I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

1. My hometown is named after a Frenchman whose claim to fame was for developing and growing his own strain of celery.

2. One of my grandfather's first jobs was as a tombstone carver.

3. One of my more distant ancestors was eaten, after being shipwrecked on a whaler.

4. Just up the road from where I grew up, was a house reputed to be haunted by Abraham Lincoln.

5. A hot air balloon, carrying an advert on it for Mr Pibb's soda, once made an emergency landing in the middle of the four-highway next to my street.

6. In the mid-1960's a loose tie down rope from a low-flying Goodyear blimp, once got temporarily snagged in the top of a pine tree, in the pine grove behind our house.

7. A wild whitetail deer once jumped through the plate glass front window, of a small produce shop that belonged to a friend of my mum's, which was located in a small city near our village.

8. Three of my grade school teachers were on a hijacked plane, during a long standoff in the Middle East, in the early 1970's, and a nationally televised press conference was held in our school's gym/auditorium, upon their return.

9. When I was in my late teens, I had a best friend, whose sister was film actor Al Pachino's secretary.

10. I once dated a genuine cowboy from colorado--for three whole dates, while at the same time I had a friend and co-worker who as a Navajo Indian.

11. I am a direct descendant of James Fennimore Cooper, who wrote Last of the Mohicans, and many other works.

12. The oddest thing I ever ate for breakfast was choocolate sprinkles on bread--followed by some cold smoked herring and a hard boiled egg. Any port in a storm, when you're hungry.

13. In my lifetime, I have been on and/or driven/steered the following modes of transport: car, pick-up truck/SUV, antique auto, train, single engine plane, jet, tram, tractor, bucket loader, backhoe, bulldozer, dump truck, ski-lift/cable gondola, horse, pony, mule, camel, elephant, hot air balloon, sail boat, whitewater raft, motor boat, row boat, canal boat, cruse boat, submarine, banana boat/freighter, ferry, bicycle, bus, stagecoach, horse-drawn wagon/carriage, jitney, rickshaw. Still waiting for the Tardis, ha-ha.

14. Besides my 2-year degree in Liberal Arts, I also hold a Level I certificate in Culinary Arts, and have also studied heavy equipment (construction) operation and floral design (as 6 week extracurricular study courses).

15. During the depression, while working at the Daily News in New York City, my grandfather invented the device which automatically stops the newspaper presses if a man's hand gets caught.

(Unfortunately, he showed his idea to the boss--who promptly took it over, and my grandad wound up never getting credit for his invention. He was so upset, he eventually quit his job there, and went to work for the Albany paper.)

Awwwww---

Guess filming is about to resume for Series 4, Christmas Special. Best wishes to the Who crew and cast for a smooth and successful 9 months. Wish I was there, ha-ha. Those people have to be the luckiest people on planet earth.

JOHN: "You're right, Freema, he really does have a nice bum."

"And this is where the Master is...Hmm--nice aftershave Jack. What's it called?

"So he has a bigger screwdriver, David. So what? You still have all the fangirls..and me."

Another round of late night editing, for me. Cheers. Playwrite27.

Doctor Who: Time Lords Don't Cry

CHAPTER 5: Well of Despair

The Doctor stared down at the floor. The blood lay in a huge puddle, with no indication as to where, or what, or from whom, it may have come from. Unexpectedly, a loud thump seem to reverberate from somewhere underneath the barn's wide wooden floorboards. The Doctor started with surprise, looking around wildly.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Demanded a harsh voice out of the shadows. The Doctor turned. Standing there, illuminated by the faint wavering light of the Doctor’s torch, stood the very man, whose dried out body had turned to dust on the river bank--looking very much alive! “It was Uncle Tobias,” whispered Marie.

The United States Congress is really concerned about boosting the economy here. They proved that by totally disbanding the American Job Bank---a national service designed to assist the unemployed in finding jobs.

Instead, people are being directed to a website--and the millions and millions of unemployed who either don't use computers, or have no internet service? Sh*t outta' luck.

However, Congress just approved billions of more dollars to help continue the war in Iraq--nearly a quarter of which is earmarked to go to the Vice-President's company, Haliburton, for oil and other business "development" in Iraq.

Gee, it's so nice knowing the government's priorities. Killing thousands of innocent people and grabbing up billions in oil.

Oh, and at a time when personal debt is escalating at a record-setting pace, the politicians have repeatedly reduced--and even removed, debt protections for American citizens, favouring big business by making it harder for the people of the US to file for bankruptcy--and in some cases, totally eliminating debt protections altogheter--as a student loan recipient--if I default, I have no protection from my lenders, they can now, thanks to Bush and his regime, rip me to financial shreds--and short of going completely blind, or becoming a teacher or health professional, I have no protection. My lenders can do anything they want to me, to get their money--including stripping me of my wages, tax refunds, etc.

The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting shoved more and more, down the ol' shaft--and now the middle class is being dragged down alongside them, as well.

Karl Marx, I'm sorry to say, was all too correct about extreme capitalism. Everything he predicted is very much coming to pass, here in the states.

Civil war---it's a real possibility, if things don't start to drastically change in the next five to ten years.

But...that's just my opinion. Sometimes I don't know why Congress and Bush don't just send America's poor to concentration camps--might be kinder, in the long run. The suffering in this country is getting so out of hand, and the upper classes--and much of the rest of the world-- are utterly, totally oblivious to it. Someday soon, their carelessness and ignorance is going to come back to bite them in the arse. I just hope I'm not around when it happens.

After a drop in homicide/crime rates during the Clinton and very early Bush years, crime is once again escalating in certain areas of the USA. Here are excepts from a recent Associated Press article:

Homicides soar in some East Coast cities

"We've shifted our resources from hometown security to homeland security," Fox said. "We have left relatively unattended the poor and powerless who face violence every day and hear gunshots every night."

Man, am I a backwards person, technologically.

I've not the foggiest idea how an I-Pod works. Didn't even see one for the first time, until last autumn. owned a basic, cheap 20 dollar mobile for about 3 weeks-- and they are still somewhat of a mystery, to me. And, I haven't even the slightest idea what the hell a "blackberry" is supposed to be, never used a laptop in my life, never owned a CD player, or a DVD player (not counting the CD/DVD capacity on my computer here), the only video game thingys I'd ever owned were the original NES and later, a Super Nintendo, neither of which I have any longer.

Oh, and I still have a VCR, and a TV set, tho' they're not in use. And the computer, of course. Acutally, the computer is my sole bit of technology, I reckon, so I'm not totally in the stone age. But yeah, I'm a bit backward, in the gadget department...and could care less about what I may be missing.

Love my job!---NOT. Although, for the very first time in over six months, I actually got a compliment. That honestly took me aback, that did. Wow. I was told that I was really doing a good job on the phones today, by one of the supervisors--and I did, I made 5 sales, which was pretty good, for me.

I had to work my way through a lot of nutters and snarks tho'. One guy answered the phone, "Yo-yo! What up?" I asked for the person, and got in reply, "Yo-yo, bitch, you have the wrong number." Nice. I so desperately wanted to ask this boy, "Do you like people to know that you're a complete moron, the minute you answer the phone?" Because I couldn't tell whether it was a real wrong number or the guy was just being an arse, I erred on the side of the arse, and put him in for a call-back early Saturday morning--very early. Telemarketers Revenge, Mrawww-ha-ha-ha!

One guy, when I inquired after his wife, responded, "What's she owe, now?" Well..there's a happy marriage, I'm guessing.

Also, a woman positively screamed at the top of her voice, "HELLO!" Then promptly slammed the phone down. Charming lady.

But..that's the nature of the business. I do hate ringing up southern women tho'--meaner, nastier, snarkier excuses of womanhood have never existed before the advent of the Deep South. The Spanish inquistors would have loved them.

Here's what one southern woman snarked at me, when I said hello and asked for her: "What's yore problem?"

A co-worker gave me a bit of a laugh today.

Seems she'd lost her mobile for a whole week--until her boyfriend found it in her bed. She didn't hear it ring, because it was set to vibrate. Okay, if you don't get why I found that funny, just think about it for a few minutes...

What is with my hair lately??? I washed it three times on Tuesday and Wednesday morning, yet still it looks like rubbish! Like I'd not washed it in a week, then ran my fingers through it repeatedly. Ugh! Hate my hair. I look like David Tennant on one of his bad hair days. Well, my hair's so fine, forget perms and sets and styling...nothing takes. And even hair spray--I have to use so much sometimes, it winds up going through the day looking wet--and still mussy. On one of the extremely rare occasions--ever 10 years---that I actually go into a beauty pallor to have my hair fussed with for some special event or whatever, I'll be lucky if the posh style lasts halfway through. And if it's windy, at all--forget about it. Have I mentioned that I love wearing hats? Anyway, I'm wondering if this sudden case of Mad Hair Disease is the result of my being so ill. 'Dunno' but my hair sure did look like absolute rubbish, yesterday.

Had a dream, last night, about my first dog, Shamrock. She was half purebred collie and half retriever mix. She mostly looked collie--except for her dumb ears--they were shaped like a retrievers, but partly stood up, when she was alert--they looked sort of silly.

Shamrock was incredibly gentle and kind--we had a neighbour who positively loathed and detested dogs--and he always petted Shamrock affectionately. Where he chased all other dogs from his yard, he'd smiling, call Shamrock over and give her a treat or pet her. Everyone--and I mean, everyone--loved my dog.

A DOG LIKE SHAM--BUT SHAM'S EARS DROOPED.

She was also hugely smart, and, she was my absolute very best friend. We went everywhere together, and had a genuine rapport that's so very rare--whether between animals or humans. Sham just seemed to always know what I was thinking....almost to the point of it being uncanny. She was sharp as paint, when it came to learning new tricks. She could shake--either paw, sit, get up, come to me, roll over, lie down, turn left, turn right, and speak. Often without any readily noticeable signal from me, but a slight nod of the head, or merely eye contact or a soft whisper.

She caught on to a new trick, one day, purely by accident--and she learned this literally in about five minutes--I sometimes think she made this trick up on her own--but I know that would just be silly. Anyway, she was rolled over on her great whopping back (she was large, weighed about 70 pounds), and I, just kidding around, did a Dirty Harry impression, "Go ahead, make my day!" And using my finger as a gun, pointed at her and went, "BANG!" Well...Shamrock yelped, and flopped over---just like she'd been shot! I had a flash of "Eureka! A new trick!" And had her roll over again, just to see if she'd repeat the action--did the "bank" thing--and yes, she did it again, exactly as before--so all I did, was scratch her belly (to heck with dog treat rewards, Sham's weakness was belly rubs), and repeat the "trick" several times more-and she never forgot it, not ever...right down to the yelp and the flop! Of course, it was sometimes less effective, when she forgot herself and wagged her tail when she was supposed to be "dead," but I think if Sham had been a person, she would definitely have been an actress, she was such a tremendous ham. The later became the number one request from people, for all the neighbours loved this new trick of hers.

Sham had one other "trick," that was popular with the neighbours, and made them laugh hysterically. Shamrock was EXTREMELY vocal--I mean she could actually sob and cry and carry on like a human being...it scared the neighbour kid, who never knew what to make of it. Well, at the end of Sham's repertoire, I'd have her sit. Then I'd walk up to her and say, sympathetically, "There, now that wasn't so bad, was it?" On cue, everytime, Sham would bury her head in my knees and actually start "sobbing" and crying at the top of her lungs---a real "Oh woe is me!" act. Oh, the neighbours would be laughing and going "Awwww!" Shamrock was such a huge ham during her "performances," but she also used to pull this act whenever I came home after being away for any length of time. She was such a baby. In high school, I'd barely be off of the school bus, when she'd come running up to me joyously, and then start bawling her eyes out..."OHhh! I missed you mum, how could you stay away so long?!?"
The neighbours would always know when I was home, by the sound of Sham's sobbing.

Speaking of the neighbours, One day, one of the neighbours decided to put a post and rail decorative fence in the corner of his yard, and plant some shrubbery around it. He'd worked hard all day, in the hot summer sun, put in the last post, securely in the ground, and went into the house for a cold beer. He came out, and found Shamrock doing her damnest to pull that last post out of the ground--she had that sucker in her teeth and was yanking on it for all she was worth--digging up the soil as well--bound and determined to remove that post. Well, it didn't belong there, did it? There never was a post there before.

Anyhow--I was just...appalled, when I'd found out. Stammered out an offer to pay for, and repair the damage. I was refused. Seems the neighbour was so amused by the whole thing, he considered it worth the wasted post and work. I guess, he could have stopped her, early on, but it seems he was laughing so hard, he just stood there on his porch, busting a gut and having a good old time. He said it was the most entertainment he'd had in months--took her over a half hour to pull that post out, and the man just stood there the entire time, just laughing. Well, some people are easily amused, I suppose--or maybe it was the beer? People just loved Shamrock. She had just the most perfectly gentle and loving nature, that even people who were normally afraid of dogs, would take the time to pet her.

I've had pets all my life, but only once, if you're very lucky, will you get an animal companion like Shamrock. I was truly blessed, the day she was born in our cellar, to my sister's dog, Happy. The day I picked a puppy at random, and said, "I want that one." That was the luckiest day of my life.

Have to go to work soon. Eight or ten hour day---will depend on how I'm feeling. I'm knackered, from everything, still. I'd quite frankly, give and arm and a leg and another arm, just to have a week--or even a weekend--off. No such luck, gotta' pay that rent and stuff.

I wish I was somewhere else, doing something else, but wishes are for children and the wealthy. I'm just a low-income, old maid, telemarketer. And if I don't end this post, I'll be late for work! Cheers!

It's heading into 11pm, I really would love to sleep, but my bedroom is around 28 C, close and stuffy--like being trapped in a hotbox. Sleep isn't happening, tho' I did try to go to bed early. So--time for another late night editing session with this really bad Dr Who story--I'm not just being modest you know--it's not very good, and I know this. I want to do something different with the middle and ending of this story--shorten it, but also completely change Marie's role, than from the original story. But...I haven't worked out where to make the big switch yet, so I'm just contenting myself with messing about with an existing chapter, to see if I can make the story flow a little more smoothly. I imagine it must be putting some people to sleep, as it is rather plodding, compared to Bodysnatchers and a couple of other stories. Hmmm--maybe I should, for once, forget the tra-la happy ending, and kill off Marie at the end of the story--she could die doing something heroic, maybe even save the Doctor's life....meh, we'll see... Playwrite27

Doctor Who: Time Lords Don't Cry

CHAPTER 4: The Forsaken

Feeling slightly dizzy and disoriented, the Doctor bent over double and held his head in his hands. Something was terribly wrong, but he couldn’t quite ken exactly what it was. The sensation was…discomforting. He must do something. Taking a deep breath, he sat there, slowing his breathing, watching the white smoke of his warm breath, rising before him, he came to a decision. “I’ll bet that girl Marie would know what to do.” Taking up his hiking staff once more, he reversed his steps and started off towards the direction where he’d last seen her.

Shining the torch on the floor, the Doctor noted long deep scratches in the wide wooden floor boards. Bending down, he examined them. They appeared to have been recently made. There was a faint, odd coppery smell in the air. He walked over to the rusting cattle stanchions. They were empty. He was walking past them when his foot slipped in something. He threw back his head in disgust. “Ugh! I knew it!” He cried out loud. Taking a breath, he looked at the sole of his shoe, only to stop short. He had stepped in something organic, all right, but it wasn’t manure. It was a large pool of blood.

"Oh sure, it's the end of the world--but, fortunately, it so happens we can get you a great deal on some recently vacated rent to own houses..."

"Alright, John--stop rubbing it in. Okay, your screwdriver is very large--but my...erm...nickname, is much bigger than yours!"

"What I never told you, Martha, is that all us Time Lords are completely bonkers. Our national anthem is the theme from I Love Lucy."

As a teen, I was genuinely inspired by the songs of John Denver and various folk singers, and by the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson and my reading--well, slogging through--Thoreau's "Walden." I was entranced--simply because I saw and breathed and felt and lived, so much of what these fellows sang and wrote about. I'd thought I was alone in my feelings and contemplations, but through my often accidental explorations, I was not. And it felt--really really good--I mean, there I was, thinking this or that--and then turn a page, or hear a lyric, and the singer or writer is saying nearly the same thing as I'd been thinking--that sometimes knocked my socks off.

Here's some narrated excerpts from "Walden", filmed on location at Walden Pond, near Concord Mass.

My blog is drawing in, it appears, a lot more readers these days. Some days more than others, and without comments or feedback, there's no indication why that is--although, as I wrote to a fellow blogger, this morning, the huge jump in readership while I was away in hospital might be because of morbid curiosity--that maybe some tout somewhere was taking bets on whether I'd make it out of hospital alive or not, and people were checking to see if I would indeed come back, ha-ha.

But, with me, this sudden and drastic increase in readership, also means a sudden drop in my comfort level as a relatively unknown, and totally obscure blogger. When it comes to blogging, I like obscure.

That's because when I'm comfortable in the feeling that most people reading my blogs don't know me--barring several good friends---have no real connection to me--I can be comfortable with just being myself--whether the mood of the moment is depressed, worried, angry, scared, silly, pensive, content, whatever...I don't worry about how I sounded or how the public perceived me. I just wrote. I never obsessed or stressed over whether anyone reading my blog liked my writing or not, or was interested in what I had to say.
And I don't want to do that. I don't like worrying about what people think of me or my writing--at least, not with blogging.

When I used to keep a daily journal, all those years ago, I wrote in the knowledge that no one (barring my mum) would ever read it. Mostly, back then, I wrote a lot of pastoral, transcendental-ish gobblety gook, but even when I was writing about the difficult times, I knew I could say whatever I wanted, without feeling discomfort of any sort.

I'm losing that comfort zone, now.

This sudden influx of readers has me quite flummoxed. I honestly don't know what to make of it. It's not like I'm writing about anything important or earth-shattering.

My creative works--my Dr Who fan fiction, my daft little poems--aren't anything special. I'm merely an average writer. I'll never be asked to write a book, or a script or anything like that. Over five years of college--a lifetime of reading, as well--I've read my share of good writing. I'm average, pretty much. And, that's really okay. I'm totally okay with that. It wasn't meant to be, as I am now acutely aware of. And honest--that's okay. I'd accepted that months and months ago.

I am always pleased when someone writes me that he or she likes my writing. But, that said, when I weigh my stuff alongside the work of others--professional writers--I do see the gap, that something is decidedly lacking in my work.

I didn't get to--and likely never will, at this late stage in life--finish my education in writing. Additionally, I just don't have the imagination, the life experiences, that so many other writers have had--and, perhaps, the same level of maturity, as well. I don't know. There's so many places I've never been, I don't go out much in the world--especially now, and, I've never had an intimate relationship--so I can't really write about that at all, I totally rot at plotting, I am, by my own admission, a bit of a simpleton--don't have this great, broad imagination that other writers have.

Story ideas don't often come easy to me. I never was much use at abstract thinking--oh, I've tried, but, truth to tell, I really am just a plain dull person. I live in a box, so thinking outside it is a bit hard for me. In a nutshell, as a writer, I've just got a lot of limitations, and that's a serious handicap--especially if one wants to be successful.

So, I'm a bit perplexed as to why my blog stats have been rising over the last several months. My life isn't interesting--when I showed my life in pics the other day on my blog--work, grocery store, laundromat, apartment---that really IS my whole life. I seldom leave that world. I really haven't been out of this tiny little city in over 6 months...I mean, that in 6 months, I've not traveled more than 2 or 3 miles from this apartment--no joke--really, it's 100% true!

So I'm left at a loss over what's so interesting about my blog, to attract hundreds of readers--morbid curiousity--will she live or will she die, will she continue to live here or will she be homeless? Or...I don't know. I find this just...odd. The writer in me is pleased to be read, but the human side of me, is a bit--perplexed, and, getting a little uncomfortable...can't say why, exactly--other than the privacy worry, of course. But there you have it. That's how I feel.

I saw a brief clip of the last Dr Who confidential episode--and there's David Tennant, looking all nice and speaking about the Master in an animated and interesting manner--and then, the American actor, Eric Robers comes on. Now, mind you, he's a fair actor, certainly. But, if you really want to see the gaping difference between the British mind and the American mind, here's two quotes:

ROBERTS (On the character known as the Master):
"The Master is often described as an evil genius, because, uhh--he is evil."

TENNANT (Also commenting on the Master): "I think that when the Master was created, back in the 1970's, that the Doctor needed a Moriarty to his Sherlock Holmes."

Your average American probably thinks Sherlock Holmes is the name of some posh upper middle class housing development.

On a separate note, I read where David Tennant was upset to learn that the Master's screwdriver was bigger than his screwdriver....hmmm---screwdriver envy! You mean the Master's screwdriver is bigger than "teninches?" Oh, I think we've just opened a whole Pandora's box of brand new, blatantly obvious, erm--manhood jokes here, ey?

Well, another blow struck upon me.

I have to delete my tiptop website, the one with my various writing portfolios on different pages.

Two people have used my personal website to track me down--and I depend on being unknown, as that allows me to freely express myself, without worrying about some strange person digging into my personal life---I don't want to be sectioned--that'd be even worse than being dead or homeless. I mean that--I never was more serious about anything.

So, since I can't remember which page or pages I posted my personal info on---out goes all my writing, except the few things still stored in my computer files.

A lot of that stuff on tiptop, is long gone--hard copies lost in moving, floppy discs damaged. Deleting those sites, well...it's a bit like deleting a part of my own individuality, my own personality.

But, no hope for it, must be done. I'd rather have my privacy, be free to air my true feelings, without worrying about unwanted (tho' perhaps well-intended) intrusions. Not that I always mind--but I prefer it be done out in the open--a comment on my blog, a personal message, and not by Googleing my personal life, if you know what I mean.

Gosh, now I am getting an inkling of how a celebrity must feel--it's a weird sensation, knowing some total stranger is prying into your personal life without you knowing about it.

So, suck it in ol' girl, and dump that Tiptop site! Tonight.

So, someone asked me today, out of the blue, someone I hardly even know, "what do you want to do with the rest of your life?"

I...had no answer.

My first thought, was simply to survive--to someday find a place in this life for myself, where I no longer have to have nightmares (often literally) about homelessness, or worry about poverty. To feel "safe" again, like when I was much younger.

