No Years Resolutions

Well it’s started.  I’m starting to see posts about New Years resolutions popping up like pimples on an adolescent all over the Blog-O-Spear.  And why not?  It’s something to write about, and something everyone’s tried; and more than likely failed at.  After one of my favorite bloggers stated it so well, I thought I’d just pass on the whole thing.  But ya gotta have goals….I suppose.

But why set yourself up for failure?  Yeah, it’s noble to have goals and try to improve yourself.  Some of us actually have made  our lives  better because of resolutions.  But not me.

When I used to smoke (cigarettes, a long time ago), I knew it was bad for me and many a time used New Years Day as my kick-off date to a healthier life style.  Thing of it was, I really didn’t want to quit.  So, knowing I only had one more day to go, I’d smoke my ass off  before midnight and then give it a try the next day.  It general worked for about twelve hours when the thought of having another smoke was literally nauseating, but then by half-time during the Rose Bowl game I’d start to get a little “niccy-fit” (nicotine fit vs. nooky-fit, which is something else, but not altogether too dis-similar in that both create an artificial demand when periods of non-use start to create craving, which is usually totally eliminated by immediate use because of the instant gratification and the temporary relief from suffering it provides, yet all the while locking one into an endless cycle of death and re-birth of desire, and in the long run only creating addiction or dependency, which is a very undesirable unwholesome mind state;  it’s bad enough that we have to eat, sleep, have clean water and nice pile of wood shavings to nest in, but to add another demand on one’s life with an un-needed mandatory necessity generally leads to a serious case of dis-ease and lack of mellowness), and run out and buy a pack of Lucky Strikes.  Boy, that first one after quitting is always  the best.

The same thing went for dieting, getting more exercise, being nice to people and just about any other resolution that required will-power.  With the more general or nebulous ones  just being forgotten after about a week. So why bother?  Bottom line was I’m just fine the way I am, as are you.  So why change?

But that runs counter to all the crap we’re constantly being bombarded with by the media, whose basic message is: You’re not good enough, and in fact, your life really sucks; Unless, you buy our product, try our pill, subscribe to this, contribute to that etc. etc.etc.

I don’t want to resolve to do anything!  I’m done with that, and want to avoid compulsive guilt driven behavior at all costs and in all forms.  Don’t mean I’m not willing to “explore” certain things, or experience new stuff.  I’m just not gonna let some artificial, arbitrary occurrence, like New Years Day kick it off.

Right now I’m “exploring” strength training at the gym.  Lifting heavier weights, getting into shape, and as a result feeling better physically.   I’m also “exploring” finer wines, and not drinking cheap shit like Two Buck Chuck (Charles Shaw wines selling for $1.99 a bottle at Trader Joes).  Exploring high cocoa dark chocolate from different countries goes hand in hand with better booze too.

Anyway, enough about me.  I hope you all explore whatever drives your passions or bliss and have a Happy New Year.  Be good; and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.  🙂

Love It or Leave It

You gotta love America, and next to Germany it’s the strangest place on Earth, so I’m not gonna leave it (unless I take another trip to Germany). That was a popular phrase during the 60’s, when everything went to hell as the Vietnam war got underway. Good thing we learned our lesson about getting involved in un-winnable wars in remote countries.

We are getting close to celebrating Martin Luther King’s Birthday. America’s great Civil Rights Hero. We loved him so much he was assassinated. We also loved JFK (and his Brother Bobbie) to death also. Too bad there isn’t a John Lennon day here in the States. Just think, a three day weekend of “Love, love love” and giving peace a chance. Won’t happen; he was a Brit, but we still loved him to death over here. O K. Enough of the political rant. I don’t want anyone to think of me as being way out there in left wing la la land. When it comes to La La land, I want to be smack dab in the middle.

This whole thing is really about bumper stickers and how they attempt to sum-up complex political views into a nifty phrase, clearly visible from 50 feet away. America…Love It Or leave It was a big one in the 60’s. A lot of my buddies back them were lovin’ America so much, that they were leaving it for Vietnam. I preferred the sticker: Draft Beer, Not Students”.

There were religious bumper stickers too. You got to remember the one that said: “The Answer Is” then some garbled letters. You had to underline the script to find out that JESUS was the correct answer. I had great stoner fantasies about that one, pretending the Answer was: “Legalize Pot”, or “Everybody Get Naked and Screw”.  My favorite religious one was the “I Found It” sticker.. Found WHAT? You guessed it; correct answer, Jesus. [Some would argue that the correct answer is always Jesus.] The Jews had a great come-back sticker: “We Never Lost It”. Mine would have been “I Had It Crammed Down My Throat Since Birth, And Am Now Breathing A Lot More Easier Since The Blockage Was Removed”.

