'm sinking fast.

Dec. 4th --

Willow late Nov. 

The x-rays showed something quite irregular with the imaged size of her her heart. The theory is that a tumor is either attached to the heart itself or on the lungs pressing the heart upward (outward) causing it to assume an awkward, angled positioned and appearing ginormous (non clinical terminology) within the chest cavity. Blood tests show only minor irregularities with liver function. Her (nearly) life-long heart-murmur has risen from a "1" to a "5" (a "6" being the highest)
I would like to believe the stubborn beast just moved a little as the image was taken.  I mean she would rather break a leg (or bite off my hand) then allow me to cut her nails so I can't imagine they were able to keep her still enough for an x-ray. That's Willow --  indomitable. Without my presence and a leash she would be run down every time she crossed the street. She refuses to acknowledge cars as anything more than abrupt air oscillations with no more capacity to damage than the wind. She wants to go "over there," she goes ... end of story.
     Quite a simple creature she.  Eats, drinks water,  (resultantly poops and pees) sleeps (more and more), hunts lizards with admirable dedication and determination bordering on obsession. (Even my dog has an occupation!) She chases squirrels, and loves her daddy. Simple. I'm pretty sure she "knows" she is quite adored. (Actually, I sometimes believe she takes my doting affections for granted; like the air she breathes or the ice cubes in her water bowl. Though to be fair she does occasionally attack me with spontaneous and profoundly heart-felt kisses. I raised her to be self-willed. To know that her wishes and desires are important and always carry weight. (With me anyway.) When we are out on walks she picks our routes, often surprising me. (They're her walks after-all -- why shouldn't she decide where they lead.)  One of my favorite exhibited character traits is her stubbornness. I see a dog approaching or sprinklers on up-ahead and try to get her to cross the street -- she sets herself and will not budge! I plead and she looks me dead in the eye (or sometimes completely ignores me) just set in her previously chosen direction. Awesome. (I mentally register "parental success" in these instances - however frustrating they may simultaneously be.) She'll register her error as she hears the forceful patter of the water against the concrete. She'll look over to me like "do something about this!" At which point I usually pick her up and carry her safely around it. If it's the lady with the two pit-bulls coming towards us -- she's overruled (and scooped-up) straight-away.

Dec. 5th - 6th

    From my Dec., 2nd blog (that's still this one, only higher-up the page -- duh)  you may have (justifiably) received the impression that I am unhappy. "Paralyzing, inadequacies/grievances." "state of fetid decay" "psychologically and emotionally mangled victim of my own insecurities, fear  and cynicism." "soul-sucking mire in which I am sinking." Hyperbole aside, all true! But unhappy? Quite the contrary! (Perhaps this is a big part of "the problem.") If I were fully sane I believe I would most certainly be miserable. Thank God, I'm far from it. (And far from miserable.) Alright, maybe a little  miserable (Is that even possible? Can you be a "little-bit" gay or a "little-bit" of a genius or for that matter, partially sane? (I strongly urge you, dear reader, not to draw any inferences from what are merely (poor?) examples.) "Miserable" may, in itself, be more exaggeration. Deep frustration and sadness caused by emotional, psychological, physical stress and disappointment in myself. Vague, but a tad more accurate.(Yes, I collect all the stresses. Strangely, they seem to be a byproduct of a "stress-free" existence.) I shall address these stresses at a future date. Surely, a good deal of this stridently decried soul-malaise is due to the imminent departure of my sole companion and terrestrial responsibility  It is hard to face such profound loss without some resentment and anger. I truly love the "stubborn monkey." (I often expressed to Crystal that it wasn't possible for Willow to be "spoiled" because that would imply she expects more than she gives and to the contrary, she has always given fully and unconditionally of her Willowness. She is quite a loving and spiritually generous creature and I will miss her profoundly. To the point of not knowing how I will deal with her being "gone." (But it has to be better than dealing with her sick and dying.)
     Perhaps I can go to the pound and find another dog... for a heart and lung transplant! Do dogs have blood types? Can I sew fast enough to keep her from bleeding out? (I'll need clamps and a scalpel.) Could I remove the "donor" organs without damaging them? Can I rent a respirator?  I'll need to remove the bed from the spare bedroom and get a large aluminum (stainless-steel? ooh... expensive) table... How sanitary is "sanitary enough?" I will need more light. Disinfectants (iodine?) and anti rejection medications. Strong pain medication. Anesthesia... This could work! Yeah... maybe -- if I were Tony Stark. (I just had an image of Willow with little crimson booties and a glowing blue circle in her chest rising up three feet of the ground to snatch a stunned lizard in her grinning maw.)

Dec. 10th

     Well, sheet. This is rough. Willow is still having really good days. I can't say the same for the nights. After sundown she is pretty much comatose. She started having some trouble sleeping a few nights ago -- periodically, shifting and her breathing is becoming more labored; Bad sign. I do not want her to suffer. She is still eating, drinking and joyfully chasing lizards. I have been debating on whether or not  the best time to "put her down" (oh Lord!) might be when she is outside chasing lizards, with  belly full, bowels yet empty, and the breeze ruffling her hair. (Schnauzer's don't have fur.) Her (lifelong) glory, her element; happy. Perhaps I could have the vet meet me out there. Would this be an act of compassion or selfishness? I am living in a state of semi-shock caused by the soul shredding sadness of her impending departure. (Couldn't have come at a worse time either, because I do not want to leave her alone (and thereby miserable) and yet, I am in a real financial bind. I was already in a funk -- but this episode has brought it to an entirely new level.) I know, I know it's just a dog. The closeness I feel, mostly, illusory; an affectation brought about by our (decade-plus, long)  proximity and reliance on one another's presence. Her's for companionship (far more successfully than Crystal) and me as slave to her every desire.
        Part of me even wonders if I am depriving her of something important by just suddenly ending it. If those moments of revelation --  that her body is dying -- is an integral part of her journey through this plane of existence.
       This is so difficult. Her "mother" hasn't called once. Oh wait -- she did . About a week ago. To ask about a package that was erroneously shipped to my old address after which she inquired after Willow.  I had called her the day I got the diagnosis -- and told her I would bring Willow back up to Pensacola for "goodbyes" (I think Willow would like that -- but Crystal said she rather I didn't. That she wasn't as good as I am dealing with "death." (Translation: I am her emotional superior. Intellectual too. (Yes,  I know the latter is rather obvious but I felt like proclaiming it!  While I'm at it, I might as well lay claim to emotional superiority. (However developmentally-arrested --  my emotional "purity" sanctions and affirms this claim. This particular triptych may, in fact, entitle me to wear the "spiritual" crown as well.  (Debatable; she is a youth minister after all.)  None of this changes the fact that it's all-the-more difficult going through this alone. Then again, I know, first hand, how difficult this is to deal with and wouldn't wish this emotional trauma on anyone -- even my monstrous minister ex. So, I forgive her. )
       Willow wants to go out -- couldn't possibly refuse.