But of course, that's just a pipe dream, and well I know that. You get in this life, what you get. Sometimes you're lucky and things just click--just come together, and all is, mostly, well and fine...and then, sometimes life just pisses on you continually, and there you stand under the deluge, without an umbrella.

I thought I--sort of--knew what I wanted to do with my life, and in some small ways have done it--very small ways, mostly. Not too long ago, I believed in myself, had faith and strength and kept my eye clearly on the ball...made a few reality adjustments, but was essentially moving in the right direction--writing, creativity, a decent wage, a gosh-darn future.

But, the ball disappeared in 2005--smacked out of the ballpark by, what is now, a long series of unfortunate circumstances.

My confidence, my self-belief, even my very faith, has fled me. I've no clue where to go to even find them, anymore.

What do I want for myself? To live. To live without the constant fear, and worry, pain and loneliness, to not be condemned to the very existence I'd dreaded all my life. Wither away in a shell, in a prison of my own making, a miserable, bitter, lonely person, like my dad was. But, I fear, that's where I'm going.

I know--oh yes, I truly do know, that the only one who can change your life--is you. But one needs a catalyst, and inspiration, security, knowledge, confidence--faith. Trouble is, those things no longer exist for me.

I feel...empty. My muse not only left me, she took the last ship off the planet. She's out there, somewhere, floating around the solar system.

What do I want for myself?

I would love to feel inspired again, free again--I'd love to believe again, have faith, have that wonderful confidence, feel wonder and curiosity again.

Will I ever?

Again, I don't know. Who can say what will be, and what won't be? Who can say what is, and what isn't? Life is part of the universe--and the universe is continually changing, evolving...I simply don't know what the future holds for me: homelessness, success and security, or just this empty life, this continual withering of the spirit and soul...or death. I don't know, and no one does, I'm afraid.

Home on lunch break--feeling wicked ill, thanks to the heat--it boiling out there! 33 C! AND humid--air's so thick you can cut it with a knife. I feel like that witch in Wizard of Oz.."I'm melting! I'm melting! What a world, what a world...!"

Just saw, before leaving for work, a short clip from Sound of Drums--was that the Harriet Jones, Prime Minister theme I heard, playing in the background? Or am I, once again, way off base? Guess I won't know for sure until I've seen the episode in its entirety--if I do.
That would be interesting--reusing the HJ, PM theme for Saxon's scenes...I rather like that piece, think it's a really interesting composition of Gold's...very strong and beautifully done, really gives a nice subtle added voice to the scene(s).

Blaring hooter outside, startled me and the cats. Yet another grown man, too lazy to pry his well-fed American arse out of the car seat, to walk up to the door and knock.

What is it with these guys today??? I mean, it's one thing if the person they are picking up says, "hoot the car horn when you get there." But most of the time, it's just that these lazy so-called men, can't make the effort to walk the tiny little walk up to the front door and ring the gosh-darn bell.

John Wayne is truly a dead American icon. I mean, if me--overweight and disabled, I can walk to and from work all the time--but these big strong healthy men, can't even get out of a car seat? American men are total wimps--they may still do the macho posturing thing, but...it's just sad. They don't like waiting their turn in line, whine a lot, swear and spit in front of women and children---there's goes pride and honor flushed down life's loo.

Ah, I'm just in a mood, today--the weather. I hate being hot and sticky--I'd rather deal with bone-numbing cold, I'm much more aclimated to that.

OMG! The man actually combed his hair--nice shirt, by the way.

While casually surfing for more series 3 news on the net, found yet another reference to Mr. Tennant's "secret" engagement. But then, on this blog site, the blogger also suggested, in an earlier post, that David Tennant was gay, and also indicated that he was bi-polar.

Now, I "talked" with another fan on the net about this--someone who's seriously a DT fan, more so than I. I know a few basic facts about the man, probably more than I want to know, really--through interviews and fan chat and the like--but am certainly not one of these walking David Tennant encyclopedia type fans.

Anyway, my fan friend's take on this, is that the gay comment springs from the fact that some gay magazine voted Tennant hottest male star last year, or something like that. And this person likewise feels that the bi-polar thing is being confused with a character Tennant portrayed in some television series...seems he's rather popular for playing nutters, and I can see why, if his Who performances are anything to go by, ha-ha.

As for the "secret engagement" thing....we're both stumped. We've no idea--and quite frankly, I don't especially care. I mean, congrats to him if he is, that's nice and I hope he and his gal are forever happy, but single or married, he's just a really talented, well-rounded, solid actor to me,--and, at least outwardly, from my long-distance, total stranger's perspective-- appears thoughtful, and seems like a good person, and that's all I see him as. Married or single, no difference that I can see...don't know what all the fuss is about, quite frankly.

Some fans just like to make mountains out of proverbial mole hills--I suppose that's one of the things that drives fandom, isn't it?

Well, it was 30 degrees C in here, at 6am--going to be brutal today.

I'm feeling rested for a change, ready to charge backing to the ranks of the much abused telemarketers. Bit sore--have to check in with the doc this morning, before work, make sure all is on the up and up, with my recovery. The hot weather doesn't help much, but it's to be a bit cooler, as the week goes on, bless.

But the cats are a bit miserable in here--thank goodness there's a little breeze out there. Decided to wear a dress today. Not that I feel like it, but it will be a lot cooler than trousers or my heavy skirt. Going to be a long day, tho', as I forgot, in the emergency, to pay my Natl. Grid bill, and have to do that today, during lunch, so lunch will be cut considerably short. Then off to work again for four hours. Yuck. I probably won't be going home for lunch, but maybe..if I can get a cab right off--not counting on it, tho'.

Sat on my little balcony, last night, looking at the sunset and watching the sparrows diving about and chattering, people walking below, cars going by. But, then I started to feel lonely, so I went back in and read a book for a while. It was sort of nice out there, tho'...good breeze in the evenings, here. Don't think I'll ever fully adjust to city life, but it's really not bad at all, and I'm getting pretty well used to it, by now...even in the sultry summer.

Anyway, going to leave you with a favourite song from my childhood:

David Tennant takes time out on the set, to show off his Robert De Niro impression, "Are you talkin' to me? Are you talkin' to me...?"

"OWWW! Martha! What'd you hit me for? All I said is that your flat looks like it had been decorated by a Jade Goody."

"That's right, one Big Mac extra-value meal and a Coke--oh, and can you put it in a Starbuck's bag? If it ever gets out I like McDonald's food, I'll never live it down."

I saw this on a different blog site, and borrowed it---the person on the blog site borrowed this from someone else...same thing that goes on here, really. I know a lot of my posts are not very happy or pleasant, and I don't want people to get the idea that I'm miserable or angry or whatever, all the time. I have, in fact, been blessed with some very good, good moments, in my past life.

Anyway, there's a set of three questions:

Name three times, in the past ten years, when you shouted for joy:

1. The day I was first accepted into the local 2 year college--after a 25 year absence from the classroom (not counting trade school courses and community ed classes).

2. The day I both got a notice that I'd won a scholarship--my first and only, which was the very same day I got my notice that I was one of four recipients of my college's Outstanding Achevment Award in Theater. Sometimes mailboxes can be wonderful things...not often, for me, but sometimes.

3. The day I'd found I'd passed my math final. (I have a bad case of dyscalculia, and had to take math 5 or 6 times in the course of 3 years--and you had to pass to graduate.)

Name 3 times in the past 10 years when you were filled with wonder and awe:

Oh, tough call.

1. The day I sat an Icelandic horse, inside a volcanic crater in Iceland, looking down on the far distant city of Rekjavik, the 110% pure icy air filling my lungs--Me, small town girl who rarely went anywhere...oh yeah, I was just...enraptured.

2. This is going to sound terribly dull, I reckon--especially when on the same trip, I'd gone sailing for the first time--which was truly wonderful and thrilling--but this other thing... Anyway, in Amsterdam, I vistied the Rijksmuseum--or however that's spelled, and walked into this gallery--and stopped dead in my tracks. There in front of me, was this enormous painting--several of them actually--of Rembrant's Nightwatch. Now, I was never a Rembrant fan--more of a Ver Meer or Monet type, if anything. But these paintings--one in particular (don't remember the name)..just floored me. I mean, I'd never ever seen paintings like this in my life--it really looked like the guys were just going step right out of the painting, like they were alive. In this days of CGI and all that--to see this old three-dimentional painting--wow. Jaw drop time.

3. Is a three-way tie--and a very tough tie, at that. And there's a reason for this is easy: I was in Egypt. So, in order:

1. The morning--very early in the morning-- I rounded a corner, in a remote part of the desert, and first spied the place known as "Abu Simbel." Oh my God! I just stood there for the longest time--I mean, the pryamids, the temples, the underground crypts in Alexandria, the valley of the Queens/Kings, all magnificent--but this place. Man. It was something.

2. Walking into the recently unearthed workers tombs at Giza. Our college group was pretty much one of the first public groups to visit the recently discovered tombs of some pryamid workers. It was amzing, going inside the cave and seeing a new discovery.

3. This is going to sound a little trite, but I gotta' say, riding a snow-white, pure Arab mare, around the dunes above the Great Pyramid and the Spynx, at 10pm at night, at dusk--just four or five of us--and just two of us, me and the guide, at one point--by then there was only moonlight--trotting and cantering over those ancient sands--on a horse that had THE smoothest canter I'd ever known--like a riding a rocking horse on a cloud--my gosh, it was...a dream come true.

I'm over 30,000 dollars in debt (15,000 pounds), but for the most part, college, the school trips overseas--worth every penny of debt--as long as they don't take my wages.

Name three of the saddest moments in your life:

1. Signing the order to cut mum's life support, then holding her hand while watching her heart rate slowly drop on the monitor.

2. The night I found out my dad died, before I could say goodbye to him.

3. Putting my half-collie Shamrock to sleep--tied by having to put down my cat Jamie in the late 80's, and, most recently, my five cats this past Nov.--incl. my best friend, Red, who was 18 years old--with the exception of Jamie and one of the cats--Miss Kitty, I'd actually was present--and even assisted in the birth, (mouth-to-mouth, cutting imbilical cords, assisted with first feeding) to all of these animals.

I don't feel this particular fan fiction story would go over very well. It's not quite what my stories sort of devolved into, in that in this story, there's much more back story written in, more detail about the surroundings, the characters--and that was sort of done deliberately--tho' not entirely. For one thing, I was new to fan fiction, I'd only written one other story, so I hadn't quite got the grasp of my audience, of the genre itself, yet. Still haven't, for that matter. For me, fan fiction is a continual work in progress, a constant learning experience--and, unlike most of my other writing--with the exception of plays, perhaps, it's completely fun--just me, writing for the pure joy of it, not obsessing over every noun and adjective.

Also, getting back to atmosphere--I tried to make the setting as creepy as Uncle Tobias...deliberately choose late autumn, the dying season, for the scene. I set the story locally, to add authenticity to it--I've actually been out in this sort of weather and landscape, and I wanted to draw readers into the story, by trying to actually make them feel like they are really there--whether it works or not, again, no idea. But, I hope so. This next chapter, according to my old notes, is just something I wrote post-work, one night--pretty much like I do nowadays. Playwrite27

Doctor Who: Time Lords Don't Cry

CHAPTER 3: Dust to Dust

Marie had left the Doctor, with his promise that he’d come to see her again, if he could. The Doctor watched her walk off, nearly soundlessly, into the woods. He was left with an oddly discomforting feeling of having lost something close to him, something that was a part of him somehow. He stood with his head tilted, looking wistfully in Marie’s direction. A quiet unease filled him, a distant sorrow, like a small empty void inside his soul that needed filling. Shuddering for no apparent reason, he forced himself to shake it off.

The Doctor bit his lip and dug his hands into his pockets, uncertain of what to do. That didn’t seem right, somehow. He nearly always knew what to do---pausing, his asked himself aloud, “How do I know that? Just who am I, anyway?” He sat on the log again and pondered the situation. Picking up a stick, he idly scratched patterns in the dirt while he drifted into deep reflection. He must look for clues. They must be there, he just wasn’t looking hard enough…or, perhaps, maybe he just wasn’t looking for the right things. “Think, man, think!” He muttered to himself, pounding his fist against his jeans. He looked down at the dirt near his feet and gave a start. Unknowingly, he’d written words in the dirt--three of them. He bent over to examine what he’d written. “BAD WOLF” and “ROSE”

I sometimes sincerely wish I were someone else, or could travel back in time, and just be a teen or a kid again, and be safe again, in familiar surroundings, with people I knew and who accepted me (mostly) for who I was. Or was there ever such a place? Is it just a made up memory, born of deep longing? Or was there really ever a time in my life, where I felt secure, where I felt I belonged.

I don't know.

I wish I weren't here, but here is where I am, and it seems God's determined to keep me here, whether I want to be or not. What the hell for, I've not a clue. It's not like I do anything useful, have a family to care for, make a difference in the world. I'm just...here. And that's all there is, for some of us. Chavs. Blue collar girl in a white collar world. That's me, in a nutshell.

Well, guess I'll go sit on the balcony, have a diet soda, see if I can actually feel some semblence of a breeze out there.

I've had two people be upset with me in the past two days, and I've just run out of patience. it's 89 F (30 C) in here, I'm sticky and hot, still wobbly, I've got the trots and am very, very cranky.

I love you both, you are wonderful people, and, I'd hoped, good friends--but the last thing I need right now is snarky notes and tetchy comments from certain people, who obviously have no conception of what it's like to be seriously ill.

I didn't come right out and say this before, as I didn't want to make this huge deal out of it, but Saturday night, I almost died. I was just a whisker away from my body crashing and burning. My blood count was HALF of what it should have normally been. I didn't know I was even that sick. Just felt light-headed and a little funky. It wasn't until 3 am on Sunday morning that I was told that if I'd waited even one more day to come in to the ER, I probably would have died from the internal bleeding.

So, forgive me if I don't always write happy, fluffy posts on my blog, or if I happen to miss one of your e-mails, mistakely not send one or two, or whatever...and if you can't forgive and understand, then maybe you're not the friends I'd hope you were.

Quite frankly, if you're disappointed in me, than I also, am gravely hurt and disappointed by your attitudes, as well.

Exclusive photo! David Tennant revels his newest companion, Harry, the gender confused postman.

The Doctor gives the erm...Galafreyan farewell salute to Tony Blair.

"These Galafreyan washing machines really hold a lot of dirty underwear, don't they?"

WELCOME TO MY WORLD!

So, am taking the night off from work, unexpectedly. Started down the stairs, and felt hugely dizzy. Rang the doc, just the heat he thinks but told me to take it easy, tonight, call him in the am, if I'm still feeling off. That's nearly three days pay I'm losing now. Life totally sucks! But, at least they won't fire me...I hope...for being out so much. But I do worry about it. I've lost two jobs in the past year, one from transport issues, the other a seasonal lay-off, I surely do worry...

The Ramsey Lewis Trio:

Since the blinking phone keeps waking me from my pre-work nap--hate people who don't ring long enough to let you answer--damn those telemarketers! . Anyway, I'm up, it's too hot in here to do much but sweat, Charlie's curled up in the fake plastic marble bathroom sink, Boots is lying on the kitchen radiator, leaning against the partly open window, trying to catch the breeze, and Flame is alternating between walking around whinging that she's hot, and flopping down on the floor in a disgusted mope. And I'm sitting here in my bathing suit, typing and wishing to God I had another fan, doing a re-write of Chapter 2. This, by the way, is only the second Who story I'd ever written, last year--not counting one I wrote in the late-80's for our club's newsletter.

Additionally, you should know, that when I wrote the first three or four chapters--I'd never even SEEN David Tennant, except in a few still photos on the internet. I knew, from the fan forums, that he had lost Rose, and that he was getting a new companion, but with these first few chapters, I'd no clue what Mr. Tennant's portrayal of the Doctor was actually like. It wasn't until I was writing in mid-story, that I'd seen Christmas Invasion and New Earth, for the first time. Playwrite27.

Doctor Who: Time Lords Don't Cry

CHAPTER 2: Lost and Found

A hand reached out to grab the deck of the console floor. By varying degrees, the Doctor slowly sat up. Blinking his eyes, the Doctor’s freckled boyish face registered bewilderment. He looked around at the arched beams and the huge console resting on its metal decking. “Where am I?” He wondered out loud. He rubbed the bump on the back of his head, wincing. “Must’ve been some wild party.” Looking around the console room, he raised an eyebrow, muttering “Don’t think much of the décor, though. Must be on the low budget cruise.” The Doctor noticed the clothes he was wearing. “Ugh! Look at me! Where have I been? A fancy dress ball? Wonder if there’s a dry cleaners about? And those shoes…who dressed me, a blind Cyberman?” He frowned, puzzled. Wrinkling his forehead he whispered, “What is a Cyberman? What'd I say that for?”

LAUREL & HARDY: PIANO MOVERS

I just found out, that the old village school building, which housed our local VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) post and also, for many, many years, mum's library, has been razed.

Where once sat a proud--and considerably creaky--old brick building, there is now, it seems, merely a few piles of bulldozed dirt.

So many memories, I have there--not just the countless hours spent in the library with mum, but also downstairs, in the VFW hall on the second floor...my first real job, waitressing parties, my sister's first wedding reception--got a pic of mum and dad actually dancing together, the only one I think was ever taken of them doing that---, the movies...mum's library, for a time, showed these wonderful old silent flicks on Saturday afternoon's in the hall downstairs. My two favs were the one with Laurel and Hardy as piano movers--oh, I just about bust a gut! Some fifty years after it was made, it it was still hilarious! And, that wonderful old-time cowboy actor, one of the first true western matinee stars, William S. Hart--and his wonderful horse, "Fritz." I got to see the last western pic he'd made, and I was enthralled! It was just...great. I remember writing a couple of stories--long since gone, about Bill Hart's adventures with Fritz, and thinking how wonderful it would have been, to have been to write those old-time westerns and comedies and such.

Also, when I was young, we frequently held my and my sister's birthday parties, in the VFW basement, where the guys hung out in the bar. There was a big bar, and a grubby old kitchen, and some tables and chairs...the usual pool table and dart board, as well, of course, and the fruit tickets, in a jar on the bar-top, 25 cents a ticket, top prize 50 dollars--which wasn't bad, in the late sixties to mid-Seventies. There was a juke box, as well, and a proper ladies--vanity/lounge separate from the loos. To a kid, the atmosphere down there was both spooky--creaky, dim, damp old basement, and enticing--"oh, so this is where the adults hang out on Saturday nights."

Well...gone now.

I wonder how the resident ghost, Ada Lee, felt about this? Was she even still there, haunting what had been the old library's reference room?

COWBOY STAR, BILL HART, AND HIS PAL, "FRITZ."

I wonder...did she vote orally?

Whew! Going to be boiling out there today! 92F (32C)! Yuck. Guess if I'm going to go to the laundromat, I'd better go this morning. Don't want to, mind, but no choice in the matter.

Maybe I'll check out some cheap fans, along the way, ha-ha. Gah! I miss my air conditioner. Fortunately, the side window off the balcony lets in a nice breeze--when there is a breeze. Still, by late afternoon it will be brutally hot in here.

But...it's only for a couple of days, before things cool down again. Nearly July, so this is more or less normal. This time last year, we'd had, in this state, record busting rainfall--in western NY, the heaviest rainfall on the records--which goes back to the Civil War era. Yeah, I remember that--that just happened to be the very same month, when the windshield wipers on my car died--oh, yeah, that was fun, driving 35 miles to work, to my job in Saratoga, trying to see the road in pouring rain without wiper blades. Well...I always did love a challenge.

Feeling a bit..bleh, this morning. For some reason feeling the aftermath of the surgery more...sore, mostly. But, I am feeling a bit more rested, I will say, than I've done in weeks and weeks. Wish I didn't have to go back to work tonight, at five, as I'm still a bit wobbly, but...if I can do laundry, I can go out and do my job. Well, okay, I HAVE to do laundry, and I HAVE to do my job.

Reckon I've spent more of my life, this last year and a half, doing things I absolutely didn't want to do, than doing things that I really do want to do...so, what else is new?

But, God, wouldn't I just love a little holiday...oh yes. Not going to get one--not in this lifetime, or so it seems. Three years and counting since my last one, at least another two or three years more--if even that. But....things could be worse, not complaining, really, I'm not.

My sister rang me, yesterday. She still can't find mum's grave. I gave her explicit directions, even gave her the plat number! But sis is sort of helpless when it comes to finding her way around--she's street smart, but put her in a new environment, and she doesn't always make the adjustment well--and, her memory--sadly, from decades of drug use--is basically rubbish--ten time worse than mine, and that's seriously saying something.

So, what's going to happen, is since I know--very literally--every square foot of the 367 acre cemetery by heart, I have to go down and show sis where the grave is. This means, because I live fifty miles north, and sis won't come and pick me up, that I have to take a commercial bus to downtown Albany, and either have sis pick me up, or grab a city transit bus to Cemetery Avenue in our old hometown. Sis's memory is so bad, that she told me that I'd have to grab a cab to the cemetery, maybe--and when I asked, why can't I just take the city bus, and get off at the cemetery's road? There was dead silence...even tho' she'd lived in the area for longer than I--about 10 years longer--she completely forgot there were public buses--she used to see them every day! She was like, "There's buses that go by the cemetery?" For pity's sake--we lived in that town for over 20 years! Wow. That's scary. Kids, DON'T DO DRUGS!

Anyway, so, I'll have to scrimp and save for bus fare to Albany, and then, sis will take me as far as Saratoga--then I get on another bus for Glens Falls from there. Be a long day, and expensive day, but...I've so dearly wanted to visit mum's grave...last year, money was so tight, 90 percent of the time--the few times I had a little extra, the weather was rubbish, then, with the car acting up, that just killed that, as well. Just never happened. She still doesn't have a marker--and that goes hard with me. Hell, I've still not been able to finish paying for the funeral expenses. Still owe about 500 bucks to the funeral home.

Well, I'm off to make a breakfast of a fried egg sandwich and some hashbrown (fried shreaded) potatoes, sort laundry and do what I have to do. Hope you all have a good day. Cheers.