So everybody’s driving around in America loving to share their views on everything , via car bumper-sticker. Some real inane stuff Like I (heart shape) my dog, or Save The Whales, and we can’t forget Tibet… Wow, who could take issue with that. Even the Japanese want to save the whales…but just for desert. The best antidote for all the (heart-shaped) things drivers love, was provided by the National Lampoon. For a modest fee, you could buy a roll of round adhesive stickers with a picture of a machine screw on it. The idea was, when you’ve just seen too much of what people (heart-shaped), you could peel one off and stick it over the heart shape. Sure changed the message folks wanted made public about themselves.

Anyway, this has gone on too far. What was your favorite bumper sticker?

Visions of Sugarplums

Visions of sugar-plums are dancing in my head. And this year I think I got it bad. Of course, I was much more afflicted as a youth, when little Hansi would secretly peal away loose ends of wrapped gifts to see what might lay therein; boy was there hell to pay if I didn’t get what I wanted.  Christmas is the strangest time of the whole year. It happens around the time of the winter solstice; the time when the sun hits its lowest point, rests there for three days and then starts it’s wintry return from the grave. Hey! That sounds like someone I know…. but I can’t think of His name. Now the sun really doesn’t move lower, this whole thing has to do more with rotation and axis of the earth in her orbit around the sun. But seeing that I am the center of my universe, I prefer that the sun rotate around me and not visa-verse.

Anyway this whole solstice thing has morphed into something totally different from its original meaning. Gone are the days when a bunch of ignorant savages would light logs on fire and cut down fur fir trees, decorate them with lights and fertility symbols, with the hopes that this would appease the Sun-god, and hastening his return by tempting him with all these bright shinny objects. Well he fell for it every time (we guys still fall for that trashy look), cause sure as clock-work, he came back year after year. Why mess with success.

Now it’s Santa Claus, and where did he come from? Aside from living at the North Pole, I don’t see any way he could effect the sun to return. Actually Santa started as Saint Nicolas, a guy in Germany who gave away stuff to people, but also kept tabs on em too . Kinda like when I was a Probation Officer, except the only thing I gave my clients was thirty days in jail.  The American Santa doesn’t care so much about your behavior, except when it comes to spending money. You may want a White Christmas, but Santa wants a Black Friday even more. So Santa is filling us all with visions of sugar-plums, tempting us with bright shinny objects, hoping we’ll return to his outlet stores and keep the economy from falling off the edge of the earth. Boy, things sure got switched around. And just as we used to trick the sun into returning, sure as shit, Santa keeps tricking us year after year.

Well, its off to WalMart for me.  Gotta load up on gifts to make everyone happy.  And what better place to shop than America’s favorite store.  I think I better load up on some visions of sugarplums before I go.  It’ll be more tolerable that way

Bummer

Well it’s back to sixties nostalgia words today. And the word for today is Bummer. Cool word I know. AND highly descriptive. What got me on to this whole trip is I’ve been feeling “Bummed-out” lately. The European debt crisis, the political circus that’s going on in the States, the economy, throw in Christmas and all its pressures, and maybe that’s why I’m Bummed.

The word bummer got it’s start in the sixties and was basically a druggie term describing an unfortunate situation like: “Hey man, I scored some weed. Got any papers and matches?” “No!” … “Bummer”. [Something similar to that actually happened to me when I was at the Lutheran College during the sixties. Some buddies came up to visit me and they were ‘holding’. Problem was, nobody had any Zig Zag papers. But not to fear, no bummer here (hey that rhymes). Being a good Lutheran boy, I got out my Bible, ripped out a page (from the concordance only; I ain’t no blasphemer), and, Holy Smoke, everybody was happy].

Or it could describe a bad hallucinogenic trip wherein ya had the shit scared out of ya. Like a massive hallucination that you were sent to Hell for rolling joints with pages of the Scriptures. Now here’s another real, true actual bummer, that happened to one of my Probation clients. He was getting high on Cocaine at home, and having done way too much, started to get a little paranoid. Well a ‘little paranoid’ behind some coke is kinda like being ‘a little pregnant’ cause it takes on a life of it own and starts freaking you out. Well our hero started hearing voices. And he determined those voices were coming from his attic (the one with the extremely small crawl space); and that these voices were burglars getting ready to rob him. So what does Mr. Einstein do? The fool calls 911. The police arrive shortly thereafter; find no burglars, but do find my boy under the influence of drugs, and subsequently arrested his ass. Now that’s a BUMMER.