I remember this--loved the Seventies! "There is nothing so clean, as my burger machine!" Oh yeah, that's what I used to sing, when I was a teen, as I scraped down the burger grill at the bowling alley every night...NOT!

Here's a re-print of a story I wrote last year, in late July/early August, for the Teaspoon website. Like The Menagerie and The Bodysnatchers stories that I posted on this blog over this past spring, I'll be using this blog to do some rewrites for TDC, as I was never really happy with it...didn't quite go the way I wanted it too, plus, possibly, there may be some grammatical or continuity errors, and I can correct these as I find them. I may even make some major changes to the story, but that remains to be seen. Playwrite27

This story takes place after Doomsday and before Smith & Jones.

Doctor Who: Time Lords Don't Cry

CHAPTER ONE: Mist of Evil

The Tardis was spinning out of control through the swirling tunnels of time and space. The Doctor lay unconscious, sprawled out below the console deck. He’d been fine-tuning the time-relay circuit, in hopes of finding a way to return to Rose, someday. That’s when he’d accidentally touched the wrong wire. “Not a good thing to do, with a time-relay circuit.” He’d reflected, in the split-second before he’d been blown several meters away and blacked out.

Without warning, a raucous wheezing and groaning noise disrupted this tranquil scene. Objecting loudly, the crow flapped away to other parts to complain. The deer swung their feet gracefully and in one bound, were gone into the deeper recesses of the forest. A blue box which bore a remarkable resemblance to an old-time British police call box materialized into the glade. The Tardis had finally landed.

I was passing the time, going through some of mum's papers--gah, so many, hundreds of genealogy papers, and personal stuff--and I found a piece of paper in my rather bad handwriting. This was before computers, before blogging, when I kept a personal journal--still do, just only write by hand late nights, when I'm not online. These days, most of my stuff winds up on my blog.

It's a piece I wrote about autumn in the woods and fields around the home I grew up in.

I sit here, in my stuffy front room, here on this hot and humid summer night, reading about the cool days of late autumn.

Flame is lying under the open front window, flopped on her blanket, half-open eyes staring at me, with this "Oh dear, it's soooo-hot" expression on her face. Poor wee girl.

So, I'm reading this torn journal entry, I'd written--well, the parts without the holes in the page. It's from October of 1981:

"It's October, now. My favorite season--my favorite time of the year. The red and orange maple leaves flutter slowly, softly, to the earth. In much the same way as grains of Time, sift through an hour-glass. Like sand, sifting through fingers, this moment will pass, be gone forever. It will merely be, some day, ten or twenty years from now, merely a fond memory. But, for now, I am here, it is here, real, beautiful. I can hold the moment in my hand--in my heart and spirit and soul, and I can feel alive in the moment, rejoice in the living beauty that is all around me.

October is a season that makes me feel both young and old, in the same instance." NBG, 20th October, 1981

Getting hot around here!

Time to slip on something cool and silky.

Heading into July and some steamy summer nights.

Oh, keep it in your pants...I'm referring to the weather.

I go back to work tomorrow night. Need to do laundry in the afternoon, as I've nothing to wear to work, in the way of office attire. Somehow, I don't think my showing up at the office on a week night, wearing jeans and a faded old Doctor Who tee shirt, would go down very well.

Slept the afternoon away, now I'm more or less awake and...still tired. But hey, I have blood now, no worries for any of those bats in my apartment building them, if any of them turn out to be vampires (and knowing some of the neighbours, that's a very real possibility, ha-ha).

What I'd really, really love to do, tonight?

Go to the drive-in's.

Ah, wouldn't that be just perfect? Grab some bug repellant, and take the cooler out of the closet, fill the cooler with ice and beverages, pop a couple of bags of microwave movie theater butter flavour popcorn, on the way to the theater, grab a pizza or tacos or McDonalds, head out to a double feature tonight. Maybe put in a lawn chair, if I want to sit outside the car--if I had a car.

It's all just fantasy, of course. No car, and no funds. And, I couldn't risk one of my bosses or co-workers seeing me there--I'd be fired, Johnny-on-the-spot, be more than my rubbish job is worth.

The four movies (don't know what's on which screens):

Kevin Almighty, Fantastic Four, Ocean's Thirteen and Knocked Up.

http://www.drive-ins.com/theater/nytglen

It's great swimming weather, as well. And good for going on a cruise or out in a row boat or kayak or something.

The public beach on the Hudson River, in the former paper mill town of Corinth NY, inside the Adirondack park. (where I lived for six years). Taken in March.

MARTHA: "Ugh! If you boys are going to have another farting contest, I'm going for a cappachino!"

"It's true, the Master may have the upper hand--but I can still make a sillier face than him! And fart better, too."

"No-no-no! I said turn left! Now we've gone past the Starbucks! Stupid women drivers!"

On Saturday, I posted my recently completed--and very naff--Dr Who fan fic story, on the fan fiction Teaspoon website. http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=13405 Well, out of curiosity, I decided to check my stats, see if anyone was reading it--not a lot, but a handful of people read through it. About what I expected, I suppose, as it wasn't all that well-written or plotted, really.

But, one chapter got more reads (well, you don't count chapter one, as those always get lots of hits--it's the succeeding chapters that count)--the one chapter that got the most hits, after chapter one, was the chapter titled, "Trippin' with the Doctor."

Do people really think I wrote about doing drugs with Doctor Who? I mean, that chapter's sort of towards the middle, yet it was number two on the list, I think. Hmmmm--people do love cheap sensationalism, don't they? The chapter after that one, didn't get as many hits, so it must be the title attracting the audience...hmmm--maybe I should make the title of my next story, "The Doctor Does Dallas Cheerleaders?" (Reference to a 1970's American porn flick).

Something I didn't really touch on--what was really bother me, about being in hospital--was that the last time I was in an actual hospital room (not the ER), I was holding mum's hand as she died...the literal worst moment of my life.

And...I just spent so many, many hours in that hospital, over the last ten years--I think the only wing mum never was housed in was the "Snuggery"--the maternity ward! And I was there, with her, every inch of the way, as she struggled with her illnesses.

So, being wheeled on a stretcher, from the ER into the same elevator I'd accompanied mum in, so very often--and for the first time, seeing hospital from mum's perspective--from a stretcher--the elevator, the ward that I had come to know so well, the sights, sounds--even the food...well, it was...well...odd. And a bit sad, too. I miss mum so very much--she really was my best friend--tho' sometimes we did get on each other's nerves and our relationship wasn't always perfect, still, we shared a lot love and pain, and enjoyed each other's company, most of the time.

And then, there was a local programme on, last night, on the hospital's tele. It was from the recent state fire cheif's convention, just held here. They read a list of names of those who died, this past year, in the line of duty...and that name included the name of my dad's friend--my family's friend of some 20 years--Menands Volunteer Fire Co. #1,Lt. Ed Scott, Ret., who was killed in the line of duty, in his capacity as a fire policeman, while repsonding to an accident scene on the local interstate highway, I-787. He was not wearing his seat belt (a stupid oversight by state lawmakers, making a wavier in the law, that --ironically---allows emergency personell to not wear seat belts. Ed was ejected from the emergency vechicle and killed instantly. As the fire chaplan read off his name, a lit candle was snuffed out, and a gleaming silver ceremonial fire bell, was rung, followed by a few seconds of silence. I cried. Ed was such a nice guy.

THE VILLAGE HALL/POLICE/AND THE NEW FIRE DEPT. BUILDING (Brick/smoked glass structure on left).

(Guess who wrote the above village motto at age 13?)

Got up and checked my other e-mail address a while ago, and someone mailed me a link to a Doctor Who Sound of Drums clip--the part where the Master is Prime minister. Well, just watched this clip where some pushy reporter is trying to convince Mrs Saxon the country is in grave danger---and it ENDED!!!

BUT... I think this "reporter" is really the ex-Harriet Jones, MP from Flydell North...PLEASE!!!! AM I RIGHT???

Oh do tell me if I'm right! I've no idea when I'll ever get to see episode 12, so now I'm just left hanging here, wondering--was it that wonderful actress from the Calendar Girls movie?

I just think that would be so cool, if it was.

And, gosh aren't these guys and gals on Dr Who, just the best cast ever?

Hi all!

Thank you so much for all the wonderful and kind comments and e-mails! You've no idea how much I appreciate this, ta. Cheers!

Well, what happened is that a person's normal blood count is between 12 and 14, I guess, and by Saturday night, my internal bleeding has caused my blood count to drop to about a 6--which I'm told is very dangerous.

So, had a couple of blood transfusions--found out I have a rare blood type--who'd'a thunk it? Learn new things everyday, ey? Had some emergency surgery early Sunday morning, spent the rest of Sunday getting more blood and being observed every hour--and here I am, home safe and sound. A bit weak and certainly tired, but glad to be back. Have to have another surgery in the future, and take lots of iron and vitamins, but I'm good as gold for now. Go back to work tomorrow night.

It hurts having to miss work--again, this gal doesn't work--no money. None. Nada. Zip. Zilch. So next week's pay cheque will be short 2 and a half day's pay. Life sucks, but hey, I'm still alive, right? Hopefully, that will count for something, even for someone like me.

The 3 cats were happy to see me--well, happy to hear their tin being opened...they don't get their treat (tinned food) twice a day, they feel like they are being starved--even tho' they have a great heaping bowl of their favourite (Purina Naturals) dry cat food and fresh water always present. I tell them, "You know, guys (and Flame), there's cats starving in China..."

Feeling a bit shaky, so going to lie down for a while. The apartment's being inspected today--pest control. Hopefully they can do something about the gnats--and bats. I guess another tenant has also had bats in his or her place, so there must be more than just the two I've had.

Well, off for a bit. Thanks again all, and take care. Playwrite27

Well, the cab company can't get here until half-past six or so. So now I wait...and pet the cats. I can't get anyone to come in to care for the cats, so I've put down tons of dry food and clean water. They'll be lonely, and so will I.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a bit scared. It's hard, being alone--especially when you're in hospital. My sister won't come, she doesn't want to make the drive in her old truck...not that I ever expected her to. She never ever visited mum in hospital--all the times she'd been in and out, over the last few years, until the few days before her death.

I can't afford this..that's all I keep thinking. We don't have free health care in the USA, you do have to pay for it--and I can't afford this! I'm scared. I just--a little bit--got back on my feet, now this=---see what I mean? It doesn't stop, the bad stuff just never lets up for a minute..it just keeps coming and coming and coming. And I do hate it. I am not only facing the medical expense, but the loss of wages, as well--I don't get sick pay--literally, very, very literally--I don't work, I don't get paid!

Mostly, I'm scared. I've been ill for a very long time, according to the ER doc. What I've got, it seems, doesn't just happen overnight. The "C" word keeps working its way into the back of my mind, and I'm really scared--I'm trying hard not to be, trying hard not to think on it...God, I miss mum. I miss...anyone. I don't want to be physically alone, anymore. But, I have no choice, do I? This is my life. This is who I am, what I am...

You know, it's sort of ironic, really. I've been alone, so often in my life--usually deliberately--I was very much the loner--not that I wasn't lonely, but...it wasn't really like this--I still had mum and dad, familiar surroundings...now, I'm in a strange city, a little apartment where I don't even know most of my neighbours...don't even know everyone in my office. Never see anyone local, that I know. It's this wide gap, between being alone by CHOICE, and just...being alone. It's hard to explain why, but...it is.

I wish there was someone here, to be with me...but I might as well be wishing for wealth or reckognition...stuff and nonsense. This is what I'm stuck with, and I'll just have to live with it.

I know there's many lovely people out there--good friends I've never met, wishing me well, and it's deeply appreciated. You've no idea how much. I know--in spirit--that I am not alone, and I am happy about that. Thank you.

I saw this on Xenon's website. I thought I'd do one more blog, for the road, as I won't be able to do this for a few days, maybe. Will I have blog withdrawl?

I'M DOING TWO IN ONE SHOT:

PART I:

Initial: N
Middle name: Beth
Birthday: 27th Ootober
Birthplace: Brady Hospital, Albany, NY USA
Current location: my rocker, in my front room of my apt. in Glens Falls, NY
Height: five feet, six inches
Hair length: short-med.
Eyes: brown
Piercings: none
Birthmarks: none

Family:

Both parents deceased.
Siblings: Yes, sister
Pets: 3 cats
pet's names: Flame, Boots and Bonnie Prince Charlie

Favourites:

City: New York City/Manhattan
Season: Autumn
Clothing brand: Meh, whatever looks nice and is affordable
Colours: Royal blue, forest green, brown, teal, purple
Number: Not something I've ever thought much about

"Do You...?"

Sing in the shower? Sometimes
Write memos on your hand? Sometimes
Call people back? Usually--unless it's a bill collector.
Believe in love? No idea, never been in love.
Sleep on a certain side of the bed? My bed's too narrow to have a "side"
Wear glasses? Always

"Have you ever..."
Gone skinny dipping? No.
Worn braces? Only the kind that attaches to a pair of jeans
Broken a bone? Several fractures, but no outright broken bones
Had stitches: Yes
Punched someone in the face? No
Skipped school? Yes a couple of times.
Taken pain killers: Yes, but only when absolutely needed, and years apart.
Gone scuba diving: No.
Been stung by a bee? Oh yes.
Thrown up in a restaurant? No, thank God.
Been to overnight camp? Yes.
Written a letter to Santa Claus: Yes.
Had detention? Yes. For eating my dessert before lunch, in 5th grade.
Been sent to the pricipals/headmaster's/dean's office? No.
Been called a bitch? I'm a telemarketer--of course I have!

"Who/what was the last..."

Person to IM you? I don't have instant messanger
Person to call you? Some Indian guy from a collections agency.
Person you hugged? One of my supervisors, because she'd had a bad day.
Person you tackled? My friend, Tommy G___, when I was 12 or 13 or so--we were playing WWII soldiers.
Thing I touched? Flame--I just petted her.
Thing I ate? A 1 dollar Whopper Jr. hamburger from Burger King, and a small order of fries (chips).
Thing you drank? I'm presently drinking a diet orange soda.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

PART II:

NOW:

"What's my current..."

Mood: mildly scared and anxious
Music (song?): The Courage to Dream, by Gary Remal Malkin
Taste: Country chav?
Clothes: pair brown used Nike hiking boots, white tube socks, dark blue St. Johns Bay brand ladies jeans, second hand gray tee with "Ridin Hy Ranch" printed on it in black and red, blue baseball cap with american flag with a running horse embroidered on it, with the words "HORSES USA." Blue wire framed eyeglasses.
Annoyance: Flame. She's crawling all over me, and it's driving me nuts!
Smell: Still smell that Whopper Jr.
Thing I should be doing: housework and packing for hospital
Windows open: Balcony
Desktop pics: Dr Who (Series 3)
Favourtie band: The Proclaimers
book: Re-reading the Walking Drum for literally approx. the 50th time
CD in stereo (or in my case, computer): Dr Who Soundtrack
Crush: Not had one in years and years
Fav. Celebrities: Derek Jacobi, David Tennant, Graham Norton, Hugh Grant, Richard Dean Anderson, Henry Winkler, James Garner

DO YOU?

Smoke: Never
Do drugs: ditto
Have a reoccuring dream? Yes.
Remember first love? Never been in love, ever.
Read the newspaper: Yes, mostly online
Have gay/lesbian friends? Yes
Believe in Miracles: Think it's possible, but not for me.
Believe it's possible to remain faithful forever? I haven't the foggiest clue, but the romantic in me would like to think so.
Consider myself to be tolerat: Yes, more than some, not as much as others, I suppose.
Like the taste of alcolhol? Not especially.
Have a favourite candy: Yes, Chunky bars and Coffee Cremes
Believe in astrology? Meh.
Believe in Magic: Don't know, never seen it.
Believe in God? Yeah, I guess I must.
Go to or plan to go, to college? 2 yr degree liberal arts. Can't finish my 4 yr degree in Communications/writing, due to lack of funds.
Have a tattoo? No, don't like them at all.
Hate yourself: frequently
Have an obsession? Yes, and its name is Doctor Who.
Have a best friend: I'm blessed with several
Wish on stars: Not since I was a kid

LOVE LIFE:
skip this--never been in love, properly snogged or shagged. "Nuff said?

LAST THING:

Bought: paid for cab fare.
Read: a blog entry
Watched on TV: Don't have television

EITHER/OR:

Beer or cider: Cider--especially if it's fresh from the orchard
drinks or shots: neither, never had hard liquor
cats or dogs: (FORGIVE ME) Dogs
Single or taken: old maid
Pen or pencil: pen
gloves or mittens: both--I like the fingerless gloves with the mitten attachment (converts gloves to mittens).
Food or candy: Food
Cassette or CD: either--CD's are niceer, but cassettes are way cheaper
Coke or Pepsi: Coke

WHAT IS...?

Your bedroom like? Rough spackled white painted walls, no door between bedroom and kitchen, just a floral curtain...door to living room (in between the kitchen and the living room), very small, two windows, a closet, a disused entry door with a decorative curtain over it, one working electrical outlet. 75 year old white wood frame single bed, matched 3 drawer dresser, small white modern night stand, antique country (as in homemade) cream colour bookcase, old bamboo chair with pale green seat. Posters, antique and modern prints, personal photos and a Tom Baker/Dr Who poster--and lots of dirty laundry.
Favourtie thing for breakfast: a McDonald's sausage McMuffin
Favourtie Restaurant: Ted's Fish Fry, Watervilet, NY
On my bedside table? Small Coloured Glass and pewter finish Tiffany hummingbird lamp, 1964 Bryer rearing palomino model horse, mum's picture, mum's favourite old music box--a bunch of cats in a bed--plays a tune unknown to me.
What do you eat late at night? Usually milk and honey-nut oats cereal
Your biggest fear? Homelessness

Do you know how to play poker? yes, five and seven card stud. I was teaching mum 7 card stud on her deathbed, to occupy her.
What do you carry on you at all times? My glasses.
What do you drive? No longer have car--but prefer a Ford Ranger
What do you miss most about being a kid? The security (of a home and family)
Are you happy with your first name? Yeah, it's okay.
Have you ever been in a play? Yes. The Dining Room.
Do the poor and homeless ever bother you? No, I've been homeless, once, for a month..am often poor, and have gone hungry in the past year.
Do you think you're a nice person? I try to be, but being human--and an American, am probably not always.

I'm off to hospital in two hours, have TONS to do--see ya' in a day or two!

Just a quick note:

I am being admitted to hospital tonight, for a blood transfusion and a series of tests. I will not be online for at least a day, possibly two. My condition is not life threatening, so I will be back.

I will not be blogging from tonight on, for at least 24 hours, possibly longer.

Thank you all for reading my blog. See you soon, cheers.

So, finished Dream Weavers last night. Not one of my better stories. I'm going to put it on The Teaspoon site, just for the hell of it. I'd like to get some feedback--good or bad. I've not written a whole story from scratch in a while--all of the previous Dr Who fan fics on here, have been re-writes of stuff written last summer/early autumn.

I've been toying with a short play, but just can't get into it. Too tired, really, and emotionally drained. Writing is pretty time consuming, sometimes. Not so much this Dr Who story, and some of the poems, but writing a play or essay, I really tend to fuss over it, and it can take days, just to write a single page of dialog or of an essay.

I mean, Doctor Who fan fiction is pretty easy to write, once I get going--it's an established character and all, so I don't have to make him or his companion(s) up from scratch. It's pretty straight-forward, really. Poems, well, sometimes I'll fuss over getting one right, but mostly, like the Dr Who stuff, I'll just sit down and just do it--which is why my poems are so gosh-awful, I suppose.

But a play--that's, to me, a huge undertaking--it's got to have some action, obviously, but it's mostly dialog and plotting--the dialog's a piece of cake, but the plot? Ugh! I totally suck at plots. I struggle like crazy with them, in a play--the ol' rising and falling action. The exposition's not so hard--but then getting the action going in the play, capturing the audience's interest--I totally rot at that. But, it doesn't stop me from trying.

It's half-past seven, and I'm up--have to work today.

I've not a clue how. Seems that stomach bug I've been fighting half the week, has won the battle. I was up half the night, sick as a dog. How the hell am I going to work, today? And...I got a notice that the apartment's being inspected on Monday, so it's gotta' be spotless. I've got to work Sunday--and sometime Sunday, also do my week's laundry. How the hell I'm going to survive this weekend is beyond me. I'm going to see if I can get Monday off--at least part of the day. After the inspectors leave, I can nap--I seriously need some sleep, as this is the third night in a row my dodgy stomach's kept me up. Sleeping pill? Ha! Lotta' good that did--except make me groggy this morning.

Well, am going to try to keep down some tea and toast. Hardly ate a thing, yesterday. Flame slept with me, half the night, looking all worried--she's my little nurse cat, always looking out for me, ha-ha, just like one of those cat-nun's in Dr Who.

Flame is getting soooo-possessive of her blanket! Last night, Charlie was sleeping on her blanket, which was on the floor by my bed. She walked by--stopped and stared at him, like she couldn't believe it. Then she jumped up on the bed and started complaining to me about it. I just ignored her. So, Flame jumps down, and sits staring at Charlie--who's oblivious to all this, being sound asleep. Next thing I know, Flame reaches out with her paw, and slaps poor Charlie upside the head--"Rowrrr!" She yells.

Poor Bonnie Prince Charlie wakes up confused, "What the???" his face says, "What you'd do that for???" I yell at Flame and she gives me a dirty look--the one's cats are so good at. Anyway, I pick Charlie up--which in itself is quite a feat, as he weighs a ton, for a cat--and put him on my bed.

Well, Flame is thrilled! She keeps looking up at my face, with just this delighted expression, and then starts beating up on her blanket--rolling around on it, bunching it up under her, and kicking the folds for all she's worth--all the while, never once taking her eyes off of me. If she could laugh, she'd have been giggling with joy. She does love her blanket. Maybe she needs a shrink?

Just noticed I'm outta' the top 20. Ah well, how fickle is fame.

Guess now that I'm back on somewhat even footing, financially--well, sort of, there's no more suspense--will she or won't she? She won't. I don't really want to, still, but I hate giving up--being stubborn is just in my nature. I'm quite obstinate, sometimes. Or am I just too stupid to give in? Dunno'.

Last chapter--finally. I'd taken a half dose of a sleeping pill--too much caffine today, I reckon...and I pray they're aren't any major continuity or grammatical errors--if there are, I'll fix 'em when I can. Playwrite27.

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers

CHAPTER 15: La-la Land

The air in front of the Tardis shimmered, and the two Hanesybyrds appeared out of the air. Martha nudged the Doctor. “How can we be sure this is the real Tardis?” He looked at the familiar blue police box that was, for all intents and purposes, his home, and smiled faintly. “Oh, I know. Trust me. I can feel it. She’s real, alright.” The creatures stood, side by side, in front of the Tardis doors. The one of the right, pointed towards the doors, indicating that the Doctor should enter. He pulled out his key and, unlocking the door, stepped inside. Martha made to follow, but found her way barred by the other alien. “Doctor?” She called out, anxiously.

So saying, he bounded over to the control panel and set the Tardis in motion once more. As the central column began to rise and fall, he draped his arm around Martha, saying, “So where do you want to go for lunch? I know this great kebab house on the planet Gelgfarb…”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The name of the aliens is derived from two sources: "Hane" means "story" in the Navajo Indian langage. "Ysbyrd" (I THINK) is Welsh for "Spirit."

AS ALWAYS, "DOCTOR WHO" IS COPYRIGHT OF THE BBC, AND NO INFRINGEMENT IS INTENDED.

No...not the "Big Apple" New York--NORTHERN New York!

Here's a nice little video, taken in our 40 million acre Adirondack State park. oh, I forgot--the last mountain shown in the video--Mount Marcy, is the state's tallest mountain, and very popular with hikers.

I've not been on top of a mountain--by foot, I mean, in 27 years. I've done it on horseback and by car, though, since that time. Oh yeah--and the pond shown at the end of the video--the one at Mount Marcy--that's the beginning of New York's great Hudson River--that pond water in the video, will one day make it all the way 200 miles--to the Atlantic Ocean--pretty neat, huh?

I'm absolutely knackered--and since I have to work, and can't sleep in, this weekend, I am off to take a nice short snooze before dinner hour--and my household chores. Cheers!

Well, thanks to someone, I've been given parole, of sorts. Cross your fingers, everyone, that I can get this cleaning job in my building. I hate cleaning, but, any port in a storm. I've had to do jobs I hate, before. No big deal.

Now I'll have two jobs I hate, ha-ha. The hours will be long, but I'll just drink a lot more coffee...

Oh. My. God. I'm turning into my parents.

No, really.

My dad loathed and detested his job for over 30 years--and m

Mum--adored her job, but...she was addicted to coffee. I mean, the woman couldn't function--literally could not start her day--without a couple cups of coffee. She preferred instant coffee with milk and artificial sweetner (SweetNLow). Even as she was dying--mum wanted a cup of coffee!

I used to be almost solely an after-dinner coffee drinker. Love a good cup of coffee after a really good meal. Or, sometimes, on a rainy night, with a cider donut or some freshly baked cookies (biscuits), or biscotti, and some soft jazz playing.

But now, I'm finding that I'm drinking coffee on and off, all day long--albeit, only a half a cup at a time--still not a big coffee lover, with the odd cup of sweet tea, now and then. Actually, the coffee's not half bad, in the office. And, I've my big ol' butch, blue tin Adirondack coffee pot, here at home. Yeah--butch Adirondack coffee--you can float a horseshoe in it, and it'll put hair on your chest, and one cup will keep you awake for a month--I make terrible coffee, sometimes...tho' I'm getting better at it. Sweet tea is easy enough--just a lemon-flavoured tea bag in some hot water with loads of sugar. Hard to ruin that. But my coffee...

So, here's where I stand: after spending literally half my lifetime, trying not to be like my parents (mostly, my dad, really)--that's exactly what I'm becoming. Bit of a shock, realizing that. I loved my early 40's--but I totally hate being 46. Feels more like 76, some days.

But...not complaining, don't want anyone to think that--things are a bit better, now, virtually overnight, and..well I know, they could be worse.

I read once, that the ancient Greek's name for the earth was "Koouos:" "Beauty."

It's true, I sorely miss the woods and fields, streams and hillsides of home. I miss life in a small town, I miss the river, the lake(s), the wildlife, the sunrises and sunsets. I'm not complaining about being forced to live in the city--I always knew deep down, someday, that might happen. And, as cities go, actually one could do worse than Glens Falls--it's pretty small, only 15,000 population--more like a big town, than a city, really. The constant noise took some getting used to--tho' it's fairly quiet, after midnight.

But even now, even here, there's still beauty. I may never leave this place, from month to month--but there's still moments, when I can sit and walk and see the life around me.

Thre's still sunsets, tho' not as easily seen. There's quite a few trees here, all kinds, especially around the old Victorian homes and mansions on Glen Street.

I can still see the seasons change, the clouds and sky, sometimes birds. There's flowers, sunshine, rain, storms. And, there's other things--never get tired of seeing the Presbyterian cathedral, tho' I find it a bit daunting--being a small town "Presby,"--still, the very grandeur of the building, as I walk by, going to and from work/downtown, never fails to seize my attention and admiration. There's also the moments when I can see people--a couple sitting talking quietly on their front steps, a little girl sketching chalk pictures on a sidewalk, a nice old man waiting for a bus, a young man fondly talking to and petting his dog, a mum or dad walking their young child to school...little things...nice snapshots of the life around me.

Beauty is everywhere in this earth--for those who choose to see it.

MY STREET

DOCTOR: "Awwww--gosh. Look, I've stepped on a butterfly." MARTHA: "Well, it's not like it's going to change the future of the world if you did..." DOCTOR: Welll--actually...Martha? Where'd she go?"

"Oh yeah, Jack! Well---erm---Mine's bigger than yours! Just ask Rose!"

"The hills are a alive---with the sound of Tardis...."

Couldn't sleep--stupid howling bassett hound next door woke me again, quarter past six in the morning. Fantastic. Anyway, to pass the time, I wrote this--pretty lame, but, then, Shakespeare--or even RTD--I ain't.---Playwrite27

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers

CHAPTER 14: Tied Game

Almost in slow motion, the Dalek’s gun arm pointed at the Doctor’s chest. Still grinning, the Doctor raised an eyebrow and snickered. Without warning, he screamed, “EXTERMINATE!” The Dalek suddenly vanished, as if it had never been. The burnt orange sky, the purple brush, the cave, the silver-leaved trees on the mountainside, all blurred and disappeared.

In answer, the Doctor and Martha suddenly found themselves outside the Tardis. Or, what Martha prayed was the real Tardis.

I enjoy phone work--well, it's pretty easy, been handling phones, from the time I was 14, until my late 20's, working the front desk at mum's library, when she was busy with other things. I've worked or been a volunteer as a receptionist, switchboard operator, museum guide/phone operator, TV station pledge driver operator, TV survey rep, trucking permit agent, and outbound verification (checking people's telephone business listings for accuracy) operator, collections agent, secretary at a car dealership and front desk clerk/appointment setter a muffler shop. Phone work? Easy-peasy. Piece of cake. But selling--life memberships to people who often either HATE their club or have only just joined and not even gotten anything from the club yet--yeah. It sucks.

Let me give you an example of my night, tonight:

"Hello, bitch, what'ya want?" Typical charming American male--and you wonder why I'm an old maid?

Then, there's the woman who laughed derisively thoughout the call--seems she thought it was great fun, as she hated her husband's guts and has been tossing away all his club magazines and mailings.

There was the typical snarky poodle wives "Yip-yip-yip! Grrrr!" The one's who wear the Y-fronts in the family, who are in control of every aspect of their husband's life, and screen all calls--and THEY decide whether he has a membership or not, and who he talks to, and how many turds he passes each day, etc...

Oh, and one woman didn't believe I was with the club, she accused me of going after her husband--at which point, I'm afraid I'd actually snorted in her ear. "Lady, I've not dated in over 10 years, and I live on the other side of the country, in a city that I've not stepped foot out of, in over six months! Trust me, I'd rather be home with my three cats right now, than ever flirt with yer' hubby." She hung up--which leaves me to wonder: was she mad at what I said? Or was she angry that I wasn't interested in her husband?

It can be real hard--especially on a long shift, to maintain your energy and stay upbeat--and not doing the script by rote, or do it in a monotone--and trust me, after five or six or eight hours steady of this, there is a big risk of your reading of the script to become zombie-like.

And sometimes, as with bitch man--followed by laughing wive--that sometimes you just have to go on break and walk away--get a coffee, go to the loo, or just stand up and stretch a little. You have to walk away a few minutes, or you start to get blunt and unfriendly--very, very bad...to sell you have to always stay upbeat, positive, friendly, open, etc... and it's hard--the longer you work, the harder it gets--especially when you've got people screaming at you, slamming phones in your ear, snarky wives that demand to know what you're calling their hubby for...oh, and the men whom, it seems, when they were born, had their personalities yanked out of them, through their arseholes (pardon the launguage).

It's seems there's a plethora of David Tennant fangirls hanging about this blog, so I decided to thank you for reading my naf ol' blog by showing this (she cringes) David Tennant music video. I made sure I watched this well before dinner hour.

Here's a scene from the grand opening of America's first Tesco store. American shoppers mobbed the store and state police, the National Guard, two sheep dogs and a farmer named hank, had to be called in for crowd control .

Funny how some good and unexpected news can change your outlook--if only a little.

I just got a nice surprise today, from a friend--you know who you are, and I will e-mail you after work, as my lunch break is nearly done, I've got to change my freshen up, change back into my work attire (I take it off so I don't get cat hair or food stains on it), and walk back to work in 20 minutes, for the rest of my shift.

No days off this week, but I'm only working from 11 to 2.30 tomorrow, five hours Saturday and 3 and a half on Sunday, so not so bad--well, until Monday, when I get to start the four 9 hour shifts again.

Well, I'll make the rent, and be able to cover at least part of the overdraft in the bank, and maybe, if I'm careful with the groceries/shopping, pay the phone/internet bill. I'm removing phone service, as of July--can't have both, no way, even with two jobs, I really need that extra 35 dollars a month, and I use the internet a whole lot more than the phone--tho' it means having to walk 4 blocks to ring a cab, if I need one--and no phone access at all, after 11pm at night. (Nearest pay phone after 11pm, in the city, is 7 blocks away, at the bus station near the hospital).

Anyway, I wasn't asking for help--but it was given anyway, and that is so amazing, to me. I'm astounded--gobsmacked, even.

Maybe this will give me some breathing room to recoup, mentally and physically, and maybe--big maybe--I can get that second job as a cleaner Time-Warner gave me a pass as a Cust. Svce. Rep--unless I wanted to work in their Albany area office--over 50 miles away. Not a bad commute in a car, but way too impractical and expensive by bus. Just not feasible.

I heard something amusing, today. Was speaking to this woman in Texas (Wow, a nice Texan lady, who'd'a thunk it? Trust me, that doesn't happen often! Those Texas gals are meaner than Satan himself.)

Anyway, I commented on the fact that this woman's street had an unusual name. She lived on "My Street." Well, as she told me, there was this elderly guy--who had the street named after his last name--some Eastern European name. So anyway, seems this guy was continually ringing up the town's mayor, yelling, "When you gonna' fix MY street?!?" So, when the old guy finally died, the town got the idea to rename the street, "My street." I thought that was a cute story.

NOW THAT'S MY IDEA OF A STRETCH LIMO!

You know, some days I'd just like to find a hole and crawl in and never come out again. Today is one of those days.

Besides not feeling well--yours truly now has a stomach bug to contend with--today, something happened at work, that's made me feel very sad for myself--like I'm complete and utter rubbish. I was talking on the phone with this woman in Pennslyvania, and it seems that her uncle is a famous local character---an elderly performer from the local amusement park who, as it happens, was one of my childhood heroes. This guy is "Marshall Windy Bill Mackay"--aka: Danny MacKay. He's been the "marshall" of the amusement park's "Ghost Town"---the western themed section of the park--for over 40 years. I loved him, as a kid! I love him still--he's a lovely, caring, totally accessable person. We used to go to "Storytown" (Now Six Flags/Great Escape) every single summer--sometimes several times--throughout my childhood--I even have a slide, somewhere, of him hugging me, as I helped him catch the "outlaws" one time.

Well, 'fraid I got a bit excited, talking to this woman, who was "Wild Bill's" niece--and blurted out the fact to my cubicle mates--only to get a bunch of snickers and eye rolls in return. I felt like an idiot! And to make things worse, in the bathroom, later, I heard one girl ask another girl, if I was slightly mentally retarded. I just wanted to die--right then in there. I mean, if someone had bombed the building right then, I would have died quite happily. I feel like such a jerk! And, I suppose, maybe I am. I'm tired of feeling like dirt around people.

I miss the woods. I miss them so much. In the woods, I could just be myself, and no body would care or judge me, or make fun of me. I have had people make fun of me so much in my life--I...I don't know. People suck. Life sucks. Then, you die.

Another short breakfast time chapter. Here's something weird. I just made up the gamma wave thing off the top of my head--but when I researched it--it REALLY WAS connected to the brain perception thing. I either am just lucky, or clairvoyant, or I subconciously remembered some obscure fact from college that I'd long since forgotten. Weird.

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers, by Playwrite27

CHAPTER 13: The Oncoming Storm

Lingering a second longer, the Doctor sucked in his breath, and then ran. Meanwhile, Martha roamed about the dank concrete room, thinking about what the Doctor told her. “Gamma waves,” she said to herself, “what do I know about gamma waves? Anything?”

A blue eye-stalk slowly rose over the top of the boulders, followed by the gold domed body, the waving sucker arm and ray gun. The Dalek faced the Doctor for a moment, silently regarding its ultimate enemy, almost with a sense of triumph--if Daleks could gloat, this one certainly seemed to be. “Doc-tor!” It shouted in it’s grating robotic voice, “The Oncoming Storm! Ancient enemy of the Dalek race!” You will be exterminated! Exterminate! Exterminate!” The Doctor looked the Dalek in the eye--and merely smiled.

I'm not sure anyone's even noticed, but I've been trying to--not altogether successfully--but trying very studiously, to avoid going into my true situation, on here.

Well, I've been encouraged by two very good friends, not to shut myself out from that, if it helps--and, in a small way, it does indeed. However, I don't like to make people sad, or upset them unduly. There's enough of that in this world, without me adding to it.

So, for a few sentences, I'm going to discuss my true situation. Please, I mean this, PLEASE, do not read any further if you are turned off or upset by depressing posts.

Essentially, I feel..numb. Many of the things that interested me in my life, no longer hold much attraction: reading, cooking, walking, visiting museums...some forms of writing, like plays and essays, I just don't give a damn about, all the sudden. Even watching Doctor Who--which I adore doing, even that seems stale and old, of late.

I'm overwhelmed--bank overdrafts, huge forms to fill out for Social Security, more threatening notices from my student lenders...and forms to fill out from them, job applications, the apartment is a shambles...rent is due today--unpaid, cable/phone bill isn't paid, Natl. Grid is unapid. I'm working my arse off, and getting treated like rubbish by total strangers all day long, my apartment is suddenly overwhelmed with biting gnats--coming in through a tiny hole in the screen I'd not seen before. I have no one in my life--very little conversation at work--virtually no conversation at home--unless it's talking to my cats, or "thinking out loud"--a long-standing bad habit I've got.

Every time I solve one serious issue--another just crops up again--over and over, virtually non-stop for the past 20 MONTHS!

I don't think I'm suicidal, but, on the other hand, I really don't care much, what the hell happens to me, any longer. I mean, it's not like I'm leaving much behind--not much family, my sister and I love each other, certainly, but really, we're almost--and have been-estranged...tho' since mum's death, we're a bit closer, that's not saying much, trust me. My sister shut mum and I out of her life, decades ago. It was her decision, not ours, and she's pretty much stuck to in, until the week mum died.

But, I've no guy, no kids, just the cats, and several good friends that I've literally never even met. I no longer have any hobbies, or a future careerwise. I walk to work, I come home, once a week I get groceries, once every 2 weeks I do laundry at the laundromat. With the limp, walking is no longer a pleasure, but a tedious and tiring proposition. My recent illness has left me run down and easily exhausted, and I do believe I'm suffering from depression, but there's naught to do about it--because even if I could get some, I couldn't afford any meds right now. I need desperately to see a dentist, but the overdraft at the bank pretty much killed that prospect.

I've a week and a half to go--I will decide whether to continue on my present course, or just sink into the despair life seems determined to drag me into, and just quit. Leave all behind, walk away, quit my job, and become a street person--no joke. I'm that dead-bone tired of life. I could literally be run down by a bus, and that would be a blessing.

Told you this was a depressing post.

REQUEST BY BLOG OWNER:

Please don't leave comments--well meaning that they are, and, appreciated. It's hard to explain to someone who isn't depressed, but they might only make me feel sadder, right now. Later, okay--but please, not now. Thanks. I love my blog friends, honest I do.

"Come on Freema, hurry up, I really gotta' go! Oh wait, this is the Tardis! Sorry, I thought it was the Porta-loo."

"I'm a man! I like my women with really big..."

"Oh yeah, I'm an actor, I love doing things orally."

Anyone out there in my boat? (Food budget shrinking, food prices rising?)

Here's a few really cheap recipes and meal ideas--they are American recipes, and I'm not sure the UK will have some of these products.

REALLY CHEAP TUNA CASSEROLE

1 cheap box of macaroni and cheese mix (35 to 60 cents)
1 50 cent can chunk light tuna in water, drained
1 small can peas, drained
1 Tablespoon onion power OR 1/2 have cup finely chopped onion, cooked in butter until soft.

Prepare macaroni and cheese according to directions on box. (Penny-pinching tip: If you don't have milk--just add lots more margarine)
After preparing macaroni and cheese, stir in remaining ingredients, blending well. Simmer over very low heat for 2 to 5 minutes, to warm tuna and peas.
Serves 1 to 2. NOTE: If money isn't too tight, you can snaz up the recipe a bit, by also stirring in 1/4 cup of sour cream. If you have more money, you can always substitute a drained can of tiny shrimp, in place of the tuna, and use a better quality macaroni mix.

Cheap Rice Hot Dish

1 box flavoured rice mix (Zatarain's creole style mixes, Rice-A-Roni beef, spainish rice or broccoli au gratin flavoured mix, Uncle Ben's cheese or long grain and wild rice flavoured mixes)
5 to 6 hot dogs, sliced into 1/4 inch pieces, or, 1/2 package smoked or Polish sausage, sliced, or, two tins vienna sausages, sliced (--or, really any type of link sausage will do, except for very spicy Spanish or Italian sausages.)
1 small can, whole kernel corn, drained.

Prepare rice according to package directions. When rice mixture begins to just boil, stir in hot dogs and corn. Continue following cooking directions on box. Serves 1 to 3.

Mock Shepherd's Pie

1 refrigerated pie crust (or you can make your own, if you're so inclined)
1 large (approx. 30 ounce) can Castleberry's or other brand, beef stew--or, two regular size cans.
1 packet butter-herb or other flavour, instant mashed potatoes.
1/2 Tablespoon onion powder or onion salt (optional)

Line a pie plate or shallow baking dish with crust (If package contains two crusts, freeze the other one to use at a later date). Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees (moderate oven temperature). Empty tin(s) of stew into crust. Meanwhile, prepare mashed potatoes according to package directions. If desired, sprinkle stew with onion powder. Top with an even layer of mashed potatoes. Bake for 30 minutes, or until crust browns. Serves 1 to 4.

Tex-Mex Rice Casserole

1 half small box, instant rice
1 can Campbell's or generic brand Chunky Sirloin Burger, or chunky Beef Veg. Soup, or, 1 can, Chefboyardee Beef-a-roni
1/2 to 1 Tablespoon (according to taste) chili powder
1/2 Tablespoon onion powder
2 teaspoons garlic powder.
1 cup canned diced tomatoes, drained, or, one cup your favourite salsa (optional)
1/2 cup cheddar cheese, shredded (optional)

In a bowl, blend together all ingredients--EXCEPT cheese. Turn into a greased casserole dish. If desired, top with cheese. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes. Serves 1 to 4.

They ain't gourmet, by any stretch of the imagination--but, they're..edible.

Author's note: Just another short chapter that I dashed off while eating lunch.

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers, by Playwrite27

CHAPTER 12: There's No Place Like Home

The Doctor also found himself alone--but in an all too familiar place. A place he never expected to see again, in all his remaining lifetimes. He closed his eyes, tight, clenching his fists, his face etched with deep-seated emotional pain. Raising his face to the burnt orange sky he screamed, “No! No! I won’t have it! Do you hear me? I won’t! I deny this reality!” But when he opened his eyes, it was still there.

Breathing heavily, he stood there, alone on the sandy hillside, waiting an answer. It came in the form of a bright flash. A small boulder on the slope, just behind him, burst into a million fragments. The Doctor’s eyes widened, filled with fear. Hovering, slowly making its way over a nearby hill was his most dreaded enemy: a Dalek.

Long day for me--working nine hour shift with a two-hour break, part of which I have to spend going to the pharmacy for something, so my lunch hour is cut way short, today. Time to thaw some more leftovers in the fridge for a quick re-heat. Still have a couple of leftover Dominos pizza slices in there.

I'm in the process of re-shelving some books, as one of the cats has knocked them off their shelves. Got most of them put back, but have to dash off to work, so the last couple will just have to stay on the living room floor.

Charlie is stretched out in the living room--using a book on the floor as his pillow--he's got good taste, my Bonnie Prince Charlie--he's using Marlowe's Shakespeare!

"CHARLIE"

I'll never be a great horsewoman--not coordinated enough, and, well...I'm slightly afraid of horses--love 'em to death, and it never stopped me from working with/riding them, but...is a bit of a handicap, I'm afraid.

Haven't been on a horse in nearly 3 years, but, when I was a teen, I used to take lessons and go for trail rides all the time. I even went to college (albeit, unsuccessfully) for western horsemanship, to become a riding instructor/stable manager.

My ultimate goal, as a rider, was to learn wesstern reining....that's sort of like dressage (ballet) for ranch horses. Reining comes from working with cattle. Horses had to be able--on a reasonably loose rein, to stop and turn on a dime, to follow the vagaries of the sometimes stubborn cattle they were herding.