Now if you live in the UK, or one of its affiliates. Bummer means a homosexual man. Go figure that one out. [Maybe it’s like when ya go to a club and easily pick up this “much too hot for you chick” at the bar. And when you decide to consummate this new-found relationship in the bathroom, you find out she’s really a He!… a Bummer… What a bummer]. They do call butts bums, kinda like they call their Moms Mums. And if there’s  bums, there’s got to be buggering. Wonder if English lesbians are into muggering? Anyway, this ain’t about that.

Maybe you’d want me to pursue that theme in true Hansi fashion. Butt I’m not gonna do that. Bummer, I know.

A prolonged bummer can lead to one being “Bummed Out”, and that’s how I’m feeling right now. Think other folks are feelin’ that way too. Maybe it’s Christmas. But that’s the most joyous time of year. I should be decking the halls with balls bowels boughs of holly. Whatever that entrails. But I don’t feel like it. Bummer. I sure wish Christmas could get simpler. Like when they gave Jesus gold, frankincense and mere. But damn, gold is near $1700 $1600 an ounce, and at those prices that sure don’t make for an impressive inexpensive gift.

I think I know why I’m Bummed, and not by some buggering bummer. I bummed because the days are getting shorter, it’s getting dark earlier. And it’s cold! Everything is dying or more correctly going dormant. Winter is coming on, and that sure cramps my Southern California lifestyle. But hey, that’s not a bummer. It’s just time to get into the true spirit of Christmas: the Saturnalia, and other winter solstice ceremonies. That old sun of ours ain’t gonna fall off the edge of the world. If we party hard enough, we’ll convince it to come back! Worked before. Got to work again. Those ancient people weren’t that stupid were they? Hell no. They had good unions back then and got three paid days off to indulge in some wholesome revelry and debauchery with their families.

Maybe things aren’t really that bad after all. Newt isn’t going to be our next president. The economy will, eventually, get better (always has). And if the people pull their heads out of their asses, they’ll wake up. That’s no bummer.

Well that’s my Christmas message. The big day is just around the corner, and I got some serious debauchery I’ve gotta catch up upon. Happy Holidays

Twin Problems

After my first Dear Hansi letter, I’ve found advice columns to be a rich source of blog-worthy material. Here’s an actual letter to one columnist:

Her Bully Is Her Twin

Dear Fannie: I have an eighteen year old fraternal twin sister. We have the same friends, the same classes and even the same extracurriculars.

The problem is, she bullies me. If I have something she wants, she throws things at me. She pushes me out of my chair so she can sit in it. She constantly teases me, even when our friends are over. She says things like, “People only hang out with you because you’re my twin”, and “You should lose some weight.”

Everything I do, we do. Everything we do, she’s the boss. If I resist, she hits me. We have an older sister, but she favors my twin. My friends don’t want to get involved, or are oblivious to it. My parents do nothing. It’s obviously hard to avoid her, and I’m tired of sinking to her level. What can I do?

Twin Problems

Sad story, and being bullied is no fun. However, this plea holds the opportunity to stoop to new lows here at the H H blog, by ridiculing the handicapped. [Hey. They get all the good parking spaces; they should be able to take a joke]. So…. Let’s have some fun by just adding one word to the above, and see how it effects the whole tone of the letter. CONJOINED sounds good to me. Lets have a go at it.

Her Bully Is Her Conjoined Twin

Dear Fannie: I have an eighteen year old conjoined twin sister. We have the same friends, the same classes and even the same extracurriculars.

The problem is, she bullies me. If I have something she wants, she throws things at me. She pushes me out of my chair so she can sit in it. She constantly teases me, even when our friends are over. She says things like, “People only hang out with you because you’re my conjoined twin”, and “You should lose some weight.”

Everything I do, we do. Everything we do, she’s the boss. If I resist, she hits me. We have an older sister, but she favors my conjoined twin. My friends don’t want to get involved, or are oblivious to it. My parents do nothing. It’s obviously hard to avoid her, and I’m tired of sinking to her level. What can I do?

Conjoined Twin Problems

A new low? Who knows? Right now, movement in any direction is considered progress for me.