Reining classes ask riders to do lead changes (change which sides, while loping/cantering, the horse leads his legs off with--depending on which direction it's going, a horse will lead with his left or his right)--so you have to do what's known as "flying lead changes"--means using alternating leg, body and rein pressure to get the horse to quickly and smoothly change back and forth).

Then, there's the sliding stop---running pell-mell in a straight line, and smoothly sliding to a stop at an exact point--all on a loose rein--no yanking back on the rein, it's done with body movement, mostly.

Then there's the ultimate move--the spin. A horse--again, on a loose rein---must stay in one spot and do a 360 degree spin, very rapidly. This was developed to keep a cow that needed to be isolated from the herd from escaping, but now is mostly done purely for show. It's hard to learn--doing it right, but it's great fun, and very thrilling--sort of like being on a living amusement park ride, that you control.

Here's a great video, showing the "spin:"

The horsemen and women in the video, are some of the best reiners in the entire world. This was filmed at the National Reining Horse Futurity.

Watched a clip tonight, of the end of the Utopia episode--holy smokes!

Whatever will the Doctor do now???

Well...I'm guessing he's going to find a way--probably with the sonic screwdriver--to get Jack's time ring working again...and get them back to Cardiff.

I mean, where else does one go, when they have an entire universe to roam around it? Cardiff, of course--the alien version of Ellis Island, sans the really tall lady in the toga, holding a torch and giving off a hundred plus year old case of B.O.

At least, that's what I think will happen...

"If I hold my sonic like so, I get a really good buzz off of it--care for a toke?"

Just a short chapter I shot off, before bedtime.

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers, by "Playwrite27" (aka: "Dusty Bootes")

CHAPTER 11: Here and Gone

Heaving a sigh, Martha sat down on the wooden bench. “No place like home!” She looked at the Doctor, who stood, hands in pockets, staring at a damp spot on the wall. “You know,” he said, “they’ve one heck of a bad case of rising damp in here--they need to get a man in.” He walked over and sat down beside her. Martha looked up at the gray ceiling. “So, Doctor, what do you reckon? How are we going to get back to the Tardis, when we can’t even get out of this dungeon or cellar, or wherever we are?”

Martha shook her head. “I still don’t understand what they want with us. Why they’re going to the trouble, messing with our heads, and all.” Just then, the bright white light flooded the centre of the room again. The Doctor Sighed, “Well, I suppose I could just ask them.” The two Hanesybyrds shimmered into existence. The Doctor strode up to them. “I think it’s time the three of us had a little chat, don’t you? How ‘bout a spot of tea, eh, and we can all sit down and discuss this like civilized adults.” In answer, the Doctor disappeared. Martha sucked in her breath. “Doctor!” She watched warily, as the two odd bird-like creatures eyed her coldly. Then they too, shimmered, and disappeared, leaving Martha alone. “Wait!” She yelled, leaping up from the bench and running to the middle of the room. But it was too late, she was alone again. Sitting back down, she looked at the bland cement floor. "Guess I'm not invited to tea, then."

In a nutshell, Life is the footballer, I am the cat.

I'm sitting here, looking around at my possessions, trying to decide what to do. What to sell, what to keep...if I go out on the streets, I won't be able to take much with me. Can't afford storage, and even if i could, I can't afford a rental truck to take it there.

I've my horse and cat figurines, several small horse-related antiques, some odd bits and ends of old and new knick-knacks, my books, a couple of naff paintings, some old and new prints and posters, and decorative plates, my books, a few fake plants/flowers, some lamps, a little furniture--mostly used...not a heck of a lot else. I'd probably give sis my computer and maybe the TV/VCR that I am not using at all, at the moment.

While I have a handful of antiques, they're not worth much--all in all, I'd be surprised if the whole lot fetched more than 100 or 200 dollars (50 to 100 pounds, roughly), if sold in a moving sale here in the apartment...tho' if I took them to a country auction, they'd likely bring even less...sans commission.

Nope, Sotherby's wouldn't want my stuff, that's for sure.

I'm giving myself a week or two--try to get my head straight--but it, quite frankly...my whole situation, has gotten so untenable...I don't know...I'm worn out with living...it's hard to describe, to someone who's not been there--even if I fix this latest couple of problems--what will be next? For the last year and a half, there HAS always been a "next." And I'm just plain worn out, spiritually, physically and financially.

But...two weeks...I'm in a wait and see mode.

So, gotta' leave for work, soon. I'm making dinner now, and will stick it in the fridge to re-heat when I get home. Not sure fries (chips) and a burger will re-heat well in the microwave, but mentally, I'm so stressed and tired right now, and physically run down, that when I get home after ten at night, I'm frequently too tired to bother eating any dinner. This way, I won't have an excuse that I don't feel like messing about in the kitchen, all I'll need to do is nuke it in the ol' microwave for a few minutes.

The vines are gone from the front window--and is it ever hot in here! You'd not believe how those green things covering the front windows had kept the heat out of here. There's some really bad storms coming in--just in time for my little ten-minute stroll to work, tra-la. And me without an umbrella..ah well, such is life. Heaven knows I've been wet and cold more times than I can remember...it's not so bad, in fact, in this heat, it'll probably be quite refreshing.

I'm getting pretty good at walking though--well, it's really more of a fast limp...I'll probably never walk at my old rate of speed, but I've shaved five minutes off my journey, just in the last two weeks, so the foot is healing a little--or maybe I'm just getting really good at limping?

Whovian's unite: Sign the petition asking DT to stay on as 10:

http://www.petitiononline.com/837860/petition.html
___________________________________________
I was surfing for more info on Dr Who and Last of the Timelords, when for some reason, Google included the following piece in the search:

"Tennant's co-star Bille Piper has caused a stir by revealing she has nicknamed him "David Ten-Inch'.

But although Billie, who plays the Time Lord's companion Rose Tyler in the hit sci-fi series, knows the revelation will cause a stir, she is refusing to reveal whether or not she has actually seen his manhood."

His "MANHOOD?" Now, you could take that last sentence one of two ways, I'm thinking. The obvious of course, is that it's a reference to his little ol' do-hickey.

But then, one wonders, well..he does behave a little..light in the toes, sometimes...or am I the only one who thinks that? I mean, he was voted sexiest guy by some big gay oriented magazine. Maybe the guy's door swings both ways?

Now, unfortunately, I've seen pics of Tennant nude--which I've posted on this site by special request--not because I like cheap titalation--, a month or so ago--albeit, the full frontal one was at a distance, and he was running--or was he skipping? But...it looks more like a half-footer, to me...

"I think if I concentrate long enough, I CAN make it bigger!"

OKAY PEOPLE--chill out! This was just a j-o-k-e, really. I think the man's a fab actor--not as good as Derek Jacobi, but...a close second. His sexuality though, honestly, doesn't really factor into it, much---hey, I really AM an old maid--I ain't dead, I do look, but...not a big deal to me. I get just as much pleasure from watching a sunset or pitching horseshoes, trust me.

To be truthful, I'm not a huge fan of rap, never have been, never will be. But this clip was...erm...different.

A co-worker likes to take her boat out on Lake George. I don't know how she can afford it--not doing our job, but her husband works for the phone company, so they probably can. But with the high cost of petrol, the fact that most of these motor boats get about 5 miles to the gallon, and the 30 dollar fee they pay the marina, just to put the boat in the water...don't imagine they drive the thing very far.

In fact, I hear a lot of local boaters saying that much of the time, they just pilot out to a nice spot, drop anchor and sit and drink beer and chat the whole time--because they can't afford to motor about! And the whole point of buying a 5,000 to 30,000 dollar (2500 to 15,000 pound) motor boat is.....?

Lake George is a major local resort. Unlike nearby Saratoga Springs--which for over 150 years has been the playground of the wealthy types, Lake George is almost strictly blue collar (chav) and middle class---EXCEPT, if you live on the lakeside. THEN--mostly anyway, you are definitely rich--even filthy rich, in certain areas. Doctors, lawyers, CEO's, Wall Street stock brokers, politicians, business owners, celebrities, old money, new money.

Well, with all these people, there's a lot of boats on Lake George, come summer. A LOT of boats. From row boats and kayaks, to big motor boats and cruise boats, and some modest sized sail boats and small yachts, as well. However, it seems, this year, some guy brought in his yacht--his OCEAN GOING yacht. I mean, apparently, the thing's a monster! And...

...this rich guy's the laughingstock of the locals. I mean, Lake George is big, 32 miles long--but... not that big. The thing might work on Lake Champlain--which connects to the St. Lawerence Seaway--but, Lake George??? The thing looks hopelessly out of place here.

Seems some guy has a very big ego--and boat...and a very small..erm...dock?

PHOTO OF AN OCEAN-GOING YACHT

I had my hours switched, this morning, last minute. Now I'm to work tonight, and make up my day hours on Saturday--oh that's nice. No days off for me again, until Friday next week. Fan-friggin'-tastic.

But...I did manage to go back to bed for a couple of hours, after the call...until the boys stereo woke me, that is. They're really not bad guys, I don't think--just..well, kids.

"NORMAL" SIZE SAILBOAT, TAKEN LAST SUMMER, ON LAKE GEORGE

Yes, I'm still down and out.

Got more good news yesterday--now my other student lender is suing me to garnish my wages--and, the Social Security people are threatening to reduce my medical benefits.

The landlord is removing the vines from my windows--damn. I've found they help keep the sunlight out--and it's much cooler in here, because of them--and, I don't get the sun in my face while I'm sitting her--and it gives me privacy...still can't afford curtain for these big windows, no way. I had to buy fabric rmenants for the bedroom windows--and they were expensive, even then! The cost of curtains is huge! I can buy a quilt set or four pairs of jeans or a week's and a half's or two week's groceries, just for cheap curtains, for pity's sake.

I'm going to be late for work, so I'll probably have to work longer on Friday--normally my day off, when I work four 9 hour shifts and Part-time on Sunday. Last week, was the first time I'd had two days off--well, three, because I was ill Sunday, in well over a month. Back to one day off, this week. I'm so tired--I'm sick of being exhausted. I'd give an arm and a leg and part of the other arm, just to be able to go somewhere peaceful and quiet and just sleep for a whole day. Ah, not gonna' happen.

I realized, last night, that I'm not going to ever have a vacation again, probably. Not a proper one, at any rate. I've not had a holiday since winter of '04. But then, I've only had five real holidays in my entire life, so not missing much. I don't count Wyoming at 19--sure, I was in a national park, surrounded by natural wonders, wild animals and tourists--but, I was also usually working from 9 or 10 in the morning, till 9 or 10 at night, slaving over a room-size dishwasher, or taking out rubbish, cleaning loos, serving luke warm burgers to Japanese tourists or busing tables--oh, I still managed to have fun, but it was also hard, dirty work, most days. So, not really a holiday, in the true sense.

In my teens, my parents took me to Vermont, for an overnight trip. (my family's only one)

In my early 20's, I spent the weekend at a dude ranch here in the Adirondacks, and, a few years later, mum and I went on a weekend holiday at a small resort near Lake George.

In 2001, I had the overseas college seminar in the Netherlands, with an overnight side trip to Iceland..and then there was the good/bad college study trip to Egypt, in 2004. That's it. That's the sum total of all the "holidays" that I've had, in my lifetime. Not counting day trips, of course. Day trips I've had plenty of, over the years.

OLD FAITHFUL'S (Yellowstone Natl. Park) EMPLYOEE PUB--A LOT SNAZZIER LOOKING THEN WHEN I WORKED THERE, IN 1980! (It was just a little shed, back then.)

"OWWWW! My zipper's caught!"

"What, Jack? Erm---you want to shag me 'till the cows come home? Erm--that's, erm..nice."

"Em--sorry, that was me. Blame it on the curry I had for lunch."

Well, the little bast--nice boys upstairs had me up well past 2am, yelling, banging furniture--at one point hammering or something, playing the flippin' stereo. So now I have the joy of telemarketing, trying to sell stuff to hundreds of rude, daft Americans, with all of about 4 hours sleep--and a sore jaw. Gah! Can't wait to see a dentist--just rip 'em all out, for pity's sake, I don't care anymore. I feel, again, like someone's smashed me in the side of the face--and now I have to talk out of that same face for 9 hours today. Ah well, I love a challenge.

Checked my e-mails. Someone sent me a pic of David Tennant. What the...? Personally, I'd rather have a picture of a Friesian horse or a nice landscape scene or maybe a Vermeer or something. Well, to each his or her own. I know a lot of you ladies out there adore the man. I have no idea why I don't find the man sexually attractive, but then, I'm an old maid so...who cares?

Amazing how the guy lets himself go, when he's not filming. He'd fit right in, here in the Adirondacks. Heck, I can just picture him coming out of one of the dives (bars) down the way, on South Street (where all the chav bars are, in Glens Falls). Well, you be the judge--do you think he looks like a typical Adirondacker?

DAVID TENNANT

YOUR TYPICAL ADIRONDACK MOUNTAIN GUY

I didn't make a single sale, yesterday. Probably will have my hours cut, again. Maybe be I should go back to cleaning loos, for a living. I totally suck at selling--and the things I'm actually good at--surveys and college pledge drives---the company refuses to train me for. Maybe that's all I'm really good for, cleaning loos and vacuuming and tossing out full bin bags...I don't know, anymore. Maybe living on the streets will suit me. I'm not sure it even matters, any longer, what I do, or where I go. So what?

A hot sunny day has once again turned into a soft summer's night.

I love summer nights, when it's not too humid, when there's a breeze.

The sound of the leaves in the intermittent wind, stirring the soul with their caressing rhythm. Like waves gently, relentlessly, subtly, beating against the sandy shore. The sibilate sighing of the leaves, the gentle murmuring of life itself. Growing, moving, thriving.

The crickets are a a joyous chorus, acting as a counterpoint to the wind; delighted, lively, spirited music.

In the night, the tangle of human activity slows, voices become muted--except in exuberance
or anger--when these things become amplified by the stillness, seeming as out of place as an otter in a public swimming pool.

The summer night is for peace and temperance. It's for listening, reflecting and feeling content in the moment.

Sip your tea or coffee or wine, put on some soft jazz or Chopin or Carol King, or..something mellow. Or simply sit in the quiet softness, and listen to the night symphony.

Someone wrote me recently, suggesting that if I love Dr Who so much, I should write them in Wales and tell them about it.

I'm really not much into the fan letter thing, any longer. I sort of outgrew that quite a few years ago. Besides, what could I add that probably millions of other viewers haven't already said?

I mean, it's true--maybe not in the literal sense, but Doctor Who did save my life, last year...or at least, some fellow anoraks did.

And, Who has been a genuine blessing--giving me something to look forward to, ofttimes my sole entertainment, helping to keep my spirits up and giving me something to be glad about.

But...I'm sure theres a lot of people out there, who've said that. I don't even live in the UK.

I think Tennant's brilliant, Ms. Agyeman is splendid, and of course, Mr Davies is such a superb writer...I'm almost jealous, ha-ha. I'll never in my life, be able to write like that--he's got one heckuva fantastic imagination.

Well, I can't see where putting my two pennies worth in, will matter at all. I think Series 3 is amazingly well acted, written and realized, and is just heart-stoppingly wonderful. But, from what I hear, a lot of people feel exactly the same.

So, much as I'd like to spend the 6 or 7 dollars in cab fare to go to the post office for an airmail stamp...think I'll just leave it go.

Doctor Who is a treasure--as are those who make the show happen. I know that, the world knows that. And that's good enough for me. Russell T. Davies, the other producers, crew, Tennant and Agyeman, they won't care one whit if I write or not. I know how I feel, and some of my internet friends know how I feel, and that's perfectly okay with me.

So, I'm back off to work, lunch break is over. I was going to walk to the bank, but I forgot they close early Mon-Wed. I'm a bit tired, anyhow. My heart is beating hard and I'm wheezing. After being laid up half the winter from the two falls, I'm in sorry shape, I'm afraid. Last year, I thought nothing of walking several miles--often with laundry bags or 30 pounds of groceries, much of it uphill--now, four short and level blocks and I'm winded. That's sad.

Prayer When Your Are Depressed
By: Dr. Walter L. Weston

Help me to smile and laugh, even if just for a moment. Be my strength and salvation. I ask you to restore me and make me whole. Fill me with the Word and the Spirit that I might be recreated anew. I praise and thank you. Amen.

I tried the dating service scene, back in my late-20's, and later in my mid-30's. Not one of my better ideas, but hey, at least I got a few free dinners and movies out of it--well, from the guys who weren't cheapskates, at any rate. It's not that I'm against going dutch on a date, or anything like that, but you know, a guy takes the time to respond to your advert, you kind of would like him to at least buy you some popcorn, ey?

Actually, I even had a guy bring me flowers, once, which was pretty cool. Only time in my entire life, anyone ever did that. I was about 27 or 28, I think. He was a nice guy, bit dull, conversationally--his main topics of conversation being beer, his collection of antique beer trays, and how rich and successful he was. He owned a beer distributorship, as I recall. Oh, and on our third--and last--date, he decided that he really wanted to talk about his long-time girlfriend--the one he was seeing, at the same time he was seeing me. The movie was incredibly boring, but I think I would have preferred it, over having to listen to this guy sing the praises of his love life for two hours in a compact car (we were at a drive-in movie).

I thought about computer dating, but my last "date" I met through the internet, and...not worth talking about. It was my last date--10 years ago. 'Nuff said?

But, I've looked at some of the websites, sure. Purely out of curiosity, of course.

Some of these guys have got really...well, the name choice sometimes leaves little to the imagination, and much to be desired.

"Studmeister."

"Handjobjoey"

I am not sure I want to know, what type of woman would even respond to guys with handles like this.

There is no way on God's green earth, you will ever get me to computer date!

Worn Down to a Nubbin'

A Poem by Playwrite27

A Chain,
Massive black links,
Mouldy, rusty Anchor
Gouging furrows in life's deep sands
That's me.

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AUTHORS NOTE: Since I was up earlier than planned, I decided to dash off a chapter during breakfast.

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers

CHAPTER 10: Moggy One, Colonel Nil

The colonel raised his broadsword and it swept down towards the Doctor’s head, but the Doctor blocked the thrust with the solid hickory handle of his tomahawk. The blade slid off and the Doctor quickly backed away. The colonel followed him, thrusting with the blade, towards the Doctor’s mid-section. Once again, the Doctor managed to deflect the blow, this time with the iron head of the hatchet. “You fight well, spy. It’s too bad I have to kill you.” The colonel snarled. “Well, nobody’s perfect.” The Doctor panted, as he ducked to avoid another thrust of the blade--but only barely made it. Suddenly, he found himself backed into the far corner of the room, with no room to maneuver.

Quickly snatching it up, the Doctor held the blade to the colonel’s throat. He looked over his shoulder at Martha, with a grin. “Thanks for that, Martha.” Suddenly, the colonel blurred, became one of the Hanesybyrds. And just as quickly, The Doctor and Martha found themselves back in the dismal concrete cell, wearing their normal clothes again.

"There's a big spacefly on my nose."

"Jack? Is that your pistol in your pocket, or are you just really glad to see me?"

"Just one more story before bedtime, please?"

As always, DR WHO is copyright of the BBC.

Well, I's quarter past seven and I'm wide awake. The basset hound next door began his howling thing at half past six, this morning. If I had a gun, I'd shoot 'im---the owner, not the dog. I love animals. Drunken neighbours..eh, not so much.

I got up, went to use the loo--was stumbling through the kitchen, in my night shirt, realized that my knickers were hanging halfway down my arse. So, I managed to moon the next door neighbours, whose kitchen windows face mine. Hope they weren't eating breakfast.

Technically, I don't have to be up until half past seven, so I guess you could say I was just a weensy bit irate--especially since my sore jaw kept waking me half the night. I thought, last night--"Oh, what the heck, I'll re-set my alarm, sleep in 'till 8. I don't have to leave for work until just past 9.30, so I could sleep that late with no difficulties. Well, maybe tomorrow, ey? I wear earplugs, good to 32 decibels--since the "nice boys" upstairs insisted on plunking their big old stereo down, literally right over my bed, I've no choice. But, the guys who tested these ear plugs obviously didn't do so with a full-throated howling basset in the room with them.

So, I haven't really been taking notes on my latest story, or thinking very hard about it...just blowing it off and having fun and not giving a damn if the plot makes sense or not, or if my grammar is perfect or whatnot.

But, that said, here I am, about to trundle off to bed for the night--when I get a couple of ideas for the next chapter...so, I grabbed a pen from my pen holder and scribbled a few notes, one scene--well, I can't tell you and spoil it--personally speaking, I'm not overly fond of spoilers, really. But I got this great line in my head, for the Doctor--just a short one, and it may not fly, on paper, but--I don't know, it's just a tiny little scene, but I hope it works out the way it should. And I've got the fight plotted out, sort of --thank you Louis La'Mour...as well as...well, you'll just have to wait, won't you?

Off to bed. I won't be online much,tomorrow. I will be away from home from about 20 minutes to ten in the morning until half past ten at night...and I'll be knackered after that--so afraid you'll have to probably wait a day or two for the next chapter, maybe.

Argghh! One more reason to hate living in America! I can't get Doctor Who!!!

I was sent this clip to watch. My goodness, I am positively antsy to be seeing this episode! I feel like when I was a kid, on riding day--couldn't wait to get out there in the ring on the horse--but no, I had to go shopping with mum first, that morning. Arggh!! Yes, I'm being a spoiled tyke and stomping my feet, ha-ha. I want it!!!

I've been asked, several times of late, why I bill myself "a genuine old maid." Well..I am, aren't I? No shame in that. It's merely the simple truth--never been shagged or snogged, haven't dated in over a decade, and never even had dated the same guy more than three of four times. My mum was a librarian--I literally grew up, from my early teens on, hanging out in a library. I live completely alone, I don't go to bars--or anywhere really, but the laundromat and the grocery store--and, lately, to the ER, ha-ha. And, I have three cats.

Let's face it, yup. I'm 46 and I'm an old maid.

I mean there's several reasons for this. Some good reason, some kinda lame, and one reason that's quite grim that won't be discussed on a public blog.

I am the type of woman that just doesn't get asked out--ever. Or, by some chance I do, it's nearly always been for one reason--they think I'm desperate for a shag. I speak from experience and not supposition.

Back in the late 1980's, I once bumped into a state trooper (policeman) a couple of times (once for a fender-bender, and once when my Dodge truck caught fire--long story). I was just being polite and nice to the guy--didn't think anything of it, it's just the way I am, naturally. This was only twice, mind. Next thing I know, the guy drives up to my house in his state police car. Gave me a turn, that did. I thought, "Now what?" He gets out of the car, says "Hi, I was in the area" (That raised an eyebrow--at the time, I lived on a little back street in an enormous caravan park).

I said hello, how are you? Like any one would, you know? The cop says--just blurts right out without any preamble--"Do you like going out drinking?" Huh? That floored me a bit, that question. Where the hell was this line of questioning leading? I was a bit--flustered and confused, as I recall. I think I stammered that I didn't drink and didn't go to bars anymore, (Only did the bar thing in my late teens and early 20's--wasn't my thing, really--sitting in a noisy smoky bar, sipping beer and watching sports I hate on the tele--whoopie, that was fun.)

Well, the minute I said I didn't really like going to bars--the guy backed right off, got back in his patrol car, and said he'd "call me sometime." (even tho' I'd never given him my number except officially). He left me there in the street, watching the dust from his tyres as he drove away.

Well, that was about the only time any guy ever went out of his way to ask me for a date--and I blew it, damnnit.

I did get to dance with a guy once, tho'---my dad.

I remember. I was chosen by lot to be our village's St. Patrick's Club's Miss Colleen. This is an Irish-American club in our hometown, that's only active once a year--March. They do a float for the city of Albany's St Patrick's Day parade, organize marchers in special outfits, and have a Miss Colleen. I was Miss Colleen of 1979. I wore a green evening gown and a emerald green cape with white trim, white gloves and a sash. I rode in the parade in the rumble seat of a 1930's roadster, doing the waving thing. Got my pic in the paper, and the night of the parade, after the traditional corned beef and cabbage dinner, I HAD to dance with my dad--alone, in the middle of the village's fire house's big dance floor, in their meeting hall. Gah! I was in a bit of a tither with that. I'd never danced in my blessed life! (Not counting disco moves and the Virginia reel--which don't require any special skill or talent.)

Well, bring in good ol' mum to the rescue. On the Friday night before the big day, she cleared a space on the kitchen floor, put on some Ray Coniff on the kitchen stereo, and taught me the box step, right then and there. Gah! I was awful--but I got it, eventually. Even managed to avoid stepping on mum's toes, after a bit.

My first--and so far, only, dance--and everyone clapped when we were done. One of my former school teachers came up and said I looked wonderful, and my aunt came to our table and asked dad where I'd learned dance, that I did very well. Considering that I was terrified the entire time, I guess that was one of my prouder moments.

AUTHORS NOTE: I made an error in chapter 9. I incorrectly described the uniform of the Scottish soldier. The correct uniform in this instance would have been that of the Blackwatch regiment. I have since changed the description in chapter 9, and also in this chapter, as well. Sorry for any confusion, but even tho' I'm not taking this story too seriously, the historian in me wants to be as accurate as possible. PLAYWRITE27

"So tell me, Freema, do my nose hairs need trimming?"

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers

CHAPTER 10: I Spy

The Doctor slowly came awake. He cranked open one eye. He was lying on some filthy straw, inside a stone hut of some sort. Dim light filtered through a crack in the wooden ceiling, and he could make out Martha, kneeling beside him. “Doctor? Can you hear me?” She whispered anxiously. “You’re going to be alright. Just take it easy.” He had to smile. Good old Martha. She was going to be a fine doctor, one day. He slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his head, knocking his coonskin cap over his eyes. “Ow!” He exclaimed, as his fingers found the lump on the back of his head. He knew he was imagining it, but still, it didn’t help. It felt real enough to him.

Got a rather strange request by e-mail, this afternoon.

Someone--no name given, asked me to be their tour guide, late this summer, as they were going on holiday in the Capital/Adirondack region of New York, and into Vermont, as well.

I mean, it's nice to be asked--but why didn't he or she give his or her name to me? Not that I would probably be available, I have no clue where I'll be this summer or what's going to happen to me, or anything. My life's basically up in the air. In two weeks...I don't know. So, I had to turn this person or persons down.

I've been a tour guide, actually. Albeit, just a volunteer one, at a couple of museums. And I do know quite a lot about my region--historically, scenically, and attraction wise, that is. I've been on the road a lot, over the years--both for business and sheer pleasure, and have traveled over it extensively, so it's not like I couldn't. But, even if I knew who this was, how could I commit myself, when I don't even know where/what I'll be by 1st July? And, I used to be super-naive, but life has battered me about enough, that I'm a bit leery of someone who doesn't readily identify him or herself.

But, I think being a tour guide is great fun. I suppose that makes me sound rather a dull person though, doesn't it? Yes, I am easily amused.

I've never had a problem speaking in front of people--poetry readings, speeches, tours, story hours, never turned a hair at the though of getting up and speaking--well, except acting, but that's probably because I'm such utter rubbish at that--surprisingly, acting is quite difficult, I found...at least it is for me. But, ironically, put me face-to-face with someone, or in a small group, with casual conversation, and...yuck. I suck.

I mean that! Why it is, I don't know, but I always either clam right up, or, I start running off at the mouth, prattling on like an idiot--and then feel like a total moron, after I'm done. No idea why, just do.

I have a bad habit of interrupting people--not that I do it on purpose, but oftentimes, in the past--too often, co-workers and my peers, they'd stand around me, having conversations, and I'd want to join in--but they never gave me a chance--so I have this little insecurity, and feel that I have to hurry and put my two pennies worth into the conversation, before it's too late, and they've moved on. It's a bad habit, and I don't like it, but I can't seem to let go of it--it's here to stay, it seems.

ALBANY, NY CAPITAL OF NY STATE

DOWNTOWN SARATOGA SPRINGS NY--CITY MOTTO: "HORSES, HISTORY AND HEALTH."

As a genuine old maid, I've never had the problem of chasing after a man--but, I have known my share of my fellow woman-kind, who, if it has a pulse and the right equipment downstairs...

I'm sitting here, trying to decide whether or not to have a sale--sell off most of my remaining possessions.

It's hard. Mainly because most of those possessions left to me, are still here because they mean something to me.

I mean, I sort of have a mix and match decor--can't afford to colour coordinate and such, and most of my furnishings--with the exceptions of one bookcase, a small stand and my kitchen set (which consists of my now-collapsed kitchen table, 2 chairs and a corner shelf), everything else I own was purchased at yard (boot) sales, auctions and consignment shops. Even many of my wall hangings, pictures and knick-knacks were purchased that way.

I've done my best to put stuff together in a way that's logical to me, and, hopefully, attractive. But, very little of it has any value--my handful of "antiques" are small things, and, as far as I am aware of, aren't worth much.

I've been thinking of compiling a list at work, and posting things indivdually...but maybe I should just stick price tags on everything, open up the apartment, and just let John Q. Public go to town, pawing over my life, and haggling over my personality like it means nothing.

And maybe, in the end, it does.

As much as some of us would like to say or think that we're not materialistic--truth to tell, most of us are. Our "things" define us, as much as our personalities. Walk into anyone's apartment, flat, room house, whatever--and you automatically (unless they use an interior decorator or have not much personality or are a priest or nun), you automatically get a sense of who that person is.

Like it or not, our material possessions are an extension of us.

In life, we change who we are, on the surface usually, from time to time--life changes. I remember, her in America, people who loved ployester, platform shoes and disco in the Sevenites, later bought cowboy hats and boots and learned to line dance in the Eighties. Our clothing changes, our tastes in music, in hairstyles, in decor, as we age. It's part of life's process.

And, when we change, we discard--and the garage (boot) sale is born. But, then there's times when we DON'T want to part with things--but, we HAVE to. It comes down lose something you care about--but is only a material thing, or go hungry, or lose your home/car, have your electric cut off, etc. That's me. Many of these things I have left were mum's, or they were mine from way back, or things I collected because I loved them--they are a part of who I am, my own personal identity.

The material things that make me unique--define me to the outside world--like marking my territory, I suppose.

So, I'm left with a decision, two weeks from now--sell or just leave it, and let sis and the landlords sort it out. I don't know.

Have you ever noticed some of the odd ads that appear on our blogs?

Some are teasers: "Million dollar bill" Well, that's something I'll never see. I had 8000 dollars once, but most of it went on my education--my college trips overseas, and also mum's medical bills. Her dialysis machine alone, cost 300 dollars a day--just the machine, nothing else, not the solutions, the meds, the nurses, the use of the chair, etc... and she went 3 times a week--that's 900 dollars a week, times 4 weeks, times 52 weeks a year. Stop complaining about NHS!!! Right after dad died, mum lost her insurance--for just under a month, due to a paperwork snafu. I had 5000 dollars I'd inherited from dad, in the bank, in February--by April--1500. The rest went on medical expenses. Million dollar bill? What's that? Most money I brought home in a week--after working over 55 hours in 7 days--was 348 dollars (174 pounds approx.).

"Treat your cat for depression." Actually, I think Flame could use a downer, myself, she's been outrageously happy, of late.

"Doctor Who Bodysuits?" Hmmmm--sounds kinky. I bet David Tennant and his girl love those.

"Native American Hand Drum" Is that anything like a white anglo-saxon protestant doorbell? (you know the one's that chime like big ben?)

"Republican Women's League." BLEH! PHOOEY! WHO PUT THAT THERE??? Feminists everywhere are running away, screaming.

"Is your car a lemon?" Well, no. But there is an electric car in my office building's car park, that looks something like a banana.

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers

CHAPTER 9: A War by Any Other Name

The Doctor Looked. There, emerging out of the woods and charging across the open meadow of tall grass, in front of the fort, was a hoard of white clad French soldiers and half-naked Native American warriors. They ran pell-mell towards the parapet, screaming their lungs out, and brandishing muskets, pistols, swords, clubs, bows and tomahawks. The Doctor looked at Martha. “I know.” She said, “Run!” Lifting up her skirts, she ran down the parapet alongside the Doctor.

Despite the popping of guns and shouts all around them, the Doctor smiled broadly at his captor. “Are you Scottish then?” he said, in his best Scots accent. He reached up and gently pushed the musket barrel away from his nose. “Erm--ah--take me to your leader?” He asked, hopefully. The soldier responded. He hit the Doctor over the head with the butt of his pistol. Martha screamed, "No! Doctor!" As he silently slumped to the ground

Cultural differences are a given, when talking about different nations--especially one's thousands of miles apart--but even neighbouring nations have their gaps between what's accepted and normal, how one is treated, language--slang, sayings, even body gestures--can mean one thing in one culture, and something entirely different in another. I mean, in America, if you hold up your index and second fingers, it usually means you want 2 of something...in the UK, it's a naughty gesture. In America, and possibly, parts of Europe, it's okay to put your feet up, when you relax. In Egypt, it's considered vulgar to show the bottoms of your soles to people.

In America, it's a bit more complex than that--because we're, ostensibly, we're one nation, one culture. But, in reality, it's a bit more complicated than that.

The vastness of this nation--you could fit all of Great Britain inside it with room to spare--makes the notion, no matter how nice to think of, that we are united, totally impractical.

In America, we have cultural differences everywhere--slang, body language, the works, vary from one region to the next--and even, in larger states, from one section to the next.

Take something simple: That American sandwich known as a "sub" or "submarine." That is the most acceptable term...also known as a "torpedo" and...turn it into a hot "sub," and you get: "Hoagie," "grinder," and "tunnel." To name a few. Now take a "tunnel." That word is only used in one place in the entire USA--Utica, New York. If you travel another 50 or so miles to the west, to the city of Syracuse, and ask for a "tunnel," they won't have a clue what you're asking for.

What is acceptable behavior in Northern New York, may be frowned upon in downstate New York, and vice-versa. Likewise, some northern or western rural New Yorkers might behave--and even speak, more like their New England neighbours, or even like Midwesterners or southerners--whereas people from Long Island and New York city have their own distinct accents and mannerisms, unique to the downstate regions. People from mid to downstate New York, say from the Albany/Capital/mid-Hudson region, down to New York City, tend to be closed and slightly paranoid, and very materialistic. Whereas natives to northern and western parts of the state, tend to be more open and relaxed, and less wary of strangers, and can be also very giving--I remember once, the pharmacist in Lake Luzerne, where mum and I had our caravan, opened the store on Christmas night, so a woman with a sick child could get some medicine...and no one made a big deal out of it, because that was what you do, help others. However, once my mum offered a ride to an elderly woman from downstate New York, and the woman actually ran away and threatend to ring the police!

And that's just New York state! Add that into fifty states, and then factor in geographic differences: North vs. South, Midwest Vs. Pacific Coast, etc...wow.

It's a wonder, sometimes, that we can even talk to each other--is it any wonder why America has gotten most of the world ticked off at her?

I've often wondered--tho' it's totally impossible--I've wondered, that if I could ever meet my UK friends--what would they REALLY think of me?

Sooooo---the Master is back, ey? Naughty boy!

TENNANT: "What d'ya mean, I can't have your autograph? I'm your biggest fan--and, I'm the Doctor! JACOBI: "Tough cheese. I was a Roman Emperor."

"Here! This'll unsnap that brassiere in a hurry!"

John, David and Martha, have all just learned that there's a really good sale on designer jeans at Selfridges.

"I was thinking...we could market this Dalek brain as a kiwi-lime and banana gelatin mold."

Well, the teens are having a loud party over my head, so I guess I'm up for a while. If things get too bad, I'll just have to drag my mattress into the living room and close the door. They had left, it seems, but just came home, and there was all this banging and suddenly a bunch of people shouting and then the stereo set in. "Two nice boys," my arse!

So, what to write about?

Well, my last post seriously pissed off some republican yuppie woman. Gee, what a shame. You know people, you have control over your mouse--you don't like something, you hit the back button. I do it all the time, I rarely waste my time commenting on posts I don't like. Well, that's usually because, more due to the person, than the post. But she got incensed over my deleting her too-lengthy comment. This is a blog, not a newspaper editorial. It's my blog, to be more specific. If I don't particularly like a comment, it's my right as the blog owner to delete it.

I didn't really read the comments, beyond the first sentence--just a hint, if you want blog owners to retain your comments, don't start with angry tirades, and not with an insult--unless the insult is really meant as a harmless jibe--and clearly so, with no doubt left to the reader.

I don't know about most bloggers, maybe I'm wrong--am I the only one who deletes angry tirades and insults?

I've deleted comments, from time to time as well, because they were, apparently, totally senseless gibberish, or have no relation whatsoever to the original post.

I will also sometimes delete comments in text speak, as I find that offensive--but only in commenters over 13 years of age. At 14 and up, you're old enough, and, hopefully, intelligent enough, to know how to write proper English. And, quite frankly, not using text speak myself, it's like trying to read ancient Greek, to me.

Actually, this is the first time anyone got ticked off at me for a comment delete. Most people just accept it. I do. I've been deleted two or three times, in the last 7 months, and was okay with it--even apologized to one person, whom it seemed I'd accidentally offended without meaning to.

Ah well. Can't please everyone and I don't intend to. I'm an independent minded dissident, and proud of it. I make my own paths to follow, and if they do not happen to lead somewhere popular or trendy, well..so be it.

I can support the troops without supporting the war--anyone who says otherwise is, quite frankly, totally obtuse. I support the troops by asking politicians to send them the equipment they need, and also asking politicians to send them home as soon as possible. I was against the war when it was still just an idea in GWB's beady little eyes, and I still am against it.

And if you don't like that--tough nookie. I'm not one of these suddenly, as in literally overnight, pseudo-patriotic, drooling zombie flag-waving, sappy country music loving, uneducated about true democracy, neo-cons.

In 1998, at a Memorial Day parade in the small town I was living in, when the flag came by, I stood at attention, hand over my heart, and honored the flag--people around me looked at me like I had just grown two heads. The lady next to me said, "Oh, were you in the armed forces?" I said no. "Then what did you do that for?" She asked, puzzled. In 2002, at that same small town's Memorial Day parade, half the people there suddenly were doing the same thing: pseudo-patriotic republican hypocritical zombies!

Overnight patriots! Wonderful what mass hysteria can do, ey? This how Hitler got the Nazi party going, you know--seriously, it is! I've studied the pre-war Nazi movement--and was shocked to realize one day, that Bush and the GOP use the some of the SAME tactics! Realy, not making this up or exaggerating at all. Based on my own college studies, the parallels make me shudder. Well, "homeland" security, "Axis" of evil? Those two words ring any bells there? And his grandad did support the Nazi party, financially--documented fact.

A new artwork was unveiled in New York city, recently, to be put in place at the World Trade Center site. It is a sculpture of George W. Bush, meant to represent the moment when he first learned of the attacks on the towers.

I am afraid I'm not taking my latest Who fiction story very seriously.

I'm not obsessing with editing or plot or anything, and it shows, probably.

Well, I got talked into posting part of my lame Dr Who story that I'm messing about with, on the big Who online site...yeah, right. I was told, "Oh, I'm sure they'd love to read even part of your story." This person encouraged me to post a few chapters. So I did, and got...ONE reader. Ohhhh--that's a best-seller in the making then, ey? But, I kind of figured that. Usually, good or bad, I work pretty hard on a story. This one is just...whatever.

The other day, a co-worker and I were discussing TV shows we watched as kids. We both liked the Daniel Boone series, with Fess Parker and vocalist/actor Ed Ames. I still know all the words to the show's theme song..."Daniel Boone was a man, he was a biiiiggg man, with eyes like an eagle and strong as a mountain was he...from the coonskin cap on the top of his head to the heels of his rawhide shoes--the rivenest, roarin-est, fightin-est man, the frontier ever knew...." Odd lyrics, but a catchy tune, nonetheless.

My friend Tommy and I used to play Daniel Boone all the time. We both loved that show a whole lot, and living near woods, well...it was a natural thing to play. We both, at the time, had toy muskets, and Tommy had a fake coonskin cap and I had a green felt hat, that mum made into a tri-corn hat for me. (A lot of people mistake Boone for Davy Crockett, but they were two centuries apart--Boone was around during the French and Indian (Queen Anne's) war in the 18th C., and Crockett was at the Alamo in Texas about 100 years later, in the early 19th C.)

Anyway, thinking about that--I had to have a new "dream" scenario for the Doctor and Martha, and I thought, "why not?" So I had a bit of fun, and turned the Doctor into a Daniel Boone/Pathfinder type.

I'd considered, whimsically, of making Martha, since she is a sidekick of sorts, into Ed Ame's Indian Character, and have her do a Johnny Carson with the Doctor, but, then thought, that would be going too far.

I'm referring to a very famous--and hysterically funny--moment, from the old late night Johnny Carson programme. In the early 60's, when Daniel Boone first came out, Johnny had Ed Ames as a guest. Well, as it happens, Ed is a real Native American--and--supposedly--actually did know how to throw a tomahawk. So someone on Carson got this scathingly brilliant idea, to tie the host up, and have Ed throw a REAL tomahawk at him. Yeah. Okay then. So, Ed does his thing--throws the hatchet and "THOCK" it hits home--right between between Johnny's thighs, narrowly missing his testicles. An inch or two higher, and Johnny would have had to change is name to "Joanie" The look on Carson's face is, to this day, priceless.

I thought, for a second, having Martha do the same thing to the Doc--but then, I wouldn't want to give the fangirls any seizures.

"I shall wait for you in the stables---bring the lubricant." "Yes, milord!"

I'm listening to the Metropolitain Opera (How does one spell 'metropolitin?)...I didn't exactly expect to hear THAT line! I thought, "Oh! Is David Tennant in this?"

Candide and Pagliachi are pretty much the only operas I actually like--sort of. As much as I can like any opera, I guess. Candide is actually pretty funny, and some of the music's kinda' nice, as well, really.

In all my years of listening to American folk music, I don't think I've ever heard a song more lovely, nor more romantic than this one.

"Ashokan Farewell" was written by local Hudson Valley musician/songwriter, Jay Unger, and originally performed by singer Molly Mason, who usually accompanies him. It's a sad and lilting melody, about a lady singing of her lover, going off to fight in the American Civil War. Ashokan was a town in New York's Catskill Mountains. It was destroyed partly, in the 20th century, to make way for the Ashokan Reservoir, which is now one of the main sources of water for the city of New York.

Although, as I said previously, I really don't sing well, having inherited my Polish father's highly off-key singing voice, nevertheless, I used to love singing this song--but it's very difficult to sing, and I have to hear it sung a few times, in order to find the right--or, rather, the nearly right, key.

And it also fed into that daft old dream, of waltzing in the moonlight to a fiddle. That's gotta' be one of the stupidest daydreams I've ever had in my life! I mean, really--no lie, I've never even been properly snogged, and have only danced with a boy once in my entire 46 years--so that sort of daydream--well, it'd be like me daydreaming about traveling in the Tardis, or getting a reading of one of my horrible little plays...it's--just...stupid.

This song was used on the Ken Burn's documentary of the Civil War. The lyrics are below. I couldn't find a good version that was sung, which is a shame, because Molly has such a lovely voice--sort of like Scottish singer, Jean Redpath (whom I was blessed to see perform live, at my former high school, back in the 1980's).

Here's a nice version of this beautiful and moving song:

ASHOKAN FAREWELL

©1983 and 1991 by Swinging Door Music-BMI, PO Box 49, Saugerties, NY 12477

Wishing all my friends of that persuasion, a fantastic Pride day!

Punch the air! Celebrate who you really are!

You've been wonderful friends, and it's been a genuine pleasure knowing you.

And for any of my blog readers who are also gay, have a great day! Cheers!

Well, I've said what I've had to say: SUBJECT CLOSED.

No more depressing stuff. Not much point, is there?

So, on with "normal" subjects, ey?

Found this clip online, loved it. Someone took the end of Torchwood, and merged it with the beginning of Utopia--great stuff!

Just got my mail. Very bad news.