Phucking A

If you look to the lower right, you’ll notice that I’ve got a years worth of archives.  That’s kinda like having a municipal dump of good shit right next door.  So I thought I’d recycle some of that old trash for renewed consumption.  Plus, I get to throw in one of my favorite drawings at the end; but don’t go racing there yet.  It would be like reading the ending of a book first, and totally phuck-up the rest of the story…. Enjoy.

THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH SEX. It’s mostly about phonetics (fonetics). Anyway, I can’t use the ‘F’ word on my PG 13 blog. It would be too embarrassing for my retired readers to explain to their grandchildren, should they see this, what Grandpa does on the computer all day. And the Wife? She’d ban ya from ever reading me again; and, throw you ancient ass out of that computer room/refuge you hide in, and make ya do something useful around the house. She already knows  about all the filth ya look at anyway.

So, I got this brilliant idea form an English blogger, who said in one comment or another, that in the UK, the terms “piss-off” and “f**k-off” are basically humour terms, not foul terms of derision. Words are just sounds, and how these sounds are used is the important thing, not the word itself. It’s like whistling: You can either make a beautiful melody come out of your mouth, or a cat-call signaling your approval of some little tramp walking by.

So lets look at phuck, cause its a noun, verb, adjective and pronoun all wrapped up in one, depending on how ya use it. Fist thing that comes to my mind is Mother Phucker. An adverb, sometimes. Mostly a noun, and if said to you by a black person, usually a sign that you’re in big trouble. Could be a term of delight though, like when you see an old friend and say, “What’s up, Mother Phuck”.

Back in High school we used to say, “Phucking A”; an indication of agreement on a certain subject. If you whole heartedly agreed, you might utter, “Phucking A Tweetie”. It’s all in how you use it, ain’t it? Phuckin’ A it is!

Now those potty mouthed Brits use the phucking “F” word in every other phucking sentence. But you can hardly understand them when they get to talking fast, and it sounds more like ‘fock’, instead of phuck, so it has an entirely different meaning. Their favorite is when they tell someone to “Fock off”. I haven’t fully deciphered that one yet, as it has a multitude of meanings, but I get the general drift. In the US of A, using the “F” word in every sentence is usually an indication of little education, or that you’re from the South….. Dumb Phuckers!

Phuck can also be used as a character trait. Never want to be a ‘bum-phuck’ or, for my UK friends, a ‘Bum phucker’. Nor a ‘dumb phuck’, but then again dumb is usually used for ‘shits’ and not phuckers. In High School, we learned to take “Phuck You” as a blessing and wishes for future sexual adventure…instead of a challenge to fight. Yeah, we were phucking wimps, but I’ll take that as an acknowledgment that at least we were doin’ It. And not going solo like you.

By now some of you may be thinking, “Hansi, you’re phull of it; go phuck yourself.” Well, all I can say is, “What the phuck?” Or should that be, “What?…the Phuck?” Anyway, all I know is that if the Wife reads this, I’m really phucked.

Well, looks like it’s time for me to go…..and phuck-off’.

Fulltime Grandpa

 

One of the joys of being retired is not having to work for the stupid idiots who not only got promoted ahead of you, but made your life miserable because because they were either: a.  Psycho-bitches who couldn’t hold together a relationship and acted out their marital shortcomings on all male underlings available; or b. Incompetent dumb-shits whose only skill was first class ass-kissing which their superiors lapped-up because they were ass-kissers first and advanced (on their knees) to higher positions (usually bent over) of authority.

Sorry, got side-tracked, and didn’t mean to get onto a personal rant, for if I did I’d probably carry on about how Mr Insider, Newt Ginggrinch, AKA former Speaker of the House and Fanni Mae lobbyist historian is trying to portray himself as a political outsider and making the GOP primary even more of a circus by participating in a debate hosted by Donald Trump [don’t even get me started on his morality (but he’s been saved and repented) so all is forgiven; we love a redemption story].  Well fuck you Newt.  Jesus may love you, but in my opinion you’re still an asshole.

Woa there.  I’m getting carried away.  Tis the season to be jolly.  And go into deeper debt by …… Better not go there.

Bottom line is:  Hansi and the Wife have been full time grand-parenting cause the daughter is out of state for two weeks in training for a new job, and her husband has to work, and we be providing child care for the two grandsons.  Wouldn’t have it any other way, but it sure cuts into some prime-time hallucinating for Hansi.  So in the interim, while I stay hallucination-free, I thought ,I’d mine the Archives and re-post a some of my earlier turds gems for your edification.