The reason my bank account is down--and I am now seriously overdrawn, is because--despite our verbal agreement--my student lender is taking my money directly out of my bank account--something the Bush and his banking friends, allowed to happen two or three years ago--student loan recipients have no legal rights, anymore. The bastards. I wish someone would kill George. Does that sound as awful as I think it does? But the man's hurt so very many people--both physically and financially--without turning a hair. Not that I'd encourage anyone to do it, mind, but if it did happen, I wouldn't shed any tears for the bastard.

I'm screwed.

I've been trying to get through this...but this time, no. It's not gonna' fly.

I've decided. Before the month is out, I'm chucking it all. I'm going to put the cats to sleep, not pay the rent--pay back as much as I can to people who've lent me funds---and just...fall through the cracks.

I'm going to become totally invisible. Disappear. I'm done. Finished. I can't do this anymore. Life has pissed on my for the last time. I give up.

I'll have a sale and sell what possessions I can, let my sister or the landlords have the rest. I don't care. I won't care. I refuse to care.

I'm done. I can't handle any more bad news being flung in my face. I've tried--really, really hard. But I just don't want to try any longer.

Nothing can save me. Not this time. Maybe never.

Flame has been so happy, lately. Quite the opposite of me. Since my most recent bad news, it's almost like she's been going out of her way to include me in her play time.

For example, out of the blue, only just since I've been devastated over the recent theft of my rent funds, she's started a new "game." She'll sit on the end table, behind my rocker, while I'm doing my thing on the computer. Then she'll snake her long arms in the space between the top wood slat of the chair back, and the cushion. I'll be sitting here, minding my own business, when this long paw reaches out of nowhere, like an octopuses' tenticle and starts waving around my face. She never hurts me, but it is a bit disconcerting, even if her claws are retracted in.

We've got a new game, now. She loves my late mum's old slippery polyester comforter. Sleeps on it, plays with it. Now, she wants me to pull her around on it. It came about quite accidentally. It was all bunched up under the radiator, and I wanted to pull it out and make it neater looking--and Flame was laying on it. Well, she wouldn't move off it, so I just pulled it along the floor--and she loved it! Oh, mum's got a new game for me, was the look on her face. So I pulled her along the floor, she sitting straight up on the blanket, looking pleased as punch for the ride. Then, she slipped off, and rather than get back on, she began chasing it across the floor, just pleased as punch with this new game.

Cats are so very easily amused, aren't they? They don't need video games or extreme sports. Just crinkle up a wad of paper and toss it at 'em.

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers

CHAPTER 8: Forting up for Trouble

Martha looked at the Doctor with mild surprise. “Well, that’s comforting. You mean you and I are on the same playing field for once?” Sensing his dark mood, she nudged him, “Not much fun being clueless, is it, then? Now you know how your companions feel, yeah?” She smiled, trying to cheer him. “We could play a game of charades to pass the time…” The Doctor continued staring at the ceiling. “Noughts and crosses…oh, but I don’t have any chalk for that, do you?” She frowned. “Or we could bake us a nice lovely cake, yeah? With chocolate and arsenic, and we could use fireworks for candles…” “Umm--hmm.” The Doctor muttered. Then, without warning, he bounded up and began pacing the room.

The Doctor pouted for a second. Then he pointed at Martha, grinning. “I dunno’, have you seen your own attire?” He faked a bad American accent, “How ‘bout an ale, miss? And make it snappy, ey?” Her own attire appeared to have changed, as well, and now Martha seemed to be dressed as some sort of Colonial serving maid. She groaned. “If you start calling me a wench, I’ll…” The Doctor backed away slightly, in mock fear. “I know. You’ll slap me. Remember your promise.” She laughed. “Yeah but that was before…” Suddenly, there was a whizzing noise, followed by a loud thunk. The Doctor and Martha looked at the log wall, where an flaming Indian arrow had landed, right between where they were standing.

Unlike last weekend, it's just another dull day in the city here.

Much of the population that can, is, I suspect, out to Lake George, having fun at the amusement and water parks, the arcades, mini-golf, cruise ships, beaches, go-karts, rodeos, whitewater rafting, fishing, yard (boot) sales, para-sailing, picnicking on the mountain tops or state parks, going for carriage ride, checking out the UFO and haunted wax museum attractions, hiking the mountain trails, going for ice cream, listening to a concert, tennis, golf, bowling, pool (snooker), shopping at the big name brand outlet stores, checking out the old-time one room school house in Lake Luzerne, or local history museums, the art at the famous Hyde Collection, or the opera or cartoon or slate museum, looking for garnets at the Barton mine, visiting the buffalo farm in Washington County, the farm or horse auction in Argyle, antiquing, checking out the local crafts or visiting Pagenstecker Park in Corinth, checking out the caves in Pottersville, riding the scenic train in Northville, tubing down the Sacandaga River, horseback riding, watching soldier and Indian demos at the two historic forts, camping, biking, kayaking, what-have-you.

Me, I've just got the household chores and a trip to Family Dollar and Price Chopper here in the city, later--'tho I'm tempted to be selfish, and stop and buy a small ice cream, as well. Can't afford it, so I probably will push aside my desire and be practical. Real exciting Saturday.

Arrgghh! What I wouldn't give to just get out of this city for one day! Six blinking months I've been here, without leaving. Well, no hope for it. I'm stuck. At least I still have a roof over my head.

AND... They gave me my phone back, said they didn't want to lose a "valuable" customer--it pays to tell them to look at your payment records...good think I nearly always paid my bill the day after I got it--tho' really, that was only because, it usually comes right after I get paid. Phone service is only here for about 10 days tho', they they may turn it off for good, if I don't pay. Ain't got the 90 dollars, so that's not going to happen, any time soon...maybe the end of the month, if I'm careful--but then, won't be able to pay next month's, either, unless I either get a better job, or a second job---working on that, but it takes time, sometimes, to find a new position.

My co-worker was lamenting how her son never stops playing video games--she can't get him outdoors, and, he's always texting his friends, when he's not sitting in front of the tele.

I asked her why she just didn't take the stuff away from him--and she said she couldn't. I asked her if her husband said not to, and she's divorced--she's afraid her 13 year old son will run away from home if she takes away his "toys." Who's the parent and who's the child? When did parents become such wimps? When did the lose all control over their lives and families? My mum had no qualms about taking something from me, if I was misbehaving, and if she felt I was becoming too obsessed with something, she'd let me know--and, make the genuine effort to drag me off into another direction--often sucessfully, by taking me somewhere, or making me do some chore, or introducing me to something new--or simply by taking me to the library with her, otensibly to "help" her. In hind-sight, I do realize how fortunate I was, in that respect.

My mum not only paid attention to me--she paid ATTENTION to me--to my habits, good and bad, to what was going on with me. She wasn't overprotective or anything, she didn't hover, she never wrung her hands and wigned. In fact, usually, she let me alone to do my thing, and also encouraged me to try new things--she only interfered if she felt that something was turning negative. If she felt that my interests were drawing me into a box, that I was shutting myself out from other things, she'd make the effort to get me to back up the proverbial truck, and turn that around. And, mostly, now that I look back on things, I reckon she was right--mostly.

But, I feel sorry for kids today. They are so obsessed with video games, computers, texting--that they are, ofttimes, completely oblivious to the world outside themselves.
They know nothing of the world around them. Everything from people and places and things--to common sayings, ordinary vocabulary, even simple things, like new foods or different type of music--they are blind, deaf and speechless to these things. All they know, their whole world--an entire generation--is video games, internet and texting-the music they know, the art and film and even language they speak--falls into very narrow strip--growing even more narrow by the day--until an entire generation is trapped in a mental and emotional prison of their own making. They enter adulthood with no grasp of life around them--proper language, the world culture--even their imgainations are totally stunted by only knowing cartoons and videos.

I'm not saying all kids are like this--thankfully, no.

But, far too many are being allowed by their so-called parents, to sink into a morass of artificial living. An entire generation has no sense of wonder or curiosity. No sense of spiritualism or self-awareness. For the upcoming generations, abstract and/or independent thinking are seemingly becoming extinct. The broad range of human vocabulary--the art of communication, is dying out, it seems. An entire generation is being allowed to communicate in textspeak, and with that, parents everywhere are allowing the wonderful English language to finally wither and die.

Next thing you know, teens everywhere will be grunting instead of speaking, and and spraying the walls with picture writing--oh wait, they already do.

Despite the hardships I continually face, the aloneness, the deep-seated physical and mental pain, I am quite grateful. I was allowed to see the universe. I was allowed to explore and read, to try new things, reach for new ideas. I was encouraged every day, to be curious. I was taught--not on purpose--to be self-aware, to think about my actions. It was just part of mum being--a mum. She stressed always, that we think. Didn't always take, but at least mum made the effort, bless.

BBC OFFICIALLY RELEASED THE DETAILS OF THE FINAL EPISODE OF SERIES THREE:

The BBC Press OfficeTHE BBC PRESS OFFICE R have released the following details of the Doctor Who series finale, Last Of The Time Lords, they say:

David Tennant plays the Doctor and Freema Agyeman plays his companion, Martha Jones. John Barrowman and John Simm guest star.

You never know what sort of rumours one is going to run across in fandom.

Latest that I've come across in the www is that David Tennant and his girl are secretly engaged.

Which will, I'm sure, send those screaming fangirls into fits of tears.

But, me, I'm left to wonder--if the man is "secretly engaged," erm...how come it's on the internet for millions to see?

Puh-lease. Pull the other one, ey?

Oh, I suppose it may be true, but he doesn't seem the married type to me--he looks a bit like he's enjoying his present situation too much, to be tied down with a wife and, potentially, a family. But...I don't know the man. I suspect he and I would be a bit like oil and water--nothing whatsoever in common, so I've no clue about any of this.

But, it was only on some website that I'd run across, looking for something utterly unrelated, so...I'd take this news with a large dose of salt--and a side of fries, as well.

Another day, another boring post.

And, a day that was totally wasted. The one thing I needed most to do, today, didn't happen--I needed to find out what happened to bulk of my rent money--but the bank's computers were down.

The sands of time are not only running down, they're slipping through my fingers faster than I can see them! Some days, I really do feel like my life is just one big waste of time. Seriously.

I'm seriously miffed at Time-Warner Cable. Not only did I always pay my bill on time--never even a half-day late--I often paid it early! Yet, I'm ONE BLINKING DAY late, paying the bill, and they yank my phone service! I have a dial tone, but I when I dial, there's no ring, and consequently, the phone will ring, but no one is there on the other end--just dead air. I wrote them, but they have yet to respond, other than that automated spam telling me they got my e-mail. Nice to know these chav big companies really appreciate their customers, ey? Ted Turner may be famous, but, judging by the way he treats his customers, like the guys that run Wal-Mart--he's still a blue collar bimbo. You can take some of these people outta' the wrong side of the tracks--but you can't take the wrong side of the tracks outta' them. Breeding does show--whether you are poor, middle class or rich, your behaviour will always reflect your entire family's background, thoughout the ages--and don't you think not!

OLD MONTGOMERY WARD DEPARTMENT STORE BULIDING (1920'S-1982) IN MY OLD HOMETOWN--MY DAD'S PLACE OF WORK WAS RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET FROM THIS, OUR VILLAGE SCHOOL WAS ON THE HILL BEHIND THE STORE.

I mean, ancestry wise, I'm half-chav/blue collar fresh off the boat from Ellis Island eastern Europen stock, and half American upper middle-class white, stolid, Anglo-Saxon Protesant. And it shows, sometimes. My dad's family were/are very rough around the edges, stoic, insecure, hard-working types. Not saying that's a bad thing--most of dad's family did very well for themselves, but are insecure about their wealth and not really comfortable around their better relations. I don't mean "better" in the negative sense--just what dad's family perceived as "better"---better as in upbringing and stuff. I don't mean for a minute that mum ever, ever, thought she was better than them--quite the opposite. It was dad's family who had this attitude towards mum--which mum admitted puzzled her to no end, as she never thought of herself as anything special or out of the ordinary.

They were raised in a tenement in the heart of the depression. Now mum, only child, her family did fine, during the depression--her dad had a good job (pressman for NY Daily News), they had a stable home life, went on holidays, had a car and all that. And mum's family came from wealth, whereas dad's family were, to be blunt, Polish peasants. Dad's family were good people, but very closed, emotionally and, as I said rather insecure, emotionally and financially. They didn't like mum, most of them, which hurt mum considerably.

Dad's only family members that really spent time with mum, well, two had married into the family, my aunt Frieda, from Germany, and my aunt Dolly. My aunt Ann--or Nana, she liked mum. Mum always cared about Nana, despite her rough ways (Nana yelled a lot--she was quite tetchy, but then so was the whole family) and Nana's only "hobby" was Pro-wrestling. Nana used to work at a tool and die factory, and spent her weekends baby-sitting us, in-between watching the likes of Gorgeous George and other famous wrestlers, on tele. Dad's family (with the exception, unfortunately, of dad) placed a high value on hard work and money. Well, to be honest, dad did go for the money part, quite a lot. He was obsessed with it. Never had any, mind, but he loved it all the same. Dad's family were into material things--owning and/or running businesses, having professional careers, that sort of thing. Dad's family were close-minded, as well. Not in a mean way, necessarily, just they felt intimidated by those who didn't fit into their ideas of what was acceptable or what was "normal." Basically, anyone or anything who wasn't like "them."

Mum's family placed an emphasis on being together, doing things together. They valued manners and doing things for others, things like that. They were very old school--not stuffy, no. Just had retained those values that were passed on by their Victorian ancestors. Although not college educated, they placed a high value on education. But mostly, family was important to them, and their surroundings--again, not stuffy--they lived in a perfectly ordinary house on a typical suburban street. But, their whole existance centred on home and family. They had nice things--the look of the home, the homieness of it, was important to them--not so much the value of the possesions, but the meaning and feel behind them. Mum would relate how her mum and gran would carefully shop for a new piece of furniture or knick-knack. Again, not for intrinsic value, so much as for how it would improve the atmosphere of the home. Unlike dad's family, mum's was very accepting of those who were different. Grandad and great-grandad were not only pressmen, but had been other things as well, stone cutters and policemen. Grandad especially, often mingled with people different from himself, having to live and work in the heart of New York City during the week, coming home to Hudson only one weekends. And that rubbed off. Mum wasn't always comfortable with things like gays and itnerracial marrages--but, she accepted it, nonetheless. And, after a bit, she became friends with a gay man in our village, and forgot her predjuices. She never was entirely at home with interracial dating--she came right out and told me that, when I breifly dated a black guy, in my late 20's--but she treated my friend with courtesy and never let on to her true feelings when he was around. Actually, she admitted to me once, that she was ashamed for feeling that way--but that was just her generation's attitude. I've found most people her age feel the same.

In a nutshell, mum and dad were oil and water. In every way, shape and form. But, often, I see traits from both my family background, creeping up on me. Knowing my mother's ancestry--and all the times she spoke to me of her experiences growing up, and what Nana and dad and others told me of dad's family, growing up, one begins to see patterns emerging--long, longstanding patterns, going back, perhaps, for many generations...who knows?

HISTORIC SCHUYLER MANSION, IN THE SOUTH END OF THE CITY OF ALBANY, NY. COLONIAL HOME OF REVOLUTIONARY HERO GEN. SCHUYLER. MUM DRAGGED US HERE MANY A RAINY SATURDAY. THERE'S STILL A TOMAHAWK SCAR ON A RAILING INSIDE.

On to other things.

It was a lovely day, but I spent much of it in the loo, as I've picked up the bug that's been going 'round the office. I suppose a lunch of leftover cold spaghetti and meat sauce didn't help any.

My stomach is telling me it's hungry, but I've not much felt like eating, the last 24 hours. My culinary choices are getting thin, it being the end of the week. I've just some hot dogs and tinned tuna, eggs and sausage, beans, and a thing of instant pancake mix. I've still a few potatoes left, so I suppose I could boil them with some eggs, and make some potato, egg, onion and mayonnaise salad, and have that with a hot dog or two. Or, I could make pancakes and sausage, or a tuna-mayo salad sandwich and some tinned soup. My dodgy stomach sort of says no, but there's not much else. Maybe beans on toast or franks 'N beans? Or the old egg and ketchup sandwich with some hashbrown potatoes? I've a box of parmesian noodle mix, I could add some tuna and peas to it, I suppose, make a casserole, of sorts. Or, I guess, if all else fails, there's apple jelly on toast, or a bowl of toasted honey-nut oats cereal.

To be perfectly honest, what I'm seriously craving, right now? Either a Dominos pepperoni Brooklyn style pizza, or Talk of the Town Tavern's half & half sausage (1/2 sliced link sausage, 1/2 sliced Kilbasa sausage) pizza. In that same vein, I could also make do with an Arby's Roast Beef and cheddar with secret sauce on an toasted onion bun with their cheesey potato puffs on the side, or, a Burger King Whopper and fries. Not that my stomach would thank me for them, either, ha-ha. Ah well, I can dream about junk food 'till the cows come home, but not going to happen. Too bad. I just got a great coupon from Dominos--three pizza's for only 5 dollars each--I could eat one and freeze the other two for later in the month--a good bargain.

Don't get me wrong, I like cooking--wouldn't have gone to culinary school, all those years ago, if I didn't. Given unlimited funds, I'd be cooking up a storm all the time--but home cooking, the kind from scratch, is very, very expensive. Fresh veg is high, even in summer, here, and meat...let's not go there. The price of groceries in escalating at a rate that New Yorkers like me, can't keep up with--every week, we have to eat less and less--and our nutritious foods? Ha! Maybe, maybe not. Three weeks ago, a head of lettuce was 79 cents. Last week: $1.29. That's a heck of a jump, in a few weeks, when one is literally counting pennies--I mean, literally.

I got lucky this week, and was able to make one good hot meal. They had both speghetti sauce and my favourtie brand of pasta (capellini) on sale, for $1 each. And I managed to find a pound of ground chuck (fatty beef) for about $3 dollars (1 pound 50 p). I put aside about a quarter pound of the beef to use to make a hamburger with, and used the rest of the beef to cook and add to the jar of spaghetti sauce. So I had a couple of good meals this week. They also had a family size package of frozen macaroni and beef with tomato sauce, for the equivilent of about 75p, so I had that, for two meals, with a green salad the first time, and some tinned corn the next. So, I've not been eating too badly.

Or maybe, I just won't eat at all. I've had two plates of left over spaghetti today, and some green salad, so it's not like I've not eaten. Ah well. Decisions, decisions...

Oh, this is nice. Now, besides all the other bad stuff giving my stomach and depression flip-flops, my main e-mail address, Hotmail, is totally down. It won't let me access my e-mail address. Nice, ey?

First it's the Yahoo account I'd had for some 7 years going dodgy, now Hotmail's flipped out and not behaving itself. Life sucks, and then you die. That's my motto, don't wear it out.

I usually get it in the tummy--not so fun when they forget they have claws--ouch!

Who says cats and dogs can't get along? Our kitten, Robin, used to stick his whole head in Baby's mouth (our rough-coated collie dog we used to have). Baby would just sit there, holding his mouth open, looking at us with a "help me?" look on his face--but he never once moved his mouth. Robin, a ginger tom kitten, was a cat looking to be sectioned. He'd chase butterflies, ride on the dashboard of the car, sitting up and staring out the windscreen, while we drove around the block with him (he used to bug us to take him for rides), He used to play with the ripples in mud puddles and once even attacked a nun's shoe (long story).
But, Robin took special delight in beating up Baby, who looked like Lassie, while Robin was less all of 4 inches high. But the collie would take it--he doted on Robin.

I never could much carry a tune. But as a teen, that really didn't stop me, much.

Some nights, I'd sit out, admire the stars and sing--alone of course--even Shamrock, my half-collie, would leave (everyone's a critic).

This here song, was another favourite of mine. You see, I was a bit of a quiet rebel. While my peers were listening to Kiss, Abba, Pink Floyd and that (and I did too, sometimes), I just had to make my own paths to follow, and for me, that meant listening to folk music and John Denver and the like.

I used to like this song, thought it was romantic. Sounds daft now, I suppose, in my older years, but..I used to sit under the stars, in front of a cracklin' fire, in the firepit set up between our garage and the woods, and sing or listen to this song, and daydream about being waltzed under the stars to a fiddle tune. At the time--and, perhaps, maybe still, deep down somewhere, I couldn't imagine anything more romantic than that. Mind you, I really cannot dance a lick, and am an old maid, so it's a pretty impractical and daft thing to daydream about, but...there 'ya go.

Now, I don't feel much like blogging, in light of circumstances, but I have decided to blog here and there, so you'll know I'm still here. When the entries stop--I've lost my internet service and this blog is finished. Over.

Oh!!! This cheered me up--made me cry, with the joy of the sweet, sweet memory.

I used to listen to the music of folk singer, Bill Stains, back when I was a teenager. Oh, how I loved this song! I loved my dear old Hudson Valley. I used to sing the chorus while out hiking beside the laughing waters of the Moordenaerskill creek, and over the hillsides.

And, oh yes, I was singing along with this. The video quality is so-so. But this made me so glad of heart to hear this again. I equate this song with joy and freedom, contentment, innocence and curiosity.

I just had a really odd conversation with someone on one of the other websites I visit sometimes. This guy "nillieboy," well, it started out with a normal convo about our pets and innocent stuff, then, out of the blue, he says, "so you're a lesbian, right?"

Ey???

I mean, I've had loads of friends who were/are, but honestly, on a personal level, I've never even thought about it--no more than I've thought about any aspect of dating. I just...don't care.

Seems "nillieboy" caught on to my mention, several weeks back, that I'd not dated a guy in over ten years. How do some of these people equate a woman not dating, with her being gay? Beats me with a stick. It sort of reminds me of how, when I was in my late teens to late twenties, every time (or nearly so) I was just being nice to a guy, he'd behave like I was hitting on him! I had to actually stop talking to guys, because I got tired of the whole BS attitude of them all. Maybe they equated fat woman = desperate for a date/lay? No idea.

Well, they've not shut down my internet yet--nor has Time-Warner even bothered to reply to my e-mail message, other than send me a spam saying they got my message. Typical.

Lately, in the past week, I've out of the blue, been inundated with spams for overnight loans. Yeah. That'd be great, but...really, come on. If I had 500 to 2000 dollars to pay back an "overnight" loan, would I really need an overnight loan? Stupid.

I'm still in my pyjamas. And, I don't care. Well, I do, but I don't want to, so I'm ignoring my true feelings and doing it anyway.

It's funny how overnight, your entire life can fall apart. I haven't decided yet, to be honest, whether I'm going to pick myself up out of life's alley this time or not. Not sure. I'm trying to find a reason. But if one more person says to me, "things will get better" so help me, I'm gonna' deck them. I mean it! I've been hearing that cute little turn of phrase for over a year now--just stop already. NO!!! Things are NOT going to get better, okay? I live on Planet Reality here. And on Planet Reality, there are not always happy endings--or even any kind of closure at all, for that matter. Life is just going to continually smack me around, till the day I die. There are no superheroes, no miraculous lottery wins, no one is going to "discover" me, and no philanthropists are going to take me in. I'm not going to ever escape this cycle of bad, not ever--there are NO happy endings here, and there probably never will be. I'm damned and that's my lot in life, now. All the good stuff is gone forever. So, let's just acknowledge that and forget about the perky sayings---however well meant--quite frankly, tho' I appreciate the sentiment--and I really do, honest---I am quite tired of hearing it. I simply don't believe it any longer, okay? I'm sorry if my saying this turns some people off, or accidentally hurts someone's feelings--it's not meant like that. I am merely expressing my true thoughts and feelings, wearing my heart out on my sleeve.

I have to go to the bank, in a bit, find out what's going on with my account. Just what I need, a long hot walk, and me not well--besides the jaw infection, now I've picked up the little bug that's been floating around the office this week-- to discuss bad news. Yippee.

Oh, and I finally got a dental appointment, and have to cancel, because now, with the theft of my funds, I can't afford the dentist--or more antibiotics if I need them, because there's no money to spare any longer on such "luxuries."

Will you people in the UK PLEASE stop complaining about NHS? Do you know how expensive health care is here? We have to spend tons of money on co-pays and up to hundreds of dollars in prescriptions and such. It ain't free here, not one whit--if you haven't the money, you do without and literally suffer....or you do go to hospital/the doctors, you stand a very real chance to lose your home or have your wages garnished. I know NHS isn't perfect, but do Brits go completely without healthcare like millions of us Yanks have to? Do they have their wages taken from them, go hungry, lose the roof over their heads, for no other reason than they are sick?

Well, I'm rambling. I'm in a very depressed mood. I couldn't take anti-depressants even if I could--no money for them.

This is a really bad post, I may delete it later.

From 30th May, 2007:

In my job as a telemarketer I do sometimes come across people telling me that either, the person I'm calling is deceased, or that there's been a death in the family.

But the other day, I had more than half a dozen such calls within a two-hour period...very unusual.

Well, that's a fact of being human. We all die.

I don't know if there's a heaven. I reckon there's a hell--I've been living in it for over a year now, ha-ha. I've seen a ghost, and I would like to believe, at least for some people, that there's a nicer place we go to.

It would seem a pity, for some, if this is all there is. For some of us, that would really suck, ya'know what I mean?

I'm scared of dying--the process, I mean. But not of death. Death would be...okay. I mean, my pain would end, and that would be good, yes? It's not like I'd be leaving any kids or spouses or even much in the way of family, behind. I don't have an important job, I'm not significant to anyone. So, what's the big deal. Hell, I likely won't even get a coffin, when I die, just some ashes in a cardboard box. No really, there's no money to bury me, so that's what's really going to happen. And...so what? I'm dead, what the hell do I care what happens, ey?

Anyway, funerals are tough to deal with, emotionally and, for folks like me, financially. Then there's the tedious chore of clearing away the debris of someone's life. Some people have loads of stuff to show they existed--others, there's precious little. My dad, for instance--just some mostly used furnishings, a big TV set, a bunch of clothes, a few photos and momentos, and some paperwork, a little cash in the bank, and little else.

That'd be me, as well. Only dad had the firehouse and VFW and 30 years of employment behind him. Mum had us two kids and her library and a good childhood behind her. What do I have? a 2-year college education, a handful of knick-knacks and three cats. Big deal.

IN LIGHT OF THE FACT THAT I'LL BE LOSING INTERNET SERVICE QUITE SOON, AND AM NOT EMOTIONALLY ABLE TO WRITE, AT THE MOMENT, I'VE REMEMBERED THAT A WHILE BACK, WHILE MY MODEM WAS DOWN FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS WHILE THEY DID SOME KIND OF REPAIRS TO THE LINE OUTSIDE, I'D WRITTEN A COUPLE OF BLOG ENTRIES TO BE ENTERED WHEN I CAME BACK ONLINE. UNTIL NOW, I'D FORGOTTEN THEM.

I AM POSTING THEM NOW, THO' THEY AREN'T ESPECIALLY INTERESTING OR RELEVANT, SIMPLY BECAUSE...I DON'T KNOW, I FELT LIKE IT, I GUESS. HERE'S ENTRY NUMBER ONE:

30th May, 2007:

Someone gave me a link to some kind of David Tennant interview or something. Though I'm thrilled with his acting, and love his portrayal of the Doctor (DT's Doctor is ten time much more fun to write, fiction-wise, than Eccleston's) I'm really not a huge Tennant fan, really--in the sense where I droll over his looks or scream every time he walks into a room.

No. NMS--not my style. He seems an interesting bloke, and he's nice looking, I suppose--when he's shaved and combed, and any rate. But, the guy will never make this old maid's heart go pitty-pat. He's too young, for one thing--I mean, personality-wise. He seems to have a wonderful sense of humour--always important, in my book---and seems like an interesting conversationalist, and I'm not suggesting he's one of these guys who's nothing more than an overgrown teenager. That said, I don't know...but he just seems like he's more the gent whose interests and behaviours would be better suited to a twenty-something, than someone like me, who's not that far from being in this world for a half-century.

I may be completely wrong, but somehow I don't see this guy, hanging out in a library, strolling a historic site or going to a country auction. As a matter of fact, I can't picture this guy ever getting his fingernails dirty, let alone his feet and hands.

Me, I like to just plunge right in and enjoy myself. Despite the low wages, no healthcare and hardships, I loved working at the dressage barn, when I was 30/31. Heck, when I was a stablehand, I worked so hard each day, lifting and shoveling and such, that within two months, my thick deerskin work gloves literally fell apart, and the fingers split. So, over time, the dust and stuff would work its way into the gloves, and the dirt became embedded in my callouses so much, that I still had tiny grains of dirt on my hands two months after being laid off.

Did I get upset about it, no. To me, it was a homage to my hard work, ha-ha. So when some ignorant upper-middle class arse said to me, "You're not working?" all snotty-like, I could show them my hands and tell them I'd been laid off from a job, where I'd worked harder in one day, for poverty-level wages, under extreme weather conditions (try working 9 or 10 hours in minus 10 to minus 20 below zero Farenheight conditions, ice/sleet, snow, rain/thunderstorms and 90 F weather)...

...I literally worked harder in one day, than many of these snobs worked in their entire lives. I remember, I was muddy--it'd been raining for two days solid, and my overalls and wellies were filthy, and I needed some milk from the store. I went in, and standing in the que at the check out, and this posh elderly lady actually stood there and literally looked up and down her nose at me, like I was some kind of disgusting insect. That hurt. A lot. It's hard not to feel hate, sometimes, but as I recall that I decided just to feel sorry for her, for her stupidity.

Bet this David Tennant--and probably his family and friends as well--never in a lifetime, ever had to endure that. I wince when I hear the guy moan about being cold when he's working. He does, I'm assuming, have access to high priced warm clothing (I had to make due with a 20 dollar pair of ski-overalls from the discount store and an old canvas barn jacket and leather work boots, in literal arctic type temps), this guy has a warm caravan and hot tea handy (I had only a stall to duck into out of the wind and cold--I'd often be still shivering well into my bedtime, when I got home), and, Tennant doesn't have to endure the weather 5 or 6 days a week, 7 to 10 hours a day, like I did. And...he's rich. I made about 150 dollars (75 pounds), roughly--sometimes less, sometimes more--a week, with no health care (no NHS here, remember) or any other benefits. And, I often only had a couple of Snickers bars to eat during the entire day, because I didn't get any lunch or tea breaks. I worked from the time I got there, to the time I left, mostly non-stop. So yeah, I wince when I hear the guy moan about being cold. Get real. The guy honestly doesn't have a clue what really being cold is like. I've had a tiny bit of frostbite and near-hypothermia! THAT'S cold!

Anyway, getting back to the original subject, I was watching this interview with Tennant, where he's asked, what he'd do if he had a real sonic screwdriver. His answer was that the uses he'd find for it, would be "many and varied." I almost spit out my tea, when I heard that one.

I hate to say it, but what flashed in my mind, was Tennant's statement that he liked to dress up as the Doctor in the bedroom, in front of his girlfriend. It's not that I have a dirty mind, but hearing this, right on top of hearing that...well, draw your own conclusions, ey?

This is just to let you all know:

Since Time-f'in-Warner has cut off my phone service for being ONE DAY late, I think I'll probably be losing my internet service soon.

That means my blog will end, and I'll no longer have any e-mail access.

I will still be able to access my PM's at Dr Who Online, for those two of you who know my handle, and you can still contact me that way. But I'm not allowed to access my e-mails at work.

So, sometime in the next day or next week or next two weeks, I can kiss my access to the internet goodbye, probably forever.

I will be totally cut off (very literally) from the outside world.

I just want you to know how very grateful I am, for all of you putting up with my whinging and rants and stupid Dr Who jokes and stories. Apologies to David Tennant for "picking on him," it was all in innocent good fun. Okay, I know Tennant doesn't read blogs but just felt like saying that.

Well, not much more to say. Between the theft of funds from my cheque account, the loss of my 600 dollar income from disability, the pending student loan lawsuit, the loss of my phone and internet, and the fact that I hate my job and am tired of my fellow Americans treating me like rubbish, tired of not being able to get out of this apartment/city month after month (not been out of Glens Falls since mid-November), tired of the stress of trying to pay my bills and worrying about being homeless or hospitalized with depression.

I say life sucks--and then you die.

I'm never going to be loved, and no one has much use for me.

All I ever blinking wanted was a job that I was good at, that paid enough for me to survive decently.

My ideal life isn't much: a job I like and am good at, a secure home--preferably somewhere in the country, but not specifically--a chance to go somewhere once in a while, a quiet night in a secure place--relaxing with a good book, some nice jazz on a rainy night, cup of coffee or tea, my pets...secure in the knowlege that everything is paid, that there's food in the cupboard and the roof over my head isn't going anywhere.

Little things make me happy. Spending time with friend(s), talking or playing a game or whatever.

I don't have to be entertained. I like a hobby, volunteer work, whatever, for pleasure. I don't have to go on (although I love travel) any holidays.

But those things are as out of reach for me, as a BMW or a European holiday, or a big publishing deal.

Never going to happen. Not ever.

But, enough of my whinging. Sorry.

Naught to be done, really, is there? I'm just one of those lucky people life chooses to bash over the head, continually. There's millions of us out there. I'm by no means unique, and don't I know it.

Well, I'm offline. This may be, if Time Warner has its way, My very last blog entry ever.

Sorry I can't finish the Doctor Who story, but..hell. It wasn't much good, anyway. I was just making it up as I went along.

Anyway, thanks everyone.

You can send me messages, and I will reply as long as I have internet at home. But if they stop, then I'm done. They've shut me off.

Well, I have to shift myself out of this chair. I kind of lost my appetite, when I found out about the theft to my account, tonight. But I suppose I have to eat something, at least my stomach says yes. I don't want to, but if I don't, I'll wake at stupid o'clock in the morning with hunger pains.

Cheers, all, and thinks again for reading me.

Oh, and for those who've been extrodinarily kind and sent me cards and things--thank you. Actually, thanks seems kind of small repayment for your thoughtfulness. Just know that these things brought me great joy, and made me feel human, and cared about...and that's the most special gift anyone can give another person. Thank you so very much.

I won't be blogging for a few days. I need to get my head fixed.

You see, I HAD 200 dollars put aside in the bank---HAD being the watchword. I just got my statement--I have 67 dollars! That's it! Someone has taken money from my account!!!

I've only got a 287 dollar cheque that I put aside and didn't cash (thank God), and 100 dollars left over from this past Friday's cheque--which was to cover the rent.

Now, no rent. At best, I'll have to pay it late, and that leaves a big gaping hole for the rest of the bills.

And even as I write this, I'm trying to convince myself not to commit suicide--becuase I just am fed up with life. I'm fed up with major problems--for over a year and a half, it's not let up, and I honestly, right now. Just want it to stop. And if that means death---death would be such a relief, right now. This means no dentist, no medicines for my illness, no food...what the hell.

I don't want to kill myself, and probably this will pass. But...I just don't see the point, anymore. I really don't. I leave no one behind, no one, except the cats, and some friends I've never met, never will meet. My life is just so untenable. If I could just get all this bad stuff to stop--but now I know, it is never going to, is it? I'm a total loser, and I always will be. I'm not bothered by old age, but by gosh, I don't want to grow old, anymore. I want life to stop.

I need a few days off, to lay in bed and get a grip on myself. I just need to be left alone for a few days to hate and feel sorry for myself and just get this over with.

Sorry for the dreadful post, but...that's just the way I feel, right now. Not even Dr Who himself could make me feel better, right now. I'm no good, that's gotta' be it. I'm no good.

I read where certain foods can either boost or lower your mental state.

Fatty fish, such as sardines and salmon, combined with veggies, are good for your mood, while stuff like fatty margarines and junk food, lower your mood.

I'm an American--a meat and potatoes kind of gal. Not sure these statements are entirely accurate. Personally, a diet of sardines and raw veggies would make me very depressed indeed. Bring on the pizza--and top it with some Prozac!

A former neighbour of mine, Jerry, from Corinth, has finally realized his dream, and is now displaying some of the rustic furnishings he creates, at a local rustic gallery, in Corinth NY--known to the locals as the "Snowshoe house." This isn't the name of the place, but it is a unique building, having had its rustic pine exterior and porch, completely decorated with snowshoes.

There are now two Adirondack rustic galleries in the former mill town of Corinth, NY. Corinth is the southern (or rather, southeastern) gateway to the 40 plus million acre Adirondack state park. There's also a wood carver, outside of town, that does amazing life-size chainsaw carvings--everything from black bears to a Civil War soldier and lumberjacks.

Adirondack rustic art and furnishing are a growing cottage industry here. Here's a little video of one such gallery. I'm not sure where this one's located, but the items are typical of what you find here.

Having overslept by a good 45 minutes, because moi didn't hear her alarm go off this morning, I only had about 15 minutes to spare on this latest chapter, during breakfast, so it's a real short one, I'm afraid, and not terribly exciting, either.

Doctor Who: The Dream Weavers

Chapter 7: Missing

Martha stared bleakly at the room, while the Doctor busily ran his screwdriver over the place where the door had been--a door that had now, seemingly, vanished. “Doctor!” She called to him. He whirled around, alarmed. “You’re not going to slap me again, are you?” He asked warily. Seeing the look on his face, Martha couldn’t help but chuckle. “No. I’m sorry about that.” Smiling and crossing her fingers over her heart, she added, “I promise, no more slapping--unless you turn into a zombie and decide to crash the Tardis into a sun or something--no promises there, I’m afraid. You do that and I’ll slap you silly.”

“So now what?” She asked. The Doctor looked at her, puzzled. “Now what, what?” Martha frowned. “So now what do we do? We can’t stay in here forever. Where’s the Tardis? The real Tardis I mean, not the imaginary one?” The Doctor didn’t answer right off. Martha leaned towards him, concerned. “Doctor?” He looked at her with a troubled expression in his eyes. Hesitating slightly, as if unsure what to tell her, the Doctor looked at his friend for a long few seconds. Then he seemed to come to a decision. Sighing, he said quietly “I don’t know.”

As I settled down to a dinner of cheap Shepherd's pie--well, really all it was, was a tin of beef and veggie stew dumped into a leftover refrigerated pie crust, topped with packet that I cooked up, of some butter & herb flavour instant mashed potatoes, and then baked for a half-hour But, for a meal that cost less than a Big Mac meal from McDonalds, it wasn't too bad, well...it was edible.

Yesterday, during lunch break, I came home feeling a tad bad. You see, walking home, some poor guy was lost, and also he needed change. I couldn't understand him very well---and even though I sort of know my way around the city, now--I'm still a hayseed, and couldn't really tell him where Park Street was--I think I used to take mum to a doctor's on Park street, but that was nearly two years ago, and I just couldn't remember--other than it was somewhere around the hospital--and I only remembered that after I got home. I didn't have any change to give the bloke, and I would have, certainly. Unfortunately, all I had on me was a tissue, my apartment keys and a bottle of my medicine.

I love being able to help people. A co-worker just left our place, to go work at hospital, fielding phone calls for an outreach clinic there...she gets two weeks paid training. That's amazing. Where I work, you're literally lucky if they give you a whole hour's of training--they tend to just symbolically toss a new script at you, give you a quick run-down of do's and don'ts, and say, "Here, do this." And then they feed you to the sharks (aka: John Q. Public).

I like it, when I get someone who's yelling and upset, and can calm them down and help them--and they go from screaming at me, to quietly thanking me, at the end of the call. It doesn't happen very often, sadly, but I love it when I can make someone's day, like that--make them feel better.

I was reading the news about the possible education boycott in the UK, of Israel. And am amazed at the extreme hate projected by some of the Jewish people in the comments section.

Wow. I mean, I do understand, a bit, the hate--it's sort of what happened over here, after 9/11, with many people. I'm not anti-semantic, never have been.

I've had friends who were gay, straight, black, white, Native American, Irish, English, Dutch, Hispanic--Muslim, Jew, Protestant, Catholic, Atheist, Mormon, Wickins, physically disabled, fat, skinny, mentally disabled, drug addicts, alcoholics, you name it. Oh, there's certain groups I harbour a dislike for, of course, I'm only human. I'm not crazy about certain members of the nouveau riche, the neo-cons, selfish mindless people who don't care about anyone/anything, French-Canadians, Mainer's, Long Islander's and Texans. But I don't outright hate them, not by any means--I mean, I have reservations about the group as a whole, but still, I take these people as they come, and try not to let my prior experiences cloud my judgement.

It's true, I'm no saint. I do outright hate the KKK and and Christian extremists (the kind that bomb abortion clinics, beat up gays and protest at the funerals of military Veterans), George Bush Jr., the stupidly patriotic (the one's who, in reality, know zero about democracy/the USA, but claim to know everything about democracy/the USA), men who abuse women and pedophiles. I'm not proud of this hate, but It'd be hypocritcal of my to deny this.

Anyway, why is it, when one says anything against Israel, you are automatically branded a bigot? That's stupid. We get that here, as well. If we speak out against the ruling (republican) party, or about things we don't like in our country--we're told we're "unpatriotic." Some people even go so far as telling us that political dissenters are anti-American. Which is horribly ironic, because, our "founding fathers" were just that! They dissented against Britain, and America was born.

Well, I've a comeback for these people--"Political dissent is the highest form of patriotism." And when they tell me off, call me unpatriotic, I ask them why they think Thomas Jefferson was unpatriotic--well, that confuses the hell out of them, they go, "I never said that." And I tell them they just did, because I'd just quoted Thomas Jefferson--those were his feelings and words, not mine. Oh, the spluttering and back-pedaling that goes on then! It pays to have some good quotes by famous patriotic figures, when you're around neo-cons. They can't deal with famous pillars of American Patriotism, going against the neo-cons own beliefs. I'm serious. It scares the poo out of them. I've seen it. Thinking is terrifying to these people--challenge their narrow beliefs, and you literally shake the foundations of the little boxed in world they live in.

Anyway, I'm no more against Israel than I am against Palestine. Six in one, half a dozen the other to me. Both sides have good and bad people, pretty much. Both sides have done bad things to each other. But, I will say this. And this is just an observation, a casual opinion. But, it seems to me, that the Jews really didn't dredge up any good, from the holocaust. By that I mean, they were hated to near-extinction by Nazi Germany, so you'd think they'd be more compassionate and open-minded towards people different than them--but they seem to hate the Palestinians, with every bit as much hate as the Germans did them. Sometimes, it seems to me, all the German and other Jewish people learned from their horrific experiences in WWII, was how to hate better.

I suppose I'm putting this is way too simplistic terms. But, it honestly makes me sad, that a great nation like Israel, so demeans itself with predjudice and hatred. They could be a shining example, but they seem to insist on feeding off of hate towards the Islamic culture. Though I should think they'd hate the Christan's twice as much, because over the centuries, Christians have caused them ten times more harm than the Muslims ever did.

I won't pretend to understand all the complexities that makes up the culture and thought-processes of the people of Israel. Like most nations, they are decent, orndinary people, intelligent and all that. But it does upset me, that when anyone disagrees with someone Jewish and/or their government, people start whinging and wringing their hands and screaming and finger-pointing and calling everyone anti-semantic. They don't handle criticism---even the objective or constructive kind, very well. And that's just..sad. Criticism, if done constructively, can actually become a good thing.

George Bush is a "yes" man--can't handle, but his own admission, anyone disagreeing with him--look at the results of that: the republican party lost power, the country is in shambles and we're billions and billions and billions in debt--when, when Clinton was in office, we actually had a billion-dollar surplus. And, thousands and thousands of people are dead, now, and personal privacy is no longer taken for granted, and also international and constituional laws have been flung aside, and hate is on the upsurge. This is what happens when nay-sayers are pushed aside and called names and treated like lepers.

And the Palestinians, as well. I'm sorry they were kicked out of their homeland to make room for the new Israelli state. I'd be angry too, if I was told I had to leave New York and go live in New Jersey, because they wanted to give New York to the Kurds to form a new nation. Oh yeah, that'd upset the hell out of me, and make me angry.

But I don't condone the bombings and such--by either side. That just gets you nowhere--except keeping the hate alive. Hate can make you feel better--but it's just a coward's placebo.

I'll stop here. In case someone starts e-mailing me and calling me anti-semitic. Just look at the negative e-mails I got from David Tennant fan girls!