The above drawing is by my eight year old.

Dear Hansi

I got a letter in the mail the other day from someone who wanted advice about their 13 year old son. I guess they knew I was a Probation Officer and had a lot of experience with adolescents and relationship problems. They were correct on both counts, for not only did I supervise juveniles, and even work in a juvenile detention facility (jail for kids); but I had a domestic violence caseload as well. Right up my alley don’t cha think?  But I was reluctant to answer. I’m retired now, and the only hallucinations I want to share are my own, NOT, yours. But I’ll share this one anyway.

Dear Hansi,

Our 13 year old son Billy has been acting strangely of late. He no longer plays with the other neighborhood boys, but stays in his room all day listening to weird music and reading dirty magazines. One day I opened his door, and his room smelled like a forest fire. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy, and he didn’t make any sense whatsoever.. We found a small baggie of some green, leafy material; which Billy insisted was an herbal seasoning a friend gave him to spice up his food: he sometimes suffers the extremes of eating nothing at all, to eating us out of house and home.

Worse yet Hansi, Billy has his hands down his pants at all hours of the day. When we confront him, Billy says he’s just re-arranging his underwear. Why that causes him to get so out of breath is beyond me. We’ve even gotten reports from school that Billy has been found hastily re-arranging his underwear in both the Boys bathroom and Gym locker room.

Is there a cause for concern here? What shall we do??

Signed…Confused in California.

Here’s what I replied:

Dear Confused in California,

Being a parent is no easy task these days. But I really think you don’t have too much to worry about; Billy sounds like an All American Boy to me. That burning smell in his room was probably just incense. He is no doubt exploring eastern religions, and that dazed and confused look on his face was just the result of being suddenly wakened from some deep state of meditation. I think you’d be less worried if you took some of that spice his friend gave him, and sprinkled it on your salad some evening.

Regarding his “underwear re-arranging”, why he’s just playing with his Weewee. And if God has granted him the gift of having one, well, it’s his duty (not to mention responsibility) to figure out how it works; life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. And before you go rushing off to pre-register him as a sex offender, I think some simple behavior modification techniques would help with his problems at school. Billy just isn’t aware of social boundaries, that’s all. My advice is to duct-tape a cardboard sign to his waist which reads “Don’t play with your Weewee”. That way he’ll be reminded of what’s appropriate, and what’s not. Even his peers at school will gladly join in by reminding Billy not to play with his Weewee.

Hope that was of help. I think you have nothing to worry about. I’ll address Billy’s torturing of animals and setting fires in another post.

Hansi

Well…If you have any problems you want old Hansi to help you with, just leave an anonymous comment and I’ll get to work on it. Be sure to leave your name and address, so I know where to send my reply.

Crayola Saturday

I was going to write about a lot of stuff.  About how this blog started just about this time last year; how I’m following a lot more art/drawing bloggers and really diggin’ it; or maybe something political.  But I totally spaced on it all and have come up short.  But it is Crayola Friday, now renamed Crayola Saturday to avoid confusion, and I’m gonna talk drawing.

I’ve started to follow a lot more people who are posting their art on their blogs, and I’m lovin’ it.  For me, starting a blog was a godsend drawing-wise.  Not only did I now have an outlet for my artwork, but a reason to keep at it, and hone my draftsmanship skills.  I don’t consider myself an “Artist”, although I did major in Art in college during the late sixties, as did my wife.  For most of the time between college and now, the glorious land of retirement, I was more of a potter, than drawer.  In fact, when friends see my blog, their usual comment is, ” Oh, I didn’t know you could draw.”

From the late eighties till now, I was a part-time studio potter, throwing hand-made functional ware ( bowls, mugs, plates etc.) on my wheel out in the backyard, and selling the stuff at local craft shows.  I have a gas kiln, two electric kilns, a wheel, and garage filled with a shit-load of ceramic supplies (make my own glazes).  I stopped selling pottery soon after I discovered I could make time and a half working over-time at our local Juvenile Hall. Sell out?  I prefer: renting myself to the highest bidder.

Anyway, I’ve always drawn throughout my life.  And just today, my grandson was sitting down to draw something, when some of my recent drawings slipped out of the sketch pad I was letting him use.  After hurriedly trying to hide my raunchier stuff, he asked me when I stared drawing.  I told him I started right about his age, 8 years old, maybe earlier.  I told him about the joys of drawing, which he, and most kids, already know, and shared some of my experiences with art.

Got me to thinking about my drawing.  What the hell is it?  How would one describe it?  How would I describe it???

Well it is what it is.  One of my biggest influences, besides my usual medication, was Mad magazine and the art of some of it’s earliest illustrators: Bill Elder, Jack Davis, and Wallace Wood in particular.  You might call them cartoonists, but they were actually quite good comic book illustrators, and among the best of their times.  The other big influence was the Surrealist Movement, and Salvador Dali.

I don’t usually draw from life.  I’m not attempting to do serious art.  And everything you see stems from my rich fantasy life.  Maybe that’s why ya might just notice certain themes running through my work again and again.

Bottom line is, there is no bottom line!  I’m able to just do “art for art’s sake”  Nothing’s for sale.  Big difference from trying to sell pottery.  And to all those who may be doing something similar with their art and blogging, I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am.  [If  I’m following you, you better believe I like what you’re doing.]  And what’s really cool is,  all my drawings are out there for all to see.  Sorta like an On-line gallery.

If any of you out their in the Twilight Zone they call the Blog-O-Sphere are closet artists, get out a digital camera and post them puppies.  Don’t worry about what people may think.   I obviously don’t.

.

Got My Mojo Workin’

“I got my Mojo workin’, an it sure gonna work on you.” You just gotta love them old blues songs, this one by Muddy Waters, cause not only are they laden with sexual innuendo and imagery, but are jam packed with a big dose of sexual energy. Now I’ll leave it up to your imagination as to how Muddy’s Mojo might work on you. But rest assured that you’ll either end up achy and bruised all over, or the most satisfied person on Earth.  Either way, walking may be difficult for a few days thereafter.

Sadly, not all folks got their Mojos working these days. Shit is stressing some of us out. And this is even happening in the African American community. Why just the other night I saw this commercial on TV featuring a Black middle aged couple, who suddenly found themselves in an intimate situation while folding clothes, and a special moment arose. Unfortunately that was the only thing that rose, cause this guy apparently had erectile dysfunction. But not to worry, he had taken some Cialis, and his Mojo was gonna work just fine.

Now here’s when things started getting a little weird, and made me re-think the whole notion of watching TV while stoned. Instead of letting nature take it’s course right then and there as Muddy’s Mojo would, this Cialis stuff makes ya get a little kinky. Cause the next thing ya see, and I shit you not, is our couple up in a hot air balloon making goo goo eyes at each other as they float off into the horizon.

Now I’ve heard of the fabled ‘Mile High Club’, but I never believed in it. Maybe it’s different in first class, but the thought of doing the Big Nasty in an economy class airplane bathroom is just plain disgusting in my opinion. Those planes are filthy, especially after everyone on board’s had a few drinks. But balling in a balloon…Hmmm. Maybe it’s a “black thing” as Pat Robertson would say. Something affluent Blacks enjoy doing.  Wonder if Herman Cain’s ever done it? And with who?

I don’t know what got me on to this subject. Must be  the influence of all them liberal bloggers I’ve been following of late. Talk about filthy minds. But hey.  This ain’t about sex. It’s about me working in retirement, again. So instead of having my Mojo working, this post should read “I got my ancient ass working on a massive drunk driving caseload in the Probation Department (yet again) and it gonna be workin’ on you if ya drink and drive.” You see, after two weeks off for the holidays, and a move of my unit to a different location, I’m back fighting crime again. And the love/hate relationship begins anew. Love, because I like the easy money, and hate, because I’m soo done with probation work, even on a part-time basis. But damn, the money is good, and 8 to 12 hours a week. Well…..

I hate being a social liberal, but financial conservative. Financially, the only thing I want “occupied” is my bank account filled with as many digits as possible. The thing is, an erotic balloon ride sounds really sweet to my liberal side. But my conservative side says,that’s a lot of money, you should be paying down debt; maybe just lighting a candle in the laundry room would do just as well. Then the bureaucrat  in me steps in and says, Anyway, there’s a chance one of us may fall out of the balloon basket while ‘enjoying’ the view. I can’t win.

The bottom line is, all this working stuff is not only interfering with my passions, but it’s also cutting into my blogging time. So I thought I’d share this little dilemma. Hey. That’s what blogging is all about, ain’t it?   Or just maybe, it’s all about attitude and how ya look at things.  Christmas is just around the corner; and my adult children do have expensive tastes.  So it’s off to Santa’s Workshop.  I gotta go and get my Mojo workin